God I'm so nervous is the first time I wrote on a public place,here we go!

Pair:Sherlock/John(it is going to be a romantic relationship,i hope!)

AN:I don't own anything.

I can't talk about it. They don't understand. Not Lestrade , not Mrs Hudson, not Mycroft. It is sacred to talk about it because I still feel him. He's not dead in my mind and in my heart. They paid to this therapist to talk about it but I just can't form the words. My throat has that bump and I just want to cry and never leave bed but as an adult society expect me to move on with my live; even though the John inside is still on that goddamned Street trying to find the pulse of him. So here I am blogging about it, in private, because after being a soldier and a doctor, I was his blogger.

They come and check upon me in their "secret" way; Mrs Hudson would come to the house - not a home,not with him- with food because she would think i miss course i miss it but it does not taste the I cant hear the fast demanding footsteps of him,it wont taste as better. Mycroft sometimes send me money. He thought after the incident I wouldn't work for a .I threw myself at it.I even got other doctors appointments for favors. It help me some kind of way really, but there are some days I feel mind starts to rant "Well there you go,you helped someone,but not the right person isn't it John?You abandoned him,you fool." Thats when my hands starts to shake;my heartbeat increase rapidly and thats when I use the favors from other doctors; I tell them I need to go to the think I have a mother to take care of or a child or a girlfriend. I need to take care of my sick mind and broken heart. I need to crawl in my bed, cry for a while, sleep for 10 minutes and get out of the bed to make two cups of tea;one for him one for myself. I don't care he's not here, he would be sad if I didn't make a cuppa for him too.

Lestrade sometimes takes me to the pub. He wont ask,he would just barge in and yell at me to take my jacket. We would get drunk – me mainly – and laugh and cry a bit. I think he's the only one who emphasizes with me. He wont push me to say his name or talk about the incident. He would take me to pub and we'll drink our sorrows together instead drinking alone in our respective it get really depressing. One of those nights he started to cry before me which is something weird because these last 2 years I've been a cry booby trap; say something to trick my subconscious,I 'll start to cry anywhere, any time.

So as he cries he started to chant about his mistakes,how he shouldn't have called him freak or let anyone say it. He couldn't get over the fact that he couldn't said sorry to him. That was the time I realized, just as I need this drink in this pub,he needs it too. He still suffers like me. He gets it. That was one of the main reasons we are close.

The nightmares are still here. I still see the crime scene, his blood, his pale blue eyes looking at me. It hurts. When I came from the war, I woke screaming at soldiers. Now I woke crying. I woke up and I crave something I cant have. I'm afraid I will go mad with in a sexual way,I crave him in a psychological way. I want him to walk around in his stupid robe and yell at me because I watch cheap tv shows,not helping him to cure his boredom. I want him to deduce the lady at the grocery store is having an affair with the postman because they both use the soap brand that smell a bit more acidic and stuff. I want to scold him because there are human fingers in the fridge again. I want to see those blue eyes;so cold but at the same time so warm.

He didnt know about my feelings...well he probably know them with being genius and all but he never talked about it or implicate it so I'm going to assume he was to oblivious about it. I was trying to be oblivious about it. I thought it was a fascination, a crush at first. He was clever, handsome,sophisticated and so...him. Being around him was like a moth getting closer to the light. He made me feel warm,protected and important.