Disclaimer: I own no part of the BBC Sherlock world and am making no profits off of this work.

A/N: Finally chiseled through my writer's block (apparently reading HP:HBP is still my creative kryptonite...go figure) with this today.

This was inspired when I rediscovered my own journal like this...a very therapeutic thing, actually.

It's a bit sad but...not overly touching on TRF or anything specific, just random thoughts from Sherlock during those times. It's angsty, but not unmanageable, and it ends happy.

John accompanies Sherlock back to Baker Street from the tarmac while Greg escorts Mary back to their home to rest. John is of course concerned about Sherlock having overdosed himself, and Sherlock is of course ignoring that and remorselessly allowing his mind to move quickly through the evidence to discover his own next step in regards to the Moriarty conundrum.

The pair enters the flat, removing coats and placing them on the rack as normal. As though nothing is at all different. They silently ascend the 17 steps to the flat where John sits in his chair while Sherlock begins to pace while thinking.

"Where'd you get the drugs?" John asks softly, forcing himself to remain calm while inside his chest his heart is still a bit broken at the prospect of what the overdose truly means.

"John, there's no time for that!" Sherlock growls as he turns to glare at him, ending his pacing.

John's eyes harden and Sherlock exhales deeply through his nose, not wanting to give in to the pull to submit to this man; doesn't want to admit his thought process that will surely bring John guilt.

"Where?" John repeats firmly.

Mary gave them to me, he wants to admit. She slipped them in to my pocket while we hugged on the tarmac. I asked her to bring them because I knew she would do anything to keep me from you for good.

"I had them in my possession for awhile," he lies instead.

"You were in jail until you boarded the plane," John counters, anger building.

"I was allowed to come back here briefly to pack up some things," Sherlock says, which is true.

John looks around the flat and notices the boxes for the first time. They're messy, unsealed, and haphazard. He puts the pieces together remarkably quick.

"A suicide mission?" He asks Sherlock with hurt and anger, "You weren't even going to tell me that I was about to lose you again?!"

"You were going to lose me either way, I didn't see what it mattered if I told you."

"Because I deserve to hear it from you, you arse!" John yells as he stands from his chair to confront his friend, "So you what? Decided you didn't want to do the mission and off yourself instead?"

The honest, cutting words catch them both off guard for a moment. What John really wants is to hear Sherlock tell him that his own death was never the plan, but he knows it's not something Sherlock can give him.

"I reiterate: you were going to lose me either way," he reasserts gently, a deep sadness in his eyes and an aching feeling in his chest.

"But I didn't," John hisses, tears pricking unbidden at the corner of his eyes, "You're back here and…"

John can't think of how to properly word the end of the sentence, but Sherlock sways on the spot, ending the conversation anyway.

"Sherlock?" John asks with concern, closing the short distance to grasp his upper arms in support.

"I think I need to lie down," Sherlock mumbles, eyes roving unfocused and his face paling rapidly.

"Come on, let's get you to bed," John sighs in disappointment, recognizing that not all of the drugs have fully left his system yet, and assists him to his room. He pulls the covers down as Sherlock sits at the end of the bed looking very disoriented, "Shoes off," John orders a bit firmer.

"'m fine," he mutters unclearly, letting his head droop to the right as though he's going to fall asleep with his shoulder for a pillow.

John sighs heavily and kneels so that he can remove the other man's shoes for him before rising and guiding him under the covers.

"Work to do," Sherlock insists halfheartedly. His brain wants to continue, but his body is forcing him to rest after his mistreatment of it.

"Rest now, work later," John says and Sherlock nods slightly before succumbing to sleep. John checks his pulse; slightly elevated, but he's relatively certain he's no longer in any danger of going in to cardiac arrest.

He sits on the edge of the bed heavily, and lowers his chin to his chest. It's a natural move to hide his tears, but there's no one there to see them anyway. It had been bad enough thinking that he wouldn't see Sherlock for six months, but he would come back. In his head, that was the plan he held on to to hold himself together. But to learn that he wouldn't come back from the mission and chose to come to his own end instead…where had they gone so wrong? When had John failed him so incredibly badly?

But he does know: Mary.

All John had wanted to do when Sherlock returned from the dead was to never let him leave his sight ever again. But Sherlock caught him at an awkward moment that - while not a completed marriage proposal - could not be undone and John was angry at him for leaving and John had grieved for so long and…

He lifts his head on a deep inhalation and naturally holds himself in straight-backed soldier stance, though still seated. He looks around the room at the boxes, and his curiosity nags at him. There's so much he knows about Sherlock - how he likes his tea, which dressing gown means which mood, which book holds a picture of his family from when he was young - but there's an entire history that Sherlock had hidden from him. A past he knows nothing about…so much he still doesn't know.

He stands from the bed and goes over to a box that appears to be chaotically filled with journals. Some he recognizes from next to experiments on the kitchen table, some from the pockets of his Belstaff, but one in particular draws his eye. It's a small, compact journal made of a scarlet faux-suede. It's hideous. He picks it up with reverence, his head swimming slightly at the wrongness of invading Sherlock's privacy.

What he sees when he opens it is nothing like what he expected. He expected scrawling notes of observations, or maths equations, or drawings of plants…anything but what he actually finds: confessions.

The first page:

I don't regret jumping to save you. I regret that you don't know what I've done.

John stops breathing until his lungs scream at him. He rereads the message four times before he can bring himself to move on.

The second page:

Every day away is harder. I am not accustomed to isolation since you came around. I do not like this.

John fights more tears, but this time for Sherlock instead of himself. He flips through the book to see how many statements there are and finds that nearly every page is full. There are no dates on any of the pages, but John is certain he can place most of them regardless.

He sits on the floor - legs unable to support the weight of discovery, but himself unwilling to place himself to close to the man whose hand wrote these sentences. He knows it's a vast breach of etiquette and trust, but he cannot stop himself from reading on.

No one thought I deserved you, and maybe I didn't, but I still miss you.

—

Sometimes I imagine I'll turn a corner and you'll be standing there. You never are.

—

I wish I knew what you think of me now that you don't see me all the time. Do you remember me as brilliant, or have you finally come to your senses and seen the truth?

—

I want you so terribly much - more than I've ever wanted anyone. I fear that you will never forgive me and I will be in this hell for eternity.

—

I miss when I was home and all that mattered was experiments, new cases, playing the violin, and you.

—

I don't think you can ever forgive me for what I've done. I just hope you don't leave when I return.

—

I need you.

—

I'm scared that I'm not skilled enough to make it back to you alive.

—

You're the reason for everything I'm doing, but I'm becoming careless in my haste to return to you.

—

I've never been attractive, but you wouldn't want me with my scars.

—

People said we'd never work, but we did. I hope one day we find each other again and never let go.

—

You're my biggest regret and "what if". I hate that I'll never pursue you and you'll never pursue me.

—

I remember the way you'd look at me and I'd hope for your interest. I wonder if one of us had been more sure, would I actually have you today? If I tried now, would you let me?

—

I was too late.

—

You chose her and not me.

—

My self-esteem is too low to fight for you.

—

I allowed her to win today. I have never harbored quite this much self-loathing before.

—

There is this constant ache inside of me. A feeling of wrongness. I'm not certain I will ever be able to breathe freely again.

—

I told you after the first time that I would never do it again. I lied; I've done it a lot since then and I plan on doing it again tonight. I'm sorry I've lied to you, but it's the only way I can cope with losing you to her.

—

I know you love your wife, and I also know you fight more than you should. Does she see how sad you are? Does she care? You may not ever want me romantically, but I hope you know that if you asked, I'd come running.

—

I asked for this to be brought to me in my cell. Why do I do this to myself?

—

You shot a man for me. I shot a man for you. Shouldn't that mean something?

—

What exactly is the point of emotions that aren't disdain?

Is sass an emotion?

—

Your wife is free. You are free. I have never felt more dead.

—

A part of me hopes that you find this and read it, because I want you to know how I felt about you. I

loved

you

I loved.

—

The truth is: I'm a coward.

—

That's the end of it. Merely ten pages to spare in this small notebook that carries so much weight within it.

John closes it gently and then absentmindedly runs his left thumb over the faux-suede reverently, lost in thoughts. Sherlock never explicitly proclaims who the "you" to whom most entries are directed is, but even John can figure out they're for him. The entire abominable-looking journal is a love letter. And Sherlock's note.

John stands from the floor, journal still firmly in his left hand, and walks to Sherlock's bed. His heart aches with pure affection for this man who has gone through so much for John, all while allowing people to refer to him as a high-functioning sociopath. He still has no idea why Sherlock is the way he is - if he was born this way or someone made him this way - but he loves him all the same.

John had decided to stay with Mary simply to be able to keep an eye on her, and to wait for the proper time where he could exact his revenge. He hadn't been lying when she thought he forgave her at Sherlock's parents' house: he had spent quite a lot of time preparing the words to not only be the truth, but also to disarm her. The problems of her future are sure as hell going to be his privilege.

The thing is, now that he's certain that Sherlock loves him in return, there is no way he can stay with her until that time has come.

He runs his right thumb over Sherlock's left cheekbone and smiles when the still-sleeping man lifts his face, like a cat seeking more attention.

John steps away, making his way to the front room to grab a pen. He sits at the desk where he's written so many of his blog entries that always barely concealed the true depths of his feelings for his best friend. He opens the notebook to the last ten pages.

When Sherlock wakes a few hours later, it is to find his scarlet faux-suede notebook lying on the pillow next to him. His stomach drops as he deduces what that must mean. His brow furrows as he spots a piece of paper sticking out towards the end, with the words "Start here" written on it.

He sits up and wearily pulls the small journal to his lap, his hands shaking. He opens where it specifies.

I'm sorry I found and read this by snooping around.

—

Actually I'm not sorry for that. I'm glad we're finally on the same page after all this wasted time.

—

Having read this, it occurs to me that you have been unaware, after all these years, that I am in love with you. I'm sorry you didn't know.

—

I confess, however, that I can't imagine how that's possible. I'm an abysmal liar and you're a genius.

—

The fact that I shot a man for you and you shot a man for me does mean something.

—

As for me not finding you attractive simply because you have scars: have you forgotten once again that I was a soldier? Did you forget the wound that brought us together?

—

I'm sorry if I'm not here when you awake. I fear this endeavor may take a few hours.

—

I'm leaving Mary.

—

I'm never letting you go again.

—

I'll be home soon. Please wait up for me.

—

For the first time in God only knows how long, Sherlock genuinely smiles as all of the weight he's been carrying is lifted from him. He breathes freely once more.

A/N: As always, I would love to hear your thoughts on this work, but I truly hope you enjoyed it.

Follow me on Tumblr at goddess-of-the-night04 for an easy way to keep up with any new stories from me or just to chat; I'd love hear from you :)