The familiar mixture of blood and darkness of the past night's dream began to dissipate as light crept its way across my room and straight through my tightly shut eyes. God I hate mornings. I begin to think of how I need better shades in here—I'm tired of waking up to…

Did you ever consider what I would do with you away? You didn't leave me much to work with; just your bastard of a brother who seems to have a thing for kidnapping, a history of excitement that taunts my current, boring lifestyle tirelessly, and a space in my head that is entirely filled with you that I cannot seem to forget.

And the gun of course. Yes, I know, technically it is and always has been mine, but because of those months with you it is always loaded. It's my safety; you see? Though in a different sense than Adler's phone was for her. Seeing that glint of deadly metal, even out of the corner of my eye, as I pass through my room serves as a constant reminder that I am able to choose life. That by being able to look at and consider using it I am deciding to hope and ignore all the facts for you because to me you are worth trusting, even now.

I lied just then though; could you tell? By what I've just said I can just imagine you scoffing and saying something about the stupidity of sentiment, but please bear with me as I explain.

I finally gather the resolve to stand so that I can begin getting ready for my fascinating day doing exciting things (watching crap telly). But first, as always, I take a moment to hold my insurance in my hands.

Five. Thirty-six. Eighty-two. One hundred ten. Two hundred sixty-eight. Three hundred twenty-five. Three hundred sixty-five. Seven hundred thirty. One thousand ninety-four seconds, one for each day that you've been gone so far, and each day the safety has gotten turned on. It clicks loudly in comparison to the steady silence of my flat. Not today.

I wanted some toast anyway, and I think I've still got some jam left…

I'm not hoping you faked it. Does that sound heartless? That machine approach grows on you apparently. Regardless of whether or not my decreasing level of sensitivity is acceptable, I don't need to hope. I ruled out the impossible a while ago, and all that remained was that you, Sherlock Holmes, are alive. I'm not sure as to how by any means (I'm not you after all), but it doesn't matter. Hell I don't even care why anymore. Just… please Sherlock—I only want you back.

I'm tired of being afraid of Baker Street and having to tell cabbies to take different routes. I'm tired of avoiding everyone we knew now more from habit than anything else. I'm tired of not being able to look at their faces anymore. They're so full of pity for either their self or me that it physically hurts me, and so I haven't seen any of them for a while now.

"Damn my leg." I mutter as I walked to the chair by the telly, coffee in hand, and was forced to take a detour towards the door for my cane. I feel so damn useless using that thing. In my own home now...

It'd be fine you know; if you came back. I would think you weren't real for half a second, but after that it'd be alright. Given, I'd likely do something completely absurd like poke you, just to see, but seeing as I really have no prior experience with subconsciously believing my best friend to be dead so I hope you'll excuse me if I'm wrong because it doesn't matter really. In the end I'm going to forgive you, but only ever if you come back Sherlock.