1 Message Received

By Cortexikid

A/N: Oh hello again! It's been a while (RL got in the way, grrrrr) but I'm back with a brand new fic of one of my absolute favourite fandoms... JOHNLOCK! So yeah, hope you enjoy! =]

Disclaimer: 'Sherlock' is not mine =[ it belongs to the BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and the wonderful Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

NOTE: Thoughts are in italics, texts are in bold. Sorry the spacing sucks :-/

Shaking, callused hands jabbed the key into the lock and turned it roughly, feet stumbling heavily over the threshold. Soft curse words were mumbled into the night air, wisps of breath evaporating into the dark clouds overhead. It was the perfect night for the melancholy mood that had settled in his heart, one that wouldn't be leaving anytime soon.

He almost grinned at his dwindling thoughts, at how poetic he had grown over the last few weeks. It reminded him of his romantic poetry days, his stanzas filled with fluffy metaphors and similes for faceless women he found he no longer thought of anymore. That would have caused a pit of guilt in his stomach at one point in his life but now, after everything that had happened, none of that seemed to matter anymore. Not now that a certain someone wasn't around to blatantly mortify him about said flowery words.

Heaving a sigh worthy of one sulky consulting-detective, recently deceased consulting-detective, he trudged his weary, slightly unsteady body into his pitiful living room and plonked down onto his incredibly uncomfortable armchair. After Baker Street, nothing seemed quite right, no matter how many flats he viewed but this place was cheap and not too far from the clinic and, well, beggars can't be choosers as they say, whoever the bloody hell they are.

Before he could contemplate a cup of tea and crap telly, an odd sound filled the eerily silent room. A moan, a loud groan of some sort, one that upon reflection, sounded...oddly familiar. No, no it couldn't be... was all he managed to think before the moan sounded again, this time louder, more determined.

Oh. My. God.

Hazel eyes landed on his mobile phone that was currently lighting up and sitting impatiently on his coffee table from where he left it before venturing down the pub earlier that evening. Lestrade had been calling him an unnecessary and irritating amount of times of late and he didn't want the interruption when trying to drown out...everything. But this, it seemed, was certainly not Lestrade. Or Mrs Hudson. Or the perfectly nice red-head, Mary, that had chatted him up a few days ago, that much he knew for sure.

No, there was only one person in the entire world who was ever crazy enough to break into someone's home and do nothing but change the message alert tone on a man's mobile (and return their coat, of course) and that person was supposed to be dead. Unequivocally, one hundred per cent, dead. And yet, despite that one detail, she was now the source of an overly-sexual sound omitting from his unsuspecting phone.

That scrupulous thought gave him a sickening hope, deep down in his chest, that maybe, just maybe, if she wasn't dead then...maybe he...?

Suddenly, with the alarming speed of an only marginally sober man, he leapt forward and snatched up the phone, his desperate gaze glued to the screen as quivering fingers pressed the button to read the message that awaited him.

Good Evening Dr. Watson.

This can't be happening. This can't be real. I've drank so much I'm hallucinating, that's all.

A million and one thoughts fired rapidly around his brain as he read the words over and over. He knew he wasn't that drunk, he had in fact, been a hell of a lot drunker over the last few weeks and hadn't experienced anything like this before. Usually, he just fell in his door and passed out on the couch, dreaming of roofs and black coats fluttering in the breeze, dark, wet curls and pale wrists with no pulse.

Who is this?

He typed the reply before his brain had a chance to catch up and reason with him. He had to know.

An old friend.

He jumped at the moan and the prompt reply. Heart hammering in his chest, shoulders squared and jaw set, he stood and took a soldier's stance, knowing if he were going to do this, he was going to do it right dammit.

Miss Adler I presume?

She could run rings around a ring-master that one. Blunt was best.

Yes.

Seems to the point was the theme of the night. Good. He couldn't stand to be yanked around. (He hated himself for the double entendre)

You're dead.

A wise, incredibly vain man once said that he had an affinity for stating the obvious, for making redundant statements but it had to be acknowledged. She wasn't going to tiptoe around this like she did everything the last time.

Evidently not.

So that's the game she wants to play. Fine. Let's try something else...

He helped you fake your death, didn't he?

Bet she didn't see that coming.

You're a smart man, Doctor.

Never a man to worry over what anyone thought of his accomplishments he let the words go over his head. There was something incredibly more important to establish. Something that stole his breath and made his palms sweat and heart skip painfully.

Did you help him fake his?

The fifty-five agonising seconds it took for her to reply was the runner-up in the worst moment in his entire life.

I'm afraid not.

And there it was. Confirmation of his worst fear. He didn't reply for a long, long time. So long in fact that another message sounded, causing him to start and glance down at the phone in his hand, his brow furrowed as if he forgot he was holding it at all.

Doctor?

It appeared she wasn't going away that easily. Frantically, he typed a reply, anger seeping into his veins.

How did you get your hands on my phone?

True, this was another case of him asking a question he already knew the answer to but conversation wasn't his strong point right now.

I have my ways.

No surprise there. Just what he knew she'd say.

You know what some bloke likes right?

He knew he was getting snippy but he was pissed off. Just who did this woman think she was anyway?

How are you?

What a subtle change of subject.

Shouldn't I be asking you that?

Evasion, thy name is John Watson.

You're avoiding my question, Doctor Watson.

Confrontation, thy name is Irene Adler.

And what is it you're doing Miss Adler?

Now it was her turn to take her sweet-arse time answering. John had just about enough of waiting, contemplating to forgo tea and go straight for the booze.

Checking up on you.

Well, that was...unexpected.

And why would you do that?

He had to admit, he was curious.

He would have wanted me to.

His eyes narrowed as the words washed over him. A sharp pain rose from the pit of his stomach, settling in his chest, bile rising in his throat as he muffled a strangled yell. His thumbs dug into the keys, pressed so hard that the buttons left deep indentations.

How the hell do you know what he would have wanted? You hardly even knew him!

Flirting and faking deaths together does not a friendship make!

I know he cared for you.

Again with thinking she knows bloody everything. Her determined "yes you are" to his protests that they were not a couple came crashing back to his mind.

Is that right?

He couldn't wait to see what she had to say now.

Yes, it was obvious. You were his best friend, closest friend he ever had.

He wasn't prepared for the fresh wave of pain that readily engulf him. His legs buckled and he fell heavily down onto the armchair, half-lying, arms sprawled and legs akimbo. He stared out the window into the darkness for a moment before slowly responding.

I still am.

The phone was quiet for a moment. He let his eyes drift closed as his left hand reached down and clasped the bottle of whiskey that was left beside the chair. He just remembered it was still there from the night before. It grounded him. Or made him float away. Whatever he needed.

He's gone John.

The bottle was to his lips before he got to the last letter. These were not unfamiliar words. He had heard them from different mouths for months now but this was the first time he'd seen it written. It seemed more final somehow.

Move on.

She was relentless, this one.

I can't.

He rose the bottle again, taking a larger gulp and shuddering as the amber liquid burned his throat. It was good. It was what he needed right now.

Try.

Short, to the point. Still, she didn't get it.

I can't!

That stupid moan was weighing on his last nerve now. His bottle was near-empty too, neither good things at a time like this.

You have to live your life!

It took three seconds to reply – a record for his fumbling thumbs.

I have no life anymore!

That was an understatement. He almost laughed, it was too tragic.

Isn't that a tad dramatic?

Here he paused to gather his thoughts. Memories washed over him as he tilted his head back to look at the ceiling. His own face swam before his eyes. How he was before all this. How he was when he first came home from Afghanistan, how he was in therapy and feeling alone, so alone. Then, without warning, his mind conjured up the day when that all changed. The memories started to meld together, like a film on montage mode, cutting from scene to scene, from deduction to awe, from smile to laugh, from chase to shot, from punch to shove, from insult to quip from stare to...he raised the phone and watched as his message came to life before his eyes.

No. You don't understand. Working with him...being with him, I have never felt more alive.

He wanted to say more, so much more but he was feeling so...drained.

And without him?

A terrifying thought.

It's not the same. It will never be the same without him.

The phone was silent for a very long time then. So much time that the whiskey was long gone and the tears that had sneakily escaped his eyes had long dried up.

Time heals all Dr. Watson.

If only that were true. He wasn't surprised really, isn't that what everyone says in moments like these? Time healed all, his arse. He knew best, being a medical professional and all.

Not this.

Everything else maybe. But time didn't heal this.

Everything will be fine, you'll see.

Just who was she trying to kid?

Brave words for a woman on the run.

Yeah, he went there.

You wound me, Doctor.

And his guilt set in. Right on time, as usual. He was being a dick. He hated being a dick.

I'm sorry.

For what, he wasn't sure but he knew he should apologize regardless. If a certain consulting-detective could see him now, he was sure he'd have some choice words for him – of the scolding variety.

It's to be expected in this situation. Look after yourself John. If not for him, then for me.

That was just confusing. Did he miss something in this conversation?

I didn't know you cared so much.

Harsh, but true.

A friend of his is a friend of mine.

Well, that remained to be seen.

And in return?

She was always working an angle, after all.

Oh doctor, how little you think of me.

Again, harsh but true.

I speak only from experience.

Admittedly, not as much 'experience' as the aforementioned consulting-detective.

Well, in that case, let's say you owe me dinner the next time I'm in London.

He briefly wondered if 'dinner' was a euphemism but then remembered he wasn't six feet tall with cheekbones of steel, raven head of hair and cerulean eyes that went through you.

And when will that be exactly?

Just dinner it was then.

Patience is a virtue doctor, among other things.

He shuddered to what 'other things' she was referring to.

So I've heard.

And seen. But that was another story.

It was a pleasure John, as always. I may have to keep this number.

She could prove useful, when he was sober and thinking straight and again working on the biggest mystery of his life, alone, without the deduction expertise or snarky comments to aid him. He would prove his friend wasn't a fraud, didn't lie to him, didn't make up Moriarty because then who was the woman working with? Unless he...no, no, he wasn't going down that road. Irene Adler was real and Jim Moriarty was real and Sher...and his friend wasn't a liar or a fraud or anything else those disgusting tabloids said, John Watson would prove it. He believed in him, after all. But now, he had to end this conversation. It wouldn't lead anywhere good in the state he was in.

You do that. But next time, please refrain from breaking into my flat and nicking my phone for your perverse personal ring-tones.

Just how she did it always escaped him. He realised that upon re-reading what he wrote, it wasn't his own voice in his head, but one of the former Baker Street resident with a particular liking for nicotine patches and playing the violin at absurd hours of the morning. Funny what grief did to a person.

You're no fun.

Not lately, no. Not looking good for anytime soon either.

Evidently not.

Turning her words on her, that was smart right? The drink had settled into his bloodstream by now and was wreaking havoc on his consciousness. He was surprised he managed to type coherently...

But you will be again soon.

Not bloody likely. Before he could reply, she beat him to it.

Goodbye for now, John Watson.

And so this painful ordeal was over, for now. He was bone-tired, his eye-lids drooping, refusing to open for longer than it took to write his last reply.

Goodbye for now, Irene Adler, or whatever you're calling yourself now.

And that was that. Time for bed, to forget for a couple of hours that this was his life now. That he was still alone and would stay that way until he solved the mystery of he-who-shall-not-be-named. And no, not the bloke from Harry Potter. The other guy, the one who came barrelling into his life without pause, who gave him a renewed sense of self-worth (even if he never said it aloud) the man who made him feel alive again...but most of all, the man who gave him a friend, an odd, enigmatical, brilliant best friend.

Please think about what I said.

With one last glance, he read the words and sighed. It didn't warrant a reply, not really. No, now was time for bed. Upstairs in his small, lonely, crappy, cold flat. Hopefully tonight would be the night he dreamed of smiles and violins and Cluedo and disgusting experiments on the kitchen table and fingers in the fridge and Mrs. Hudson's cakes and tea and crap telly with snarky commentary and not the terrifying alternative. He just doesn't think he could handle another night of waking up drenched in sweat with his name on his lips. He just needed one night, just one, where he could rest, he'd needed all the sleep he could to clear the name of the most important person in his life, alive, or dead.

Three hundred miles away in a location unknown, pale, long fingers placed a phone back into the slender hands of a woman with shocking red-painted nails and matching lip-stick.

Piercing grey eyes met curious blue.

"Thank you for your help, Miss Adler."

"It was the least I could do, Mr. Holmes."

A/N: And there you have it. Mega angst alert I know but it had to be done. I'm planning a light-hearted Johnlock fic soon so hopefully that makes up for this sad-fest. Reviews are lovely =]