I don't own Sherlock Holmes or John Watson. Enjoy.
Sherlock was watching Jeremy Kyle again.
As the clock struck midnight, he murmured to himself how obvious it is that the man cheated. Again.
It was a weekly, if not daily, reoccurence since John left. Inbetween the investigations that have lost their spark and the adventures that have lost their dulcet taste, Sherlock was at home, alone, with a small wireless television and John's letters to keep him company.
John wrote as often as he could, but between the trudging with his comrades through foreign land and running from deadly 5-9s, he scarcely had time to keep in touch, and Sherlock understood that.
But he couldn't help but cry just a bit when the postman came around and all he had on offer were unpaid bills and taxes.
He couldn't help but cry when they arrived too. At John's scrawly writing , at his fingerprints marked on the page with mud. Sometimes he fell asleep with it in his hand, warm memories drifting through his dreams, like leaves on a windy, Autumn day.
"Sherlock, you can stay and sulk or see me off at the airport. It's your choice" John stood, ready, a brown suitcase at his feet and a coat draped around his arm. He sighed for the umpteenth time today at Sherlock, coming into view with a childlish frown etched upon his face. He still looked like the sonorous and snobby self, and John couldn't help but laugh under his breath.
"Do you have everything?" Sherlock asked.
"Yes."
"Your keys?"
"Yes."
"Your money?"
"Yes, Sherlock"
"Are you sure?"
"Sherlock."
"I just don't want you to leave."
John paused.
"Oh, god." He sighed, yet again, dropped his coat and embraced Sherlock as tight as he could.
He can remember it as clear as dawn. The feeling of John's arms squeezing, protecting him like a chrysalis, his clothes, the rough feel of his sweater, the way he smelled of the old cologne that Sherlock had given him that Christmas and cheap aftershave, the way he nuzzled his cheek against Sherlock's scarf, embracing every atom of him, his whole being.
It was 3am, and after 5 episodes, Sherlock let that memory pull him deep into a cashmere sleep.
John's ears were still ringing. A day of walking through heavy sludge away from outstripped guns and ear-splitting bombs. A day of living off of dry buiscuits and tasteless meat.
A day without Sherlock.
But he was happy nevertheless, he only had to wait a couple of weeks before seeing him again.
He lay under his tent, now, as safe as he could be in this god forsaken land, droplets leaking on the crown of his head as he scribbled on the third page of the letter.
He hasn't written to him in a while,a week, and he wanted to show he cared. He still, and inevitably always, cared. He hoped that Sherlock did too.
It's been 4 months since he last saw his face. That goddamned face that pleasantly haunted his dreams. WIth those goddamned cheekbones and those goddamned turquise eyes and the goddamned curls that John would run his fingertips through.
John fell asleep soon after finishing up the letter. He pasted it into an envelope and planned to hold onto it until the morning.
John dreamt of Sherlock's curls that night.
He didn't hear when his comrades called for him to run.
He didn't hear the whooshing sound of the bullets.
He didn't feel when a grenade blew him limb from limb, still holding onto the only thing that mattered; The pleasant memories and a flimsy piece of parchment.
It's been a week since his John's last letter but Sherlock didn't worry too much about that because today was the day he was coming back home.
Mrs. Hudson even made her special celabrational tea and scones. Sherlock sat in his armchair impatiently tapping his fingers. Any second now he will hear the familiar tap on the door. Any second John will open the door. Any second now he will drop his suitcase and reach out, arms wide. Any second Sherlock will be able to feel his body in an embrace, to smell his scent, to admire him in that restricting army unform...
There was a knock at the door. Sherlock tensed.
This wasn't right.
This wasn't John.
Why isn't it John ?
Is Lestrade here to welcome him too ?
Lestrade was on a case.
Sherlock stood up in one fluid movement to open the door to the apartment.
It was a man in an impeccable suit, the CAO.
"For a good friend of Dr. John Watson's, we are sad to inform..."
Sherlock didn't hear the rest. He felt his mind spiralling down and down, shattering his mind palace, breaking every barrier, every protection he put up, everything crashing hard and fast, memories,shards of glass lay on the floor of his conciousness.
He looked ahead, while the CAO comforted Mrs. Hudson. They both left to go downstairs.
Sherlock stayed.
Soon he was sitting in the armchair with a needle strapped to his arm, watching the dust spiral in the afternoon sunlight.
Sherlock only came down the next day, and when the CAO came back with John's possessions, his 'equipment' was safely stowed away.
The CAO brought with him just a couple of boxes of the things John brought with him on the journey. On top of the stack was a smaller cardboard box. He explained these were the items found on the body at the time of his passing.
The CAO left, noticing Sherlock's lack of communication.
He opened the small, top box first. Inside he found a letter.
John's last letter.
Dear Sherlock,
I know it's been a while since I wrote, but I hope you weren't worried. We made our way out of Afghanistan and just passed the Pakistani border. It's a beautiful country if you ignore the war.
I miss you Sherlock. I know that we will be rejoined in less than a fortnight, and you probably see me as foolish for worrying, but I can't help but think you're not well. Please Sherlock, be okay. I'm okay. But remember what we talked about? If you feel wrong, let Mrs. Hudson or Molly speak to you. Don't be alone, Sherlock.
I still dream of you ( yes, between the horrible conditions and tending to wounds, I do sleep) and I hope you dream of me too. Sometimes I even fall asleep to the thought of your voice. Remember when my mother died and you coaxed me to bed ? That voice.
You should stop watching Jeremy Kyle, but then again I shouldn't have bought you the full season 4 boxset for your birthday last year. This year I'll give you something more useful, like a book called 'Why the earth revolves around the sun'. And you better read it.
I know that you think that's pointless, and I know your 'brilliant' mind has more important things to deal with like the 432 different types of tobacco ash, but I think you should know trivia such as this, and I know that you value what I say.
Remember when I first met you and you knew all about me and my sister ? Sometimes I am still afraid you read me. You know everything there is to know about me, and you know that I get mad when you get mad and that I smile when you smile, but I can't read you Sherlock, not like you read me. And I don't know if you like me at all or just keep me around because I put up with you. And I don't know what you feel like about me when I do something stupid. And I don't know if you even care, but I know that you were there when I needed you, and that's enough for me, although I hope one day I will be able to see you as transparent as you see me.
I have to go rest now, my eyelids are drooping and I'm struggling to write, I will send this letter tomorrow and wish it will get to you before I come back. I'll be thinking of you.
See you soon.
Yours, John Watson
And as he injected another dose of heroin into his veins he whispered,
'See you soon, John.'