As I reflect back on our times together, I think back on how I always thought of you as John this or John that in a third person sense. Now I when I think of you, John, it is in first tense-you always you. Things have been strained between us ever since that night I came home smelling of sex and cigarettes. I told you it was for a case but the shock on your face tore through my heart like a knife. A knife that continues to slice a little bit of my heart away each day, until I die by a thousand cuts. I have only been under cover as a sex worker for two weeks. Nothing has turned up in regards to the case. I have performed many different sex acts with the detachment of a true sociopath. Virtual John tells me that I have a gift for this kind of work. So, it is nice to know that if I decide to quit solving cases I can become a prostitute. I chuckle as I imagine the look on your face Dear John.
You look over at me. "What's so funny Sherlock?"
I grin and then shake my head. "Nothing, I need to get ready to go undercover," I reply.
The expression in your eyes hardens as you open my coat to reveal my dark prostitute attire; your eyes linger on my fishnet shirt, then your gaze moves down to my leather pants. They are very tight. There is little left to the imagination. You suck in a small gasp of air. "What's the matter John?" I ask as you examine a nasty looking bruise on my left side. I then decide to play you. "Ouch," I cry out as you put some experimental pressure on the bruise.
"Sherlock, where else does it hurt?" You ask in your clinical Doctor's voice.
I feel re-buffed. In anger I grab your hand and thrust it under my shirt. "Here," I say as I move your fingers over the tip of my breast. I shiver under your touch. I am amazed how quickly my body jumps to attention for you, John. I move in closer to breathe in the intoxicating scent of your skin. My eyes flutter as I draw in a shaky breath. I want you to feel me so I grab a hold of your wrist. I want to force it down my pants. Your pupils are dilated as you wrench free. "Stop it, Sherlock," you shout with a slight tremor in your voice.
You stumble back as I release you. After a moment or two you get your breathing under control. "Sherlock, this case is unsafe. You could get a disease. I want you to stop it now, or I'll leave. I'll leave Baker Street and never come back. I'm not bluffing. I mean it." There is a silence between us, it makes my stomach queasy. "Sherlock, please quit the case," you whisper.
The expression in your eyes projects a thousand things, each one feels like a cut of rejection to me. "Fine, I'll text the client and I'll change."
Relief softens the furrows in your brow. "Okay, good. I'll get you another case I promise." You voice pleads with me to understand.
There are a thousand things I want to say to you, each dies on my lips as you leave the room. I've been dismissed, yet again.
3 Weeks Later
"Are you sure this is the only way?" Molly asks.
I turn to look into her large brow doe eyes. "It has to be done. Are you going to help me or not?"
"Fine, but what about John's feelings? Aren't you at least going to let him know?" Molly asks.
Tears form in my eyes as I look away from your prying gaze. "No, Molly, John's feelings aren't as vested in our relationship as you would think. He'll mourn me and then he'll move on. That's what people do, Molly. They move on."
I walk out of St. Bart's with the knowledge that I will fake my death. A part of me hopes it will break your heart as you have done mine.
