Sherlock Holmes looked out into the darkness from his window.

The room was quiet and dim as always, not a rustle was heard, nor was there anything worth making such a noise.

The man was seated in a crisp, new but lone armchair, a Le Corbusier LC-3 to be more specific, the only thing he bugged Mycroft to get him. An exact copy of the one he had in Baker Street, though in a more dullish color. His knees were curled up against his chest, shoes still clasped on his feet but bearing no marks of the outside world.

He sighed. He's been doing that a lot recently. Sighing. But no one could blame him. No one really could.

He was supposed to be dead.

Uninterested eyes scanned the naked interior of the walls. Grey like the murky beginnings of a storm. No patterns, no bullet holes, no graffiti, nothing, nothing, nothing. And this bored him to death.

He tried to enter his Mind Palace but he was surprisingly barred from it. He was losing experience. There was nothing new to discover or nothing new to analyze, thus restricting him from the comforting walls of his own mind.

The gates were locked and the keys laid scattered around just outside his windows in the form of murders, crimes, and adventure.

Sherlock sighed once more.

Oh how he missed the scent of dried blood on a body, the various types of deductions he could make with various types of people, the overwhelming feeling of information entering his head,

The desperate calls from Lestrade, informing him once again of a case they could not solve,

Mrs. Hudson's fruit tarts that he always seems to find in her fridge as he makes his way out,

And of course, the shuffling of feet behind him belonging to his one and only companion whom he had dragged from the very beginning with him everywhere.

His blogger.

His doctor.

His John.

Long, restless fingers fiddled with the phone that rested in his pockets, turning the thing on and off over and over again. He took it out, studied it, turned it on, turned it off, and returned it back into his pockets.

For every minute, he had done this two more times.

Not that actually using it would make a difference. The only person he was ever allowed to contact was Mycroft, and to those who have known the Holmes boys knew that Hell would replace Heaven before either of them starts a friendly conversation with each other.

But Mycroft was not the person in Sherlock's mind, no, it was someone more important, but more forbidden to have any contact with.

He understood this rule. He didn't like it, but he knew of the consequences.

So instead, he pulled up a blank message, letting the bright, artificial light from his phone to brighten the whole room and overpower the glow of the moon that shed light from the window.

Letting the corner of his lip tug into a microscopic smirk, he started typing:

Hello John.

-SH

Have you missed me?

-SH

Don't worry, I've just been off to buy your milk and beans.

-SH

I'm sorry it's taken me so long. You were right. Those machines are dreadful.

-SH

What have you been doing while I was away? Anything new? But please don't bore me with news of a new girlfriend or any of those idle topics.

-SH

No. I take that back. Go ahead and talk.

-SH

Please?

-SH

Sherlock looked away for a tiny second, realizing that he had just been talking to absolutely no one. Well, not that that surprised him, it just reminded him of the days before John.

The times with his old partner in crime, the skull.

Another smile appeared, this time more visible and wider.

John.

-SH

Hamish.

-SH

Watson.

-SH

That brilliant, rare smile of sentiment soon vanished from Sherlock's lips, curving downwards this time in the form of guilt and sorrow.

I'm sorry.

-SH

The gates of his Mind Palace opened a crack, allowing him to peer into the depths of his memories. But instead of the usual flow of stored up information, his mind reverted back to the dreadfully cold rooftop of St. Bart's hospital.

The phone against his ear as it connected him to John, even though he was just right there. Arm extended. Both as a caution to stay where he was, and as a last desperation.

He could never forget that moment. The final fall.

The plan had been executed perfectly, but it took Sherlock everything in his power to stay still and lie dead as his best friend reached out for him, gripping his hand as they were being pushed away.

He couldn't help but peek through his lashes at that moment, but regretted it the moment he did.

John's tired, confused, hurt and overwhelmed face was all he saw.

"Please, I'm his friend..."

It's okay now, John.

-SH

Sherlock's heels dug deeper into his chair, not feeling the same comfort of home he had hoped to feel.

He tried swimming away from the memory, but another one consumed him. This one more violently than the other.

"You were the best man, the most human...human being that I've ever known..."

Thank you, John.

-SH

"I was so alone..."

I'm sorry.

-SH

"...and I owe you so much."

I could say the same thing, doctor.

-SH

He paused. Took a deep breath...

And sighed.

"But please, there's just one more thing-one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be...dead. Would you do that for me? Just stop it. Stop this..."

Fingers twitched in anticipation. In desperation. Legs aching to run back home.

Home to Baker Street.

Sherlock Holmes responded back with one last message and sent it to no one.

The dainty black device was once again stored back into the safety of his own pocket, its owner now falling into the soft hands of slumber for the first time in a long while. His mind, now fully opened, welcomed him with a warm greeting. But instead of mind numbing information he had desired to seek a while ago, his head was now filled with dreams and memories of the days of Hatman and Robin.

The blank message was deleted the morning after, but the texts were still fresh inside his head as if it were a real conversation.

I am alive.

-SH

-MESSAGE NOT SENT-

A/N Just a little drabble I call procrastination :) Reviews are helpful and welcomed!