Three things have happened in the last two months.

Thanks to Jim Moriarty, Sebastian Moran has a new (perfectly functioning) liver, and somehow sixteen (more or less) murders have taken place under his hand (or his gun). Lestrade and I have been keeping tabs on the cases, with a code name for Moriarty and Moran as to not suspect anyone at the Yard into trying to arrest. We all know where that could lead. We’ve also identified two “moles” in the Yard working for Moriarty- something else we can’t do much about, but the knowledge is liberating in the least. So much for a break.

In addition to that, Lestrade and John have become very good friends, which is a bit worrying as Lestrade is one of only less than seven people who knows more about me than I possibly do about myself. This is romanticizing the idea of course, but the principle is true: Lestrade could be telling John anything from embarrassing stories to dark secrets I told him never to disclose to others. Though it is John.

And finally, Victor Trevor has written me two letters. I haven’t read either- I’ve been putting it off for unexplainable reasons anyway, but I can tell from the type of paper he’s used and the way he wrote the second letter the plans on visiting London again soon. He’s in the States now, I should try to give him excuses ahead of time as to why I won’t be here when he comes. I just have to find one.

And as for excuses (or rather, distractions), I’m leading John away from asking about the letters for now with an appointment to see Darrel and Antoine. One good thing Mycroft is for of course, rescheduling my anxieties. John should be happy about this, at least.

In fact, he should be home soon. I haven’t showered in three days but the least I can do is make him a cup of tea, and give him the good news.

I haven't said anything for thirteen hours.

Haven’t spoken a word.

John went out this afternoon for some shopping, so he hasn’t tried to have a full conversation with me yet. Probably for the best, as I wouldn’t respond to much anything. Verbally, anyway.

To be fair I did warn that I went without talking sometimes. Maybe John will remember that.

And it’s not as if I can give a proper excuse for it. It just…happpens. It’s complicated.

Maybe he’ll understand.

Or maybe he’ll worry. Either option is fine, I suppose. It was going to happen anyway. That’s better than what some people do.

While John was gone I went through my mind palace to find some people I was in contact with in younger years, in order to reach them. It takes a while to get to certain contact slots in my mind, so I haven’t gotten anywhere (or anyone) yet. I’m not ashamed to admit I filed some people far, /far/ away on purpose.

But the more I think about what Moriarty said to me (and believe me, I’d like to state I’m not thinking about him at all. But it would be untrue) the more I realize I need to make sure people in my life are unharmed.

I’m ashamed to admit that John is already one of the people that’s been caught in the crosshairs of Moriarty’s and my…relationship. He was the first person to be taken-and hurt-by Moran and Moriarty. I hate to think anyone else I knew by more than an aquaintance might be involved with Moriarty in some way.

Good or bad.

I haven’t contacted Mycroft yet- I’ve not the patience to deal with his worrying yet, John’s is more than enough, thank you. And I want to do some digging of my own before Mycroft’s office sends me some ungodly thick file folder of information I haven’t even requested yet.

So I’m with my laptop and the tea John made before he left (which has now gone cold). But after finding out some interesting information about who Jim’s been “dating” (I suppose I better make my way to Bart’s to see a certain Molly Hooper sometime soon) I slowly realize that harming people I know isn’t the only way to get to me. Moriarty admitted to knowing of me in University. Meaning anyone I could have known or talked to in length could have given him information. Molly Hooper’s recent dating ventures confirmed that.

After some more research I find that I can barely concentrate.

So before John returns I make sure to double check all the books on the shelves, leafing through the pages and looking at the words. Running the pads of my fingers over the text. And once that is done, I sit in the silence of the flat. One part of me revels in it.

The other part of me is only reminded of recent events, though, and I long for John’s return home.

I am attempting to do as John asks.

It is difficult. More so trying than I thought it to be. Last time was very easy, I had work to distract me.

But at least for now, John is placated. And the boys called us in the morning, which put us both in a decent mood for the day. John even let me continue an experiment in the living room, not being too angry with me after I nearly ruined his coat. Either way, I grew bored with it an left it an hour ago.

I slipped again. I would say that it felt terrible, but part of me was enjoying the peace for a while. I needed to clear my mind for a bit. Just while John isn’t here. Now I feel a bit off, though. I don’t like it when he leaves.

Especially since I’ve noticed that someone may or may not be watching the flat. Not too intently, but someone is for sure. I’ve not yet figured out who or why. It’s probably Mycroft’s doing; He is always able to tell when I’ve relapsed. *eyeroll* He will forever be annoying.

I will just wait for John to get home. And tell him we must clean the flat of all things distracting.


John is doing rather well now.

Much to my dismay, actually.

He’s moving around nearly normally, only wincing a little when he gets up or stops again. We’ve been doing nothing around the house mostly, but occasionally he will suggest a walk if it’s not too cold, or if it isn’t raining. Those are my favorite days; It is nice to watch John look around him and take in the view.

He keeps asking if we can go see the boys, but I’ve yet to take him on the request. Since his…kidnapping it’s very difficult to even imagine us involving anyone outside of the flat in anything. A narrow view but one I feel nonetheless. And seeing the boys, for me, brings too many emotions I do not feel like dealing with right now. It’s difficult enough to get over John being taken. Probably partly the reason for most of the quiet here.

Either way John seems to feel much better now. And he seems more cheerful over the past few days, especially. Although complaining about going back to work. I told him we’d be fine if he wished to stay home, but he seems to think it’s his duty or…something. I told him that’s ridiculous.

I’m just glad he is feeling better, anyway.


It can't be real,

But at least I’ve started to hear John’s voice.

It was small at first, in the back of my mind. I focused on it as long as I could, as it could pass my time quicker here. Maybe make it a little easier for me, in the end.

His voice growing louder in my ear can only mean one thing, I think as I feel my consciousness start to slip away. My vision is blackening around the edges now, but that’s fine. I decide to close my eyes.

I’m feeling rather tired anyway.


“John?” I ask, but I don’t hear anything outside of my head. it’s pounding.

“Sherlock, pl…Wake up.”

“I am awake.” I try to mumble but there’s nothing coming out of my mouth.

“Sherlock, it’s John, I’m here.”

“Yes, I know it’s you, I can…”

Oh, I can smell him. It is John.

I can feel him.

And even if it wasn’t real. Even if it only meant that I met my end, that would be fine.

John’s here.

I’ve been trying to sleep more than usual, because it calms my mind for a few hours. John understands this; He encourages me to take small naps on the sofa during the day, and he pulls me to the bedroom earlier at night. We talk of nothings until he or I doze, and if he does first, then I follow shortly after most nights.

It helps.

Tonight he has fallen asleep quickly, though, and I cannot help but to watch him as his chest moves quietly. His left index finger twitches when he dreams, and I can always tell when it’s a bad dream or a nice one.

Tonight I’m sure it’s a better one, because of the look on his face as well. It’s nice to see him like this. Even if I can’t sleep.

I am not a very good caretaker, but John keeps his comments to himself.

He isn’t sleeping well most nights. He wakes up from the nightmares sometimes, but he only writhes and moans against the pillow. I don’t think he realizes it most of the time. But either way, most mornings he wakes up early and by the afternoon he’s dozing again. He has bigger bags under his eyes.

John’s been very quiet too, which worries me. Although anyone in his position would be. I’ve been trying to keep him occupied- I bought a few new books for him to read and bring him the paper so he can read it before I do. He isn’t supposed to be leaving his bed but I know he’s getting restless. I’ve noticed when he does get up he limps slightly. I know his leg is bothering him again but I pretend not to notice.

We haven’t talked too much about the kidnapping itself. It still seems like a fresh thing for John (I will admit it bothers me still, but of course I wasn’t the one that was taken). But it has been fairly peaceful during the day, besides that. The air of the flat is a more comfortable one, with John here. It’s so nice to have him back.

Most of him, anyway.


If you forgot that it was a holiday and (sort of) accidentally spent three days in the sewers, where you couldn’t get phone service and therefore couldn’t answer any calls from someone-and that someone didn’t know where you were, or when you’d be back,

How would you go about coming back to the flat?

Perhaps I’ll buy John some flowers.

And an extra Christmas gift.


Never mind my previous post; I do mind Jim Moriarty now.

I’m still not sure as to why he keeps trying to contact us, get me to cover up some pointless murder for him, or anything.

He broke into the flat.

He used our IP address to hack Mycroft’s CCTV coverage, and then had a duplicate key made from my set (no idea how he got that either), only to leave thousands (and I mean thousands, I’ve counted 4,345 now) notes on colored paper for me in my room, such as:

“I am thy father’s spirit, doomed for a certain term to walk the night and for the day confined to fast in fires till the foul crimes done in my days of nature are burnt and purged away.”

“Walking with a friend in the dark is better than walking alone in the light.”

“I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.”

“These are not dark days: these are great days - the greatest days our country has ever lived.”

“Weather forecast for tonight: dark.”

“Genius is one of the many forms of insanity.”

“Evil report carries further than any applause.”

“There was never a genius without a tincture of madness.”

“A match for a match.”

“Games lubricate the body and the mind.”

“I am become death, the  destroyer of worlds.”

The notes are covering every inch of the bedroom. From ceiling to floor.

John isn’t going to be very happy.
Perhaps he should visit his sister for a bit.

John fell asleep in his chair, so now's as good a time as any.

Here are the facts (that shouldn’t be ignored or forgotten):

Seventy-five days ago, Jim Moriarty broke into our flat, and stuck 7,274 Post-it notes on my bedroom walls, floor and ceiling- with morbid, poetic, generally unwholesome quotes. Hamlet, Shakespeare, Einstein, etc etc.

Not a word, message or a peep from him after that.

One week ago John came into the bedroom, waking me up to inform me that Mycroft’s informed him that Darrell and Antoine are missing from their home. I took John to see brother dear and get the basic information (of which he had almost nothing).

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A client has come with a menial case.

Something simple; Looking into the “disappearance” of a man’s teenage daughter.

I don’t usually take ones like this but at least it gets me out of the flat. And John will appreciate the fact that I can stalk someone else, rather than following him to and from work. I feel he has a sense it’s me anyway.

And from what I can see Moriarty has quieted down. Lestrade’s stopped calling me. I snapped at him yesterday when he woke me from sleeping. That was an odd thing because one, I was sleeping in the first place (although it was per John’s requests) and two, it was an interesting case he was asking about but I had no motivation to even go to the Yard to look into, Moriarty or not.

I texted Mycroft and he says Antoine and Darrell are doing fine, enjoying school and making a few friends. He said if John and I wanted to visit it could be arranged easily, even if he’s keeping watch over them. With Moriarty lurking I didn’t want to risk anything too soon, but I should ask John.

Later, though. I’m about to follow a very stupid boy into an alley where I’m fairly sure Samantha Frankhouser has been hiding from her father for two weeks. I will never understand teenagers.



The concert hall in London has over 50 rehearsal rooms, some of them very big and some of them small. I noticed the room that the livefeed was showing a small one; really only big enough for a few people to be inside. I checked each door on the first floor; opening each one and calling for John. As if he would hear me, or even answer.


I opened my twenty-third door and saw him, still tied to the chair. He looked almost worse than in the livefeed, if that was possible. His head was hanging and even from the doorway I could see he was barely breathing.

I rushed to the middle of the room where he was and dropped to my knees behind the chair, quickly untying him. He makes a small noise, a low grumble I can’t understand.

“Oh, God, John, what have they done to you?” I have to reach quickly in front of me after I untie him; He’s so weak he falls forward into my arm and he leans into my front.

“Sh-Sherlock,” he barely mumbles the words and looks up at me, eyes barely opening. They are both swollen, bloodshot from lack of sleep and water. He falls more into me and I pull out my phone, calling for Mycroft to send a car.

John just keep staring at me, as if he can’t believe it. I pull him close and breathe in his scent; even with all of the blood he smells so familiar.

Antoine and Darrel are much more mature than I gave them credit for.

At first, they didn’t understand what John meant when he vaguely said that their mother “Wasn’t…here…anymore.” (Yes, this is verbatim). He looked at me, wanting me to clarify. But I only shook my head; I felt if I explained it would have been with little delicacy and it might have ended much worse.

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