[Unsent]

There was the faint sound of snow pattering on the outside window not unlike shy children tapping a fish tank. Other than that, it was the choking kind of silence. Sherlock sat in his chair, curled up in himself, not daring to touch the chilling floor. Winters were difficult in the first place, and with John getting married soon and gone, they were insufferable. The drapes were drawn. The doors were locked. The detective wept.

It was times like these that Sherlock let his defenses fall; when he was alone. He was quiet about it, never letting an audible sound escape. But the voices screaming in his mind scratched at his skull and took a jackhammer to the side until he was falling apart. He was thankful for these moments, for if he was ever left without them, he would be forced to show himself in front of others.

Caring is not an advantage.

It is a chemical defect found on the losing side.

Don't get involved.

It's the start of a new era.

Sherlock took his jacket sleeve to his eye and wiped his face. He sniffled. His eyes immediately rushed around the room in search of anyone whom may have heard him, but he was still alone. For some time, Sherlock had sworn off emotions, had forced himself into stone. But times like this, he felt it… The cold hand of loneliness squeezing the breath from his lungs, the bitter tea poured over his head until he drowned in it.

He yearned for something, (something that was so impossible, so improbable, never could, never will have). He desired it with such passion. His fingers trembled as he grabbed his mobile, shifting through his contacts for the only man that was able to tolerate him. He sniffled.

Lonely.

Come over. –SH

His thumb hovered over the send button.

Do you wish to send this message?

[Unsent]

"John, dear, you're taking a while in there," Mary nagged with a smile on her face from the bed.

"Hold on," the bathroom door shouted back, "I swear you have no patience."

"Not true," Mary jested, "Do you know how long I waited last week for you to clean your things from the attic?"

They laughed.

John rinsed his face once more, looking over himself in the mirror. This mirror was cleaner than the one in 221B. His eyes fell to the toothbrushes.

"Why are there bloody fingers where the toothbrushes should be?!" John yelled through the flat.

Sherlock's voice was muffled through doors, but his reply was just barely audible. "Experiment!"

John should have expected as much. "Well where's my toothbrush?"

"I spilled nitrogen dioxide on them. Had to throw them out."

"How did you—!" John started giving a frustrated sigh. "Nevermind. I'm going to get a new toothbrush."

"We need more milk. And get me one as well."

John casted a glare to his flatmate and was returned with a smirk and eyes glued to a computer screen.

No. John berated himself, I told myself I wouldn't think back to that place. I'm with Mary.

John sighed, brushing his teeth. The door between him and Mary seemed so thick. Almost as if they were separated forever if he never unlocked the door. He wondered if he would be able to go back to solving crimes with Sherlock like the past. No matter how much he told himself he was in a better place here in a home with a wife and a child on the way, he never really believed it. There was something alive about being with Sherlock. As a flatemate. Not anymore. Obviously.

John finally emerged from the bathroom, fresh and with a crisp smile. Mary held the duvet up to her chin and threw him a playful look. With heavy hands, John rolled under the covers and sighed, blinking slower than usual.

"Are you all right?"

John's gaze shifted lazily to Mary. "'Course. Why wouldn't I be?"

Mary's lips quirked.

She scooted over, laying her head on his shoulder. "Some days you seem so far away."

John's eyes flashed at her, grounding himself. "Do I?"

Mary chuckled and nodded slowly. "Good night. I love you."

John stretched a plastic smile. "Love you."

They drifted off together; however, John couldn't bring his mind to slow down. Soon the digital clock was blazing 2:41 in red fire, and he was lying on his back. His breathing evened out and he found himself thinking of Sherlock. His arrogant voice. That smirk he always made when he proved someone wrong. His boisterous, childlike persona.

John smiled.

Before he realized what he was doing, his mobile was in his hands.

There's no violin to lull me to sleep.

Compose me something. –JW

John blinked at the screen through the dark room. What was he doing? That sounded so stupid.

Do you wish to send this message?

[Unsent]

"Are you going to get that?" Lestrade nodded to Sherlock's pocket as it vibrated.

"Unimportant," Sherlock replied crisply. "Where's the corpse?"

Lestrade gave up, ducking under the police tape. There was chatter all around them, yet Sherlock zeroed in on only a few conversations. None of which were important. Delete.

They were soon in a room with a body on the floor. Sherlock's footsteps seemed to be the only sound in the area. Tap, tap, tap.

Widow. Second wife. Three children. Retired school teacher. Enjoys gardening. Didn't like math in school. Child is an artist. Make that two. She hates coffee but drinks it anyways. Unimportant. Untrustworthy. Gambler.

Too easy.

"Well obviously the woman had a problem with a gambling debt," Sherlock cut the thick atmosphere with his voice as a knife. He heard Lestrade mutter something like "obvious to you," but ignored it. He took a paper from her side pocket. "And here's the place she gambles most at. Number on the back of the indebted."

Sherlock's pocket buzzed again just as he made his way out the door.

"Sherlock, that's the sixth time since I've been here with you. Answer the bloody phone," Lestrade called after him.

"Unimportant!" Sherlock replied in an equally as loud voice.

He walked briskly through the crime scene, hailing a taxi as if he was late for something. He barked out his street address and the cabbie took off down the street. Sherlock opened his mobile at last.

Do you feel like meeting Mary and I for dinner tonight? –JW

Sherlock? –JW

I know you have your phone on you. –JW

Lestrade said you're on a case. Why didn't you tell me? –JW

I would have come. I don't have work today. –JW

Are you hurt? –JW

Sherlock's eyes scanned each text in seeming placidity. His thumbs hovered over the reply text box.

Out. Unable to make the date. –SH

The responding text came immediately.

Good case? –JW

Interesting enough. –SH He typed in feigned interest. Send.

So it's long? You won't be able to make it tonight? Mary will be disappointed. –JW

No. –SH

Send.

Sherlock blinked and swallowed.

I wonder how dinner would go just you and I. –SH

Do you wish to send this message?

[Unsent]

Glasses danced together and silverware sang. It wasn't that fancy of a restaurant, but it wasn't too shabby either. Mary's face was brighter than stars as she cracked jokes like there was no tomorrow. John laughed at each one, feeling his side hurt after a while. "You're a doctor," Mary had said, "You should be able to treat that." John replied with a stony glare, blaming every fault on her. She held her hands up in surrender.

The lights were just faintly dimmed. John spooned some mashed potato in his mouth and he and Mary chatted without any real purpose. Her eyes and her heart were stars that were starting to burn out, at least in the eyes of John. There was no reason to feel a small stab of loneliness on a night like this, but for some reason he did. The rip grew larger throughout the night, and he found himself wishing Sherlock hadn't been on any dumb case. Or maybe he could have skipped the dinner to go on the case with him.

No, that's absurd. Why would he leave his fiance for a friend? He stabbed a piece of chicken rather harshly.

"Are you alright, love?" Mary asked in a smaller voice.

John blinked, his mind coming back to the table. "Of course," he replied like every other time she asked. He wondered why she was asking so often.

"You seem far away," she said ponderingly.

John forced a laugh. "Do I? This table is a bit big."

John moved his chair a bit closer and Mary's lips lifted into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. John felt his pocket vibrate and he pulled out his mobile. His chest lunged at the name.

Bored. –SH

John bit back a smile.

I'm at dinner. Without you.

Thought you had a case? –JW

It was too easy. Took only fifteen minutes. –SH

John stared at the message for a moment, narrowing his eyes.

Why didn't you come to dinner then? –JW ,he sent. He couldn't help but feel a little hurt.

"Texting Sherlock?" Mary asked. There was something in her eyes that John couldn't recognize.

"How did you know?"

Buzz. You know I don't eat. –SH

I wish you would. –JW

Mary didn't answer, but John felt like something was off. His fingers started typing a new message without him even looking at the screen. It just spilled from his hands.

It would taste better with you here. –JW

Do you wish to send this message?

"Check, please," Mary told their waiter.

[Unsent]

Sherlock felt himself slipping.

He shut his eyes tightly, leaning back into his bed, wishing to sink down into the sheets and disappear. He let out a shout just to get out some voice that was aching to be heard. Mrs. Hudson knew better than to ask what the noise was anyways. He tossed over onto his stomach, his curls running away from him and flying to the corners of the room if only they could reach. He groaned into his pillow. He wanted to scream. It just happened some days. Talking normally helped, but John was gone.

John.

Sherlock could hardly take it anymore. The aching in his chest wouldn't go away and he had no idea what it was. Just that it hurt to be around John, especially when he was with Mary, which was strange since he thought he didn't dislike Mary.

The cold was comforting. Sherlock felt the urge to open the window and let some of the brisk, snow-filled air in. He did.

Sherlock shivered, curling in on himself but he did not want to close the window. It kept his mind of things. He never wanted to smoke more now than any other time in his life, but he knew he wouldn't be able to find them if he tried.

He tapped the screen of his mobile, just gazing at the screen through the relative darkness of the moonlight. His fingers moved on their own.

I miss you.

Could I convince you to come back— he nearly typed home. 221B was not John's home. –Over?

I'm also a bit lonely. I've been feeling that a lot lately. I don't like feelings. How ever do you cope? I doubt I'll actually send this. I've been typing a lot of things I never send to you, John. It makes me feel like I'm talking to you. Is that strange? He laughed to himself. How silly. Of course I'm strange. You never seemed to mind my strangeness, John. I've always loved that about you; your ability to look past faults, and I know I have a lot of faults. You're the only person that's ever liked me, you know. You're the only person I've ever liked, all the same. You're so kind, yet you don't let others step all over you.

I've never been one for physical contact, but I constantly find myself wishing I could hold you. Or your hand at least. Or touch your hair. It hurts a lot, you know, to be so close, and then see you walk away and kiss your fiance. I feel my stomach churn and my heart contract. What does that mean? You're better at emotions than I am.

This is all that's keeping me sane now. Just typing messages that will never be sent. I wonder how you would react to these messages. I really do.

I've never said these things: Sometimes I want to scream. Sometimes I want to cry. It hurts when people say I'm a freak or a psychopath. I do feel pain. I do feel attraction. Before I came "back from the dead," I went through months of torture in Serbia. When I came back, I did expect you to hit me, and of course I deserved it. However, you should know that one of those hits almost ripped out some of my stitches. Actually, no, you shouldn't know. Like I said, I deserved it. I can be selfish can't I? Arrogant? I bet you hate that about me. I bet you hate a lot of things about me. Would it shock you if I said I did, too?

There. I've said it. In a way.

Oh. One more thing I've never said.

If I were ever capable of emotions like deep affection, passion, or even desire, I don't think it'd go too far to tell you that you are, and the only one I will ever be in love with.

Sherlock set his phone down, already feeling his cheeks dampen. Damn his emotions. He would learn to delete them some day. He felt fatigue pulling him in, and he fell into his pillow, sure to be asleep for at least fifteen hours.

The door opened with a loud crack similar to thunder.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade shouted, "I've been texting you for the last fifteen minutes!"

He received no answer.

The flat felt eerily quiet as Lestrade walked in slowly. He expected something to blow up or for Sherlock to dash out with an experiment on fire. Or yell at him to get out.

Lestrade found himself stepping into Sherlock's bedroom. He'd never really seen it except for glimpses. He was surprised to find Sherlock actually asleep. It was about bloody time, too. He hadn't slept for how long? Lestrade couldn't even guess.

He was drawn to the only light in the room, his mobile still illuminating a small corner of the room, leaving an angelic shadow over Sherlock's face. He peered over at it.

Do you wish to send this message?

Lestrade narrowed his eyes. Did Sherlock fall asleep before hitting send? He shrugged, his forefinger hovering over the send button.

[Sent]

I may or may not write one more chapter...