Disclaimer: I own nothing. Really I don't. All rights and characters belong to the BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
"Feeling gratitude and not expressing it is like wrapping a present and not giving it."
William Arthur Ward
It was another rainy Sunday in London and John had decided to tidy up the flat. Sherlock was in the kitchen. John could hear the tinkling of glasses knocking together as he worked on one of his many experiments.
He was sweeping the front entryway and arranging the rugs when he spied a box under the hall table. It was a used package delivery box addressed to '"Administration, New Scotland Yard." Inside were over a dozen envelopes, all of different sizes and colors.
"Sherlock, what is this?" John asked as he picked up the box to sift through the contents.
"However impressive my talents are, John, the ability to see through walls is not one of them."
John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's bald ego and carried the box into the kitchen.
"These," John said as he held the letters in one hand and the box in the other. "This wasn't here the other day."
"Lestrade brought those over yesterday while you were at the surgery." He paused from his survey of the slide under the scope to write something on the pad at his right hand. "He called them fan.. mail." Sherlock said the word hesitantly as if he wasn't sure he was using the right term.
"Fan mail? For You?"
"I guess." Sherlock replied in a 'why are you still bothering me with this' tone. "Apparently people have been sending them to Lestrade and he agreed to bring them to me. God knows why."
"But you haven't even opened them." John gestured to Sherlock with the still sealed and stamped envelopes in his hand.
"I don't need too. They're full of over-effusive sentimentality with bad grammar on cheap paper." Sherlock snipped without looking up from his microscope.
"Well, I'm going to open them. These people took the time to write. The least we can do is read them.
"Be my guest." Sherlock said as he waved John out of the kitchen with a dismissive gesture.
John settled in his chair by the fire and opened the first letter.
Dear Mr. Holmes:
I wanted to thank you for proving that my wife Jennifer did not commit suicide. You have lifted such a heavy burden from our hearts. I am also comforted to know that our long departed daughter, Rachel, was able to help her in her hour of need.
You have my gratitude and esteem,
Mr. Jerome Wilson.
Dear Mr. Holmes:
We at the National Antiquities Museum would like to thank you again for your generous
£ 5000 donation to our collections department. Per your request, we have established a scholarship and internship opportunity in Soo Lin Yao's name in our Asian Antiquities Department. Many future historians will benefit from your assistance today.
With Sincere Thanks,
Leslie Hixon-Jones, Assistant Curator
Mr. Sherlock Holmes:
On behalf of her Majesty, I would like to thank you for your past and present service to the Crown. Thanks to your extraordinary talent, the security of our nation has been held steadfast. We understand that you have suffered personal losses for your country which makes your sacrifice that much greater and our thanks that much deeper. The people and government owe you their sincere thanks and appreciation.
Your humble public servant,
Geoffrey Basham
And they kept going.
That ring was the only thing we could salvage when our home was destroyed in the Blitz. I am so happy I can pass it on to my grandchildren.
My family and I were really struggling with me being out of work. If you hadn't proven that the building materials were faulty, we would be out on the street.
Thank you for saving my Daddy from the bad men. I love my Daddy very much and I would be very sad if I didn't have him anymore.
Thank you for saving our house.
Thank you for saving my son.
Thank you for everything.
Most were addressed to Sherlock but some were addressed to both of them. There were even one or two addressed to just him. John felt a great surge of pride rise up in him. This is why he became a doctor. This is why he joined the military. To do good in the world. What was the parable of the starfish and the sea? Don't bother trying because you can't possibly save them all? Well, by God, it made all the difference to the ones you were able to throw back in the sea, didn't it? He, They, were making a difference. It was one city in one country in the whole of the earth but it mattered. What they did, were doing, mattered!
John gathered up the letters and walked back into the kitchen where Sherlock was still poring over his microscope.
"Sherlock," John said softly. Sherlock looked up at the change in John's tone. What he saw in John's eyes temporarily silenced him.
"You need to see these. You need to read these."
"John, we've been over this." Sherlock said gently with a touch of impatience.
"No." John placed his hand on Sherlock's arm. Sherlock looked at John's hand and did not pull away.
"I am just so proud of you." Sherlock looked at John quizzically and John smiled his special smile. "You are such an extraordinary person. You have such an amazing talent and even if you don't plan to, you really are helping a lot of people. Parents can see their children grow up. Husbands and wives can grow old together. People have their houses, their fortunes, their security. And, when events have come to their worst possible end, you give their families the solace of resolution. It's all thanks to you. I am so proud to be part of this with you and I'm just so proud to be your friend."
Sherlock let out a heavy sigh and continued to stare at his friend, his best and only friend. He searched his face for any signs of deceit but found only his words reflected in the emotions on his face. Pride, Friendship and Love. Sherlock found himself thinking of what John has said. Had anyone ever told him they were proud of him before? He didn't think so. Of course he was playing Bach and Vivaldi by the time he was four. Of course he was reading the classics by six. Of course he was top of his class at school. These weren't accomplishments to be lauded but expectations to be met. And proud to be his friend? No one wanted to be his friend. His supreme intellect and admittedly sharp tongue had driven any potential friends away early on. By the time he was 14, everyone at school would skitter away when he walked past.
"I just thought you should know." John pulled Sherlock into a one-armed hug, tousled his dark hair softly and then let him go. He placed the envelopes on the table next to the microscope and walked out of the room. Sherlock felt a sense of love and belonging and peace that he had never felt before.
He sat down and began to read.
Author's note: This was not the story I intended to write. My next story was going to be dark and angsty to match the mood I've been in for the past couple of months. But my spirit got a boost when First Lady Michelle Obama came to my town to give the Commencement address at Virginia Tech. I was so proud of the town that I live and work in. I was so proud that Mrs. Obama got to see us, bloodied but unbowed and recovering, together, from all the utter shite that has been thrown our way these past five years. I just had to express that feeling.