Okay, so I've wanted to write a Sherlock fanfiction for a long time, so here we go! I am a dutiful Johnlock shipper so expect that. Reviews are absolutely welcome and if you spot any mistakes please let me know! This is un-beta'd so there is bound to be some. Thank you for reading! Enjoy!
Whoever thought that an angel could bring so much pain? That something sweet, and good and pure could leave anguish and despair in it's wake? Sherlock certainly didn't. He never dreamed that the blonde man who limped into his life less than two years ago would save him, in every sense of the word. And then destroy him, with one step. One step off of a roof. That's all it took to dismantle a self-proclaimed sociopath, a widely acknowledged genius, a man hopelessly in love. That's all it took to create the utter carnage now known as Sherlock Holmes's life. Life. Such a fragile thing. Sherlock's life stepped off of the roof of St. Bart's hospital nearly three weeks ago. Three weeks. Had it been that long? Days seemed to blur together lately, broken apart only by the occasional visits from Mycroft or Lestrade, or the motherly fussing of Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock tries to make an effort, for their sake, to appear as if he's improving. To feign the signs of a man moving on from the loss of a friend. Whether they know that the minute the flat is silent again, he weeps himself into a weary oblivion, he doesn't know. Nor does he care. Because frankly, Sherlock doesn't think he could care if he tried. He cared once, and look where it got him. Hell. That's where he is. He is stuck in a colorless purgatory, one where no drug, no case, no person can break him out. No one but John. John could save him. He always did. But John is dead. John is dead.
John.
Sherlock vaguely feels the throbbing of his hand where it connected violently with the wall. The freshly made hole in the plaster aligns almost perfectly with the other 13. The pain is distant, as is so much else now. It's as if he is walking around under a thin veil. Thin enough to see through, thin enough that he can pass off to outsiders as a living, breathing man, but stifling enough so that he is numb to everything but his own inner turmoil. His body is nothing more than a conduit for a broken mind. His mind. His mind was his career, his pride, his livelihood. Other than John, it was the only constant in his life. Now what is it? It has been reduced to a sickeningly useless mass of grief and longing. A slowly deteriorating wasteland of mourning. The realization that he literally has NOTHING left begins to dawn on Sherlock, making him pause momentarily in his barely conscious rage. He had John. John was everything. And before John he had his deductions, his unfaltering intelligence, his ability to save lives simply by seeing what others didn't. He said to John once, "Alone protects me.", he remembers that night well. He almost laughs at the statement. He is alone now, and he is the most vulnerable he has ever been.
The others are worried, of course they are. Even through this haze of grief he can see that. No doubt they have good reason, he hasn't looked in the mirror in weeks. He knows there are bruises under his eyes where sleep deprivation has taken it's toll. It's rather difficult to sleep when your dreams are plagued by visions of the man you love falling to his death. Visions where he hears John's voice one last time, but in his vision, he's quicker. He snaps out of his shocked reverie in enough time to run to the falling Doctor, to catch him. To save him. And then he wakes, and the body he's been clutching in his dream, dead or alive depending on the night, is nothing but a wad of rumpled blankets. Damp with the sweat and tears of a man who swore he had no heart. Now that statement is truer than ever, he muses, because he truly has no heart. Not anymore. They have noticed the way his cheekbones stick out, just far enough to be unhealthy, the way a certain Doctor's jumpers hang off his gaunt frame, barely masking the skeletal figure beneath.
John.
That's the only thing that brings him comfort. The only thing that ever did. He passes the days wearing John's clothes, lying in John's bed, trying desperately to savor the scent so uniquely John before it dissipates like the rest of him. Before it leaves him like John did. The question arises as Sherlock lay swaddled in John's bathrobe on the bed, the question he has asked himself countless times. Why did John leave me? Sherlock always knew that his affections would be unrequited, he had come to terms with that long ago, but surely their friendship held some importance to the man? Sherlock thought of all the times he had taken advantage of John, had told him to shut up, or insulted the intelligence that he never truly doubted. More sobs wracked his body as he thought of all the time he wasted, that could have been spent with the only important person in his life. The person who taught him how to feel, and what's more, how to feel love. Sherlock loved John, he loved him so much it physically hurt. He had been around long enough to have heard sappy songs about love not reciprocated, about the pain of losing a person they held dear. But never, did he once think that they would be right. That they would have knowledge that he himself did not understand. Maybe if he had listened to more modern music he would have been more prepared for inevitable heartbreak. Maybe. But nothing could have prepared him for this. Nothing could have prepared him to have everything he thought he knew ripped viciously out of him, leaving him wounded and bleeding on the ground.
John.
John was the one who had been wounded, who's blood now stained the sidewalk. So why then did Sherlock feel as if he had been thrown off a 10 story building? Why did he feel as though his own heart had been bombarded with a hundred volts of electricity? Because he was the one that John left behind. Sherlock shut his eyes against thoughts of John now playing out against his mind. Memories of the Doctor, HIS Doctor, following Sherlock fearlessly into a crime scene. Of his steady hand and soldier nerves saving Sherlock's life with a single bullet. Of him sipping his tea and giggling about some crap tele show while Sherlock watched. Sherlock watched John more than he'd care to admit. John never noticed, of course, when Sherlock's eyes would remain fixed on John, or when Sherlock's ears would turn slightly pink when john stepped out of the slower holding only a small towel over his muscular frame. Sherlock had tried to suppress his longing for the Doctor, lust if you must label it, as he had pulled off the "asexual" façade swimmingly until John came along.
John
John was his exception. To everything. Everything Sherlock had held to be truth about himself, John was the exception. Never had Sherlock experienced a sleepless night, thinking about the man in the other room. Until John. Never had Sherlock held back words of spite or hurtful deductions for fear of offending someone. Until John. Never had Sherlock felt so out of touch with someone, yet so unbelievably close at the same time. Until John. John never knew how Sherlock felt. Or did he? Maybe by making his feelings too obvious, he pushed John away. Nonsense. Sherlock shook his head lightly. John saw what Sherlock wanted him to see. An emotionless sociopath with no regard for emotional or physical needs. How pedestrian John would have thought Sherlock to be if he knew the things he tossed and turned about at night.
John.
It was always John. And now he was gone. He would never see the blonde hair streaking after an unsuspecting criminal, he would never hear the sounds of brewing tea in the morning, he would never have such an attentive audience to his violin playing. He would never see John's face again. His gorgeous face. And he would never get to tell him how he felt. That was Sherlock's biggest regret. Regret. Another exception. Sherlock had planned on telling John how he felt the night that he died. They were going out to dinner at Angelo's that night and Sherlock was going to come clean. Sherlock disentangles his limbs and pulls himself off the bed reluctantly. Walking over to the small desk where John kept his laptop, Sherlock lifts the lid and opens the window to the familiar blog.
John.
Sherlock moves his hands to rest hesitantly over the keys, and with a deep breath (albeit a bit shaky), he begins to type.
Dear John,