Text Messages Cannot Convey Feelings

Chapter Twelve

"JOHN!" Abandoning all precautions, Sherlock yelled for his best friend, his love.

Emotions were taking over- Sherlock couldn't think clearly. Where had John been? Bedroom, his bedroom.

Sherlock flew up the stairs.

"Not now, Sherlock. I'm writing a suicide note for Sherlock. Sherlock?"

The consulting detective gathered the consulting blogger in his arms. A pen fell from John's now- limp fingers. Sherlock took them in his own and blew, simultaneously massaging feeling back in to the hands.

He leaned his forehead against John's. "Shhh. I'm here. I've got you," Sherlock whispered. "I love you."

Shit. Sherlock's filter needed repairs immediately.

"No, you don't."

Frankly, Sherlock was surprised John could even talk, let alone call Sherlock a liar.

"I do," He pulled John closer.

John continued protesting. He was struggling now, trying to pull away from the embrace. "Let go of me, Sherlock."

Reluctantly, he complied.

"I wasn't lying, John..." Sherlock struggled to find words that adequately expressed what he was feeling. He settled on, "I only realized about half an hour ago."

A small smile tugged at the corners of John's lips. "Me too."

Processing. Processing. John loved him back!

Sherlock was overwhelmed with unfamiliar emotions. So overwhelmed, in fact, that he could no longer control his movements.

His lips were suddenly on John's.

"Sorry. So sorry, John. I didn't mean to do that. It won't happen again."

"For a genius, you really are an idiot sometimes," John stated. "What did I just say?"

Their second kiss was initiated by John.

A soft cough came from the doorway. Mycroft and Detective Inspector Lestrade stood staring. "Sherlock," the DI marveled, "you're alive."

"And he's snogging Doctor Watson. I had been under the impression that John was in immediate danger."

They explained that he was, before Sherlock saved him. There was even the beginning of a suicide note.

'Sherlock,

I know you won't ever read this, but I'll write it anyway.

This is my note.

That's what people do, isn't it? Leave a note.

I've been miserable since you jumped. Why did you do that, anyway? But today, I realized something.

I love you. I know how you detest emotions, but I can't help it.

If you were really reading this, I suppose you'd be wondering what happened to my mystery woman. Well, she never existed. I was trying to get you to come home. You always did love to ruin my paltry relationships.

Not that I really minded.

My plan failed. You stayed dead. I'm still glad I did it, though. I never would have realized I love you if I hadn't.

Their. Their. Them. Their. Them. They're. Them. They. Not one single she, Sherlock. In my subconscious, I wasn't really talking about an imaginary woman. I was talking about you.

My life without you wasn't really a life at all. So I thought to myself, what about the afterlife? And here I am, writing a note to a dead man. It's not that odd, I suppose. I've been doing it all along.

Although, now I'm killing myself for this dead man.

Goodbye, Sherlock, but hello is not far off. I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you.'

John then told Sherlock that it hadn't really been "the beginning" of the note. All he'd had left to do was sign his name, and there would have been a bullet in his brain.

"Your brother saved my life."

"And you saved his. For that, I thank you," Mycroft stated begrudgingly.

After he and Lestrade had left, Sherlock looked at John. John looked at Sherlock. Some form of telepathic communication passed between them.

The two men leaned together, resting their respective foreheads in each other.

John had thought Sherlock was dead. Sherlock had thought John was most likely dead. Yet there they were, alive and together.

"I love you, John."

"I love you, too, Sherlock."