Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Post Reichenbach. I've done one before, but this one is really different.

I've never written a Sherlock 1st person POV, so I'm trying to really make it feel like Sherlock's head. Because of this, I will have large sections in parentheses, because I think that Sherlock thinks more than one thing at once. So large parenthetical areas are side-thoughts that Sherlock has as he is thinking of his main train-of-thought. I will try not to make it too confusing.

I knew I would be able to trick everyone into thinking I killed myself. That was, honestly, quite simple. People do not usually deny the evidence of their own eyes. People never look deeper. People are fools, and thus, I knew I would fool everyone. That wasn't a problem.

I also knew that most people would believe that I was a fraud… but I had a feeling John wouldn't. For some reason, he had faith in me. Stupid of him, really—there's no person on the planet that deserves faith. I, no matter how regretfully, am human. I do, every once in a while, make a mistake. Though I will never admit that out loud, you can be sure of that. And when that mistake is made, someone gets hurt. Because of feelings.

(Just thinking about other people's feelings and how much they are affected by them makes me smirk to myself. Divorcing myself from emotions was the best thing I ever did. It's not that emotions are entirely horrible. Positive emotions are… well, I don't mind them very much. They are distracting, that's for certain, but if I could feel only positive emotions, maybe the small distraction they cause would be worth it. Maybe. Depending on the reason for feeling them. But the real problem is that pleasant emotions are the precursor to unpleasant emotions. You can't feel disappointment without faith. You can't feel sorrow without joy. You can't feel hate without passion. And so, I must avoid the positive emotions the same as the negative, because it's the negative emotions that are the true distraction. When you feel disappointment or sorrow or hate, they swallow you whole, keeping you from being able to think at all. I just can't risk feeling those emotions, keeping me from thinking properly. And so I separated myself, and I don't miss it. I hardly even remember how it felt, most of the time.)

And I knew that if everyone else was fooled, then Moran would be fooled, and I could search for him without him knowing I was even alive to search.

Everything was going exactly as I planned. I lived with my contacts from the homeless network.

(It may sound horrible, but it really isn't. I just can't stay in one place long, it's too risky. I don't care about comfort, so that isn't a problem. I was warm or cool enough when I needed to be, and if I wasn't, I ignored it. I got bored often, which was another reason why I moved a lot. If anything, it was nice to have no permanent settlement. When I got bored, nobody got angry when I became restless and left suddenly. And I was never obligated to come back after I left. Really, the only annoying thing about the whole arrangement was the clothes I was forced to wear. Ratty pale wash jeans, tee shirts advertising music groups I didn't actually waste my time listening to, thrashed trainers. I didn't think I really cared what clothes I wore before, but I missed my old suits now. They were back at 221B. But I kept wearing my coat. I couldn't give it up. I felt—no, not felt, but… I just needed to wear it. Let's leave it at that.)

I was following Moran, the sniper that was the reason for this whole rouse in the first place.

(He didn't know I was tailing him—of course not, the idiot. Just because he worked for a genius didn't mean he had half a brain himself. Even so, he knew someone was tailing him, it seemed, because he was always just a step ahead of me. I could have disposed of him a dozen times by now, but I had to be careful. I didn't want to be caught.)

But there was one thing that wasn't going to plan. I was sure everything was going to go exactly as I intended… but then, I had never been able to predict John's behaviour the same as I can others.

John was supposed to believe I was dead. John was supposed to mourn for a short time—because that's what people do, I suppose, even though it's a waste of time and energy—and then he was supposed to move on with his life. I admit that I didn't want him to forget me entirely. I wanted to have the chance to go back to him eventually. But he wasn't supposed to be deeply affected by what happened.

But I was wrong.

I knew John would be upset. Obviously. Any person but me would be—but he had to believe I was dead. That's why he had to watch. And I knew he'd be mad at me for doing it. I knew he'd probably have to go back to that stupid therapist of his, Ella. No, none of that was good, but it was better than him being dead.

But John was supposed to just be sad… but instead, he was broken. John was affected by seeing me die in a way I never could have guessed. He was so thoroughly in mourning over what had happened that he was almost in denial.

I realised this when I got the first text. It came a month after the fall.

Sherlock, I need you to not be dead. – JW

I couldn't believe my eyes. John was texting me? My first instinct was to respond. It took me a moment to realise that I couldn't. I set the mobile down on the ground, but I kept glancing at it. Why? I don't know. But him texting me… it caused an unpleasant sensation in my chest. I ignored it. I told myself I was only watching it so I could make sure nobody was going to steal it.

And then, a minute later, I got another text. I picked it up so fast I almost dropped it.

How the hell could you do this? You just live to torture me, don't you? – JW

Barely a second after I finished reading it, another came.

LIVED to torture me. God, what's wrong with me? You're dead. Texting you won't bring you back. – JW

And before I even finished reading that one, the next was received with another urgent pip from my mobile, and then two more.

But it doesn't feel like you're dead some days. Sometimes, I think you're just playing some stupid joke on me. Trying to be clever. Maybe you'd call me stupid for saying it. I wish you'd call me stupid. It'd mean that you're alive to call me it. – JW

It's why I've stayed at 221B. So that if you need to find me, you will. Then again, you could probably find me no matter where I am. – JW

Call me stupid, Sherlock. Just send a message and tell me I'm an idiot. That's all I need. – JW

This time, no more messages came in as I stared at the messages I'd already received. I couldn't text John. I knew that. But I wanted to. God, I wanted to. I ignored that urge too. I couldn't waste my time wanting to talk to John when I needed to deal with Moran.

But John, Doctor John Watson, was denying the evidence of his own eyes in favour of deluding himself into believing the impossible? That wasn't like John. He must not have been doing well. Maybe if I just stopped by—

No. I almost hit myself over the head at the thought. What was I thinking? I couldn't go see John, not even if John didn't know I was there. It was a stupid thought.

Me. Having stupid thoughts. Maybe living on the streets was affecting me.

But, luckily, John didn't text me again that night, so I was able to distract myself with plotting.

In fact, John didn't text me for a long time. Another month passed before another came.

You know, if this is a joke, then sod you. It's not funny. – JW

Damn, I'm texting again. I told myself I wouldn't. But it's a bad day. – JW

I was morbidly intrigued. A 'bad' day? What did that mean? I had heard that terminology used by drug addicts, or mental patients. Both of those things were not John. So what did he mean?

Another month passed, on the dot, like the last time. This time it was four all in a row, in rapid progression, like he kept pressing 'send' and realising that he had more to say.

I was in a taxi and I saw someone who looked like you. Or, at least, he had your coat and your cheekbones. – JW

Is commenting on your cheekbones weird? Maybe. But even a blind man could feel that you have good cheekbones. I'll tell myself it isn't weird. – JW

But anyway, he couldn't have been you. He was in jeans and trainers! You wouldn't be caught dead in that. – JW

Dead. Wow. That was bad phrasing. Let me just stuff my head in the blender now. – JW

I blinked down at the texts when I finished reading them. John had seen me! God, I couldn't risk that. I just had to go to the grocery today for food, so I didn't take a back route like I should have because I didn't think it was necessary. I couldn't do that again. John seeing me once was bad enough.

(He wasn't really going to stick his head in the blender, was he? Maybe I needed to go check on—NO! What was wrong with me?)

Then came three more quick texts with barely a pause between them.

We're out of milk. That's why I was out. I never got it. I saw the man that looked like you and I had to go home before I had a panic attack. I made the cabbie slam on the breaks and I ran out without paying. You'd have laughed at me for being so sensitive, probably. - JW

But anyway. Still out of milk. - JW

Maybe you should grab the milk and come home already, you prat. – JW

I almost smiled at that. In a dark way. It wasn't funny, not really. But I could just imagine the way that John would say it, and thinking about John's very specific, very unique mannerisms made me smile. Even though it shouldn't have. Smiling. A waste of time.

There was a longer break before he sent one more for that night.

I got the milk. I'd be waiting a long time if I waited for you to get the milk. You didn't even get milk before, let alone now. – JW

And no more texts came that night.

And I was angry at myself for being disappointed about that.

Hey, hope you liked the first chapter. The next should be coming soon. In the meantime, if you like post-Reichenbach fics, I have one called The First Date that you might enjoy. =]