Dear Sherlock.
I’ve found a new therapist. She actually listens to me. I know you would want me to be taking care of myself, and I’m really trying.
For you.
Theresa suggested that I write you letters, to try to deal with things. I feel a bit silly, knowing you’ll never read this, but Theresa insisted I give it a go. I haven’t so much as touched my blog since you… since you left. I’m still not ready to even write the word.
Your brother dropped by to visit today. Something about a case. Said he had been impressed with what he had seen of me, and wanted to know if I’d be interested in carrying on, even if you’re not…
I don’t know what to do. Mycroft is… persuasive, to say the least, so ultimately I don’t think I have a lot of choice in the matter.
Speak of the bloody devil… I’ve just got a text from him.
I still have a heart attack every time I get a text. I think it’s from you. Telling me to get takeaways, or meet you at a crime scene, or something. And then it’s just Sarah or Harry or someone, and I have to remember all over again that it’s never going to be you. I’ll never see that stupid ‘SH’ waiting for me at the end of a message, ever again. And it hurts, Sherlock. Every day – every moment, it hurts. I sit at the table, and there’s someone missing. I do the washing up, I’m all by myself. I put on my fucking jacket, and you’re not there next to me, tugging that manky scarf around your neck and talking at a million miles an hour, making me feel like an utter imbecile stumbling around behind you in the dark.
How and when did you become such an enormous part of my life? Actually, feck that. I don’t care. Somewhere along the line you became my whole life, and I didn’t just let it happen, I loved every second of it.
I would give almost anything to see your face again. Your stupid, brilliant, absurdly cheekboned face. To have all the chances I never had while you were alive. To kiss those stupid cheekbones, and run my hands through that scruffy hair, and cut you off halfway through calling me an idiot with the snog of your life. I hate that I spent the whole time we were together pretending I didn’t have feelings for you. So much time wasted. You must have noticed – you notice everything about me, and I’m hardly wonderful at concealing how I feel about things the way you are.
I don’t even care if you felt the same way anymore at this point. Wondering will only make it hurt more. I’ll stick to the perfect moments engraved in my imagination forever and try to keep moving without you, day by day.
I wonder if there’s an afterlife…
I bet they’re already sick of you up there.
I wonder if you’d be less insufferable if I joined you….
All of my love
John Watson.
John had entirely lost count of how many letters he had written since that first one two weeks after Sherlock’s death. Too many, and yet never, ever enough. He had felt silly the first time he wrote, but as soon as the letter was finished he was filled with an empty hollowness… for those few, wonderful, terrible moments he was able to pretend that he was talking to Sherlock again, just a normal day… to imagine the other man’s reactions to the frankly preposterous things he was saying. Sometimes his letters were simply factual – describing the case he was working on as though Sherlock were working it with him, asking him questions about the evidence, bouncing ideas off him on the paper until something stuck. Other times they were filled with emotion – everything from violent abuse aimed at Sherlock, for being so blindingly, ridiculously stupid as to die, to blubbing rambles on the subjects of love and togetherness and all the futures they would never, ever share, to the depressed letters, the ones where one hand was on the paper and the other was on his gun, and without his imaginary Sherlock to talk to John imagined he would do something very stupid, because simply the idea of life without Sherlock was unbearable and unimaginable, and just not something he wanted to have to face.
He had started wearing Sherlock’s clothes (at least, the ones that fit, skinny bastard.) and sleeping in his bed some nights, just because these things were a part of Sherlock that was real; a part that he could touch, smell, real evidence that Sherlock had really walked this flat with him, so recently, and that just because he was gone didn’t mean he was… gone.
A month after suggesting it, Theresa had done a 180 in regards to John’s letter-writing. She tried to explain gently that it was becoming an unhealthy outlet; a security blanket that he shouldn’t be clinging to so tightly. He needed to let go.
Strangely, the only thing John could think of was his first case with Sherlock, and the ridiculous orange shock blanket draped unelegantly around his shoulders as he deduced within instants that John, essentially a stranger, had killed to defend him. John had taken a man’s life, in order to save Sherlock’s, a man he hardly knew, without a second thought or moment of remorse. Even then, his feelings had been stronger than he had ever imagined.
John tried to simply stop writing the letters; really, he tried. He didn’t write a single word to Sherlock for twelve whole hours. He spent those twelve hours pacing the flat, crying bitterly, staring out the window in anguish, and writing, always writing, inside his head. Sometimes he even spoke aloud, as though somehow Sherlock would hear him. It was no use, and inevitably he sat back down at the desk, pen and paper in hand, scrawling desperately, handwriting more unreadable than usual in his hurry to get all of his thoughts out into the world for Sherlock to hear, to read, to touch, to… whatever. Just so that they didn’t have to be bouncing around inside him, following him everywhere, consuming his whole being. He finished the letter, then walked through to Sherlock’s room, changed out of the purple shirt of Sherlock’s that he had always liked so, pulled back on his own familiar oatmeal jersey, and returned to the desk, gathering together his monstrous pile of letters upon letters, all for Sherlock, all filled with more feelings and memories and questions than he had ever expressed to anyone in his life. He took the stack and bound them together with a spare rubber band and marched outside determinedly, heading directly for the nearest dumpster to the flat. Once he got there he paused… closed his eyes, breathed in deeply and steeled himself to do what he knew he must, kissed the top letter once in farewell, and threw the whole bundle in the rubbish. Knowing he couldn’t afford to linger on any of this, John turned around and marched in the other direction, not caring where he went as long as it was far, far away from any of this.
John didn’t know exactly how long he walked for, or how far he walked. It felt like forever. He knew there were tears streaming down his face and somehow couldn’t manage to care, ignoring the curious or sympathetic looks he got from strangers, keeping his head down and just walking.
Somehow he found himself on the edge of the thames where a dead museum security guard had washed up once upon a time in another life, and relished in the feeling of finally finding somewhere he could feel alone in such a crowded, ever-busy city.
The phone in John’s pocket buzzed, and for the first time in what felt like forever he didn’t have a heart attack at the feeling. Sherlock was gone from his life – just a dream of an impossible man he had met once – and there was nothing whatsoever to be excited about. If anything it was probably Mycroft hassling him about his latest case. Another dental proceedure, obviously. Mycroft really did need to lay off the sweets.
What he did see though, made John’s heart stop alltogether.
John Watson, I am confiscating your gun and all of your medical supplies. You are under no circumstances to join anyone in any afterlife. SH
The number was one John didn’t recognise, but the signature and style of speech were unmistakable. John stared in disbelief at the text for a full minute before scrambling to text back. After weeks of writing down every thought that crossed his mind for Sherlock he was suddenly rendered utterly speechless, struggling to put together the simplest, most basic question in this situation.
Is somebody playing a sick joke on me? Where are you? JW
The thought occurred to John straight after sending the text that the mystery texter had mentioned confiscating his things. That meant they would be in the flat. Possibly right that moment. Not a moment to waste, as though some force of will that had lain dead inside him had been reawakened, John Watson took off running at a pace he hadn’t even thought possible for a long time. He dashed to the nearest main road, waving desperately to hail a taxi. No time for walking, no time for driving, no time for anything, just had to get there as fast as possible.
John was well aware that he was practically bouncing off the walls of the cab and he didn’t care one iota, though the taxi driver was clearly irritated. To make up for it, he simply thrust a random amount of money (which was probably far, far too much) at the driver with an offhanded “Keep the change.† as he dashed from the taxi and hurtled up the stairs to 221B Baker Street.
The doors were all locked, just as he had left them. But when he got into the flat, he saw that his desk had been raided, and his gun was gone. Running to the bathroom, the cupboards had been emptied too of everything but soap and a single bottle of vitamin tablets that the mystery intruder had clearly designated as safe. John searched the rest of the flat and discovered that all of the extension cords and both his and Sherlock’s ties were gone, as were the sharpest of the kitchen knives, and the one power outlet in the bathroom (appliances clearly having posed a larger problem) simply had a note taped over it, reading ‘NO!’ in a sadly unidentifiable handwriting. There was nothing else whatsoever to identify the intruder, though the one real clue they had left was the one that stood out the most to John.
Sherlock’s room opened out onto the fire escape (and he had no doubt that Sherlock had wanted it this way, in order to make for easier exits in case of emergency) and the window had been left wide open, chilly London air blustering in through the curtains, tossing things about. John shut the window before things were blown about too much, though he made sure not to lock it. He simply didn’t know what to make of this at all, and found himself collapsing on Sherlock’s bed, exhaustion coursing through his veins, both emotional and physical. The tremor had come back to his hand, and he could do nothing to stop its violent trembling, post traumatic stress disorder gnawing at the corners of his being once more. Tugging his phone from his trouser pocket, John groaned when he saw no responses. Unable to help himself, he shot off a series of short texts to the mysterious ‘SH’ number, hoping for some kind of response… anything… hell, even Anderson playing some kind of sick prank would be welcome at the moment, as long as he didn’t have to sit here wondering anymore.
Is this really you? JW
Please answer me. I can’t stand this. JW
How could you do this to me? You utter, fucking bastard. JW
Did I imagine that text? Am I actually going mad with grief? JW
Please, don’t leave me hanging like this. I can’t handle it. Just let me know. JW
And what felt like hundreds more like them. It was one in the morning when John gave up, still lying in Sherlock’s bed, phone in hand, confusion and joy and anger and yet more confusion coursing through him, mixed with flames of bitterness born of weeks and weeks of being so desperately, painfully alone.
Tired beyond belief from the emotional strain of the day, John let the phone slip from his fingers and his eyes close, not caring that his legs were still hanging off the end of the bed, nor that he was still fully clothed… all that mattered was tiredness, and confusion, forever and ever. He was just teetering on the precipice of teary sleep when his phone buzzed again and at once every one of John Watson’s senses snapped onto the alert, muscles tensing, arm lashing out desperately to grab the phone and scrambling around for a while trying to find it, to find its precious cargo, jumpier at the sound of his phone than he had been even in the weeks after Sherlock’s death. At last he found and opened the message, and yet again his entire body was flooded violently with feelings and questions and excitement and worries all at once.
You know I would never hurt you unless I had very good reason to. I’m so sorry, John. SH
This time, John wasted no time in texting back, desperate to catch whoever was behind this, whether it was the real Sherlock or not.
Where are you? JW
I can’t tell you. Very good reasons and all. I shouldn’t even be texting you, really. SH
If this is some sick fucking joke at my expense, I will hunt you down. JW
Refer back to my second text. SH
John was still trying to come up with some kind of intelligible answer when another text followed that one straight away.
I got your letters. SH
How? JW
You know full well how much you can find out about a person from what they throw away. I missed you, John. SH
Then why did you go? JW
No response. Sherlock had expected at least a vaguely sarcastic ‘Refer back to my third text. SH’ or something along those lines, but instead, nothing. Just cold, empty silence.
Don’t leave me again. JWÂ
The text sounded desperate, but damn it, John was so far beyond desperate. He was also surprised by how unsurprised he was. A large part of him simply hadn’t accepted Sherlock’s death yet, and it was that part of him that seemed to have taken over his actions.
So help me if you leave me like this I will march right down to your brother’s office, hand him this phone, and tell him to get his best people on it. JW
Aah. Now that had gotten a response.
I shouldn’t be contacting you at all, John. Too risky. SH
Yes, well you’ve made your bed. You can lie in it. JW
You mean like you’ve been lying in my bed? SH
John paused, heart skipping a beat. Sherlock had been watching him, all these weeks. Oh boy.
I missed you. JW
Not as much as I missed you. SH.
The response was almost instantaneous, and John choked back a chuckle, heart brimming with feeling.
We sound like a couple of teenage girls. This is ridiculous. JW
You’re ridiculous. Besides, you’re the one who’s always going on at me to be more emotionally available. SH
I’m shocked you paid any attention. JW
I always pay attention to you, John. SH
John paused for a second, contemplating what on earth to say to that. If Sherlock had read his letters, he had surely read the many, many parts about John’s feelings for Sherlock, feelings John had never been quite able to stop himself from expressing no matter how hard he tried to stop tormenting himself and move on.
Tell me something only Sherlock Holmes would know. JW
The reminder of the feelings he had been trying to forget also slammed back the fact that this could still be an imposter, someone posing as Sherlock, taunting him for god only knows what reason.
There was a brief pause before the next message, then;
You find me most attractive when I wear my purple shirt. SH
John’s heart skipped a beat, but he kept it together.
That doesn’t count. Mycroft could have figured that out just as easily. JW
Mycroft is an idiot. Fine. You once came home dead-drunk after a night out after work with Sarah. After dancing your way through the whole flat to some song of your own creation that didn’t seem to have any intellegible words whatsoever, you told me you were secretly jealous of Harry because even though things fell apart with Clara, at least she got to be happy, for a little while. SH
John paused to consider it. It was true; he hadn’t told anyone else about how jealous he was of what Harry and Clara had had… he hardly even remembered telling Sherlock, that night was such a blur. He supposed with all his listening equipment Mycroft could have known that just as easily, but the battle to find anything that Mycroft couldn’t have found out would be a long and hard one, and John decided to give up the fight.
You forgot to mention that you were playing your violin along with my yammerings. JW
Well, when drunk you babble in a delightfully tuneful manner. When have you ever known me to pass up an opportunity? SH
They exchanged texts late into the night, until finally, while waiting for a reply, John’s eyelids lost their battle against gravity and he drifted into the first deep, contented slumber he had had in what felt like forever, hand still tightly wrapped around the phone, his only link to everything he thought he had lost forever.
What John Watson didn’t notice, was pale, long-fingered hands gently prying the phone from his and placing it on the bedside table. A lanky body wrapped in a scandalous purple shirt curling itself around him, sharp, piercing eyes softening contentedly. None of these things would he become aware of until morning, when he woke to find the warm body of the man he loved, the man he thought he would never see again, curled wonderfully around his own.

This is by: abitofholmesandwatson