I gasp as I sit up. I can still hear your scream, "SHERLOCK." I can hear your voice mumbling. "Let me through, he's my friend, Oh God no, Jesus…" Then I feel you take my pulse. It no longer beats. It has been cut off by a device that I squeeze under my arm. For all intents and purposes I, Sherlock am dead to you-John Watson. I would have run to you in the grave yard had I heard the three little words I waited for in earnest. I put a listening device in my ear so that I could hear every word you spoke over my grave. You whine, you plead, you sniffle you say, "Just don't be…be dead." You beg me for a miracle. I harden my heart towards your pleas. For you have not said the three words I wanted to hear. "I love you, Sherlock." So, I observe you with the cold detachment of a professional killer and I let you freeze.

2 Years Later-After Sherlock is brought back to solve the Moriarty screen reappearance…

I watch you pace in the front room. Everything looks the same in the flat, but everything is vastly different. You want to forgive Mary for her dishonesty, but you can't find it within yourself to do so. She has lied to us yet again. "John, I don't see the problem. So, Mary lied to you about being pregnant. It's not as if you wanted a baby, right? I mean how would it look? Sherlock, the world's greatest consulting detective, running around town with you and an infant strapped to your back."

You frown. "Sherlock, be serious for once."

I look at you in innocence. "What no good?"

You sigh in exasperation. "Never mind, you're just a machine. How would you know about love and trust?"

My face crumples as I stare down at the worn carpet. You walk over to me. I look down at your feet. I refuse to look up. "Sherlock, I'm sorry," you say.

My voice trembles like on the roof top of St. Bart's. "No need for apologies. I'm just a machine."

You sigh as you take ahold of my arm. "Sherlock, look at me."

I want to slap your face but I don't, instead I just struggle to get untangled from your grasp. "Leave me alone," I say as I wrench my arm free. I must get to my room before you see. I am too late. You are not as slow as you appear, dearest John.

When you spin me around to face you, you are shocked by what you see. You see tears cascading down my alabaster skin. One of them drips on your hand. You look at it as if were poison, which it is. For my tears are laced with fear, self-loathing and regret. I turn away from you and run to my room. I am just about to throw myself on the bed and burrow under the covers when you burst in. "Sherlock, talk to me-NOW." You shout.

I feel like a child. "No," I reply as I bury my face in my pillow, willing it to soak up every tear.

You turn me over. You are sitting on the edge of my bed. Your hip touches mine. I lay partially between your arms; your hands are clenched into fists, making the bed sag under their angry pressure. "John," I slur. "I'm fine, leave me alone."

"Why do you always do this to me, Sherlock?" You say as you bite on your lower lip. "What exactly do you want from me?"

My voice is low-exhausted. "Think it through, John. You do know."

You push your fists deeper into the mattress. "No, I don't know. Now quit talking in riddles and tell me what's wrong."

I turn away from you till I am no longer facing you. "I gave you a miracle. You gave me nothing." I whisper.

You bounce the mattress with your fists again. "What the fuck are you talking about? Are you high?"

I pull my knees up to my chest. "No, now get out." I growl.

You are stubborn John-you don't leave. "Tell me straight up right now, Sherlock or I'll call…I'll call Mycroft. Sherlock, please," you whisper gently. Your breath tickles the inside of my ear, leaving a small space of humidity.

You roll my body over until I am almost in your arms. "Sherlock, I'm your friend let me help."

"I loathe you when you are like this, John. You've moved on. Sure I let you grieve, but you've moved on. I gave you a Jesus Christ resurrection miracle and you still moved on. Now, get out." I shout through clenched teeth.

Your brow furrows in confusion as I take your warm hand in my cold, clammy one. I put my finger against your forehead. "Think it through, John." I whisper as I let my hand trail down your cheek.

You back away. "Jesus, Sherlock you sound like we're a couple."

I smile and then outright laugh. "Oh, no don't say it again. We all know you're not gay. Not John Hamish Watson, the doctor, the soldier, the heterosexual model for us all. Sherlock is not my boyfriend. We're not a couple. And oh God don't get me started about that scene at Angelo's, in which you almost pissed yourself when I called you on your let's date signals. People will talk. John Watson the confirmed bachelor. Relax, John I know I am sexually repugnant to you. I'm just a machine. I can't fall in love. I can't crave another's touch. It's all about the work. Now get out and leave me alone, John." I am openly sweating as I shout out the last words.

I see you struggle with the clues I have given you. Then you look me in the eyes. You frown, then you look away. When you glance back into my eyes I hide nothing from you. You take a sharp intake of breath. I smile. "Ah, John Watson finally understands. He finally observes. Don't look so scared John. For a machine can't seduce you, only a man of flesh and blood can make you throb, make you burn, make you scream. So, see no need to worry John. It's only me the cold machine. Now get out." I spit out the last words like an animal facing death after its paw has been caught in the steel jaws of a trap. Then my heart beats in anguish. What if you leave? Then my heart beats in fear. What if you stay?