A\N: So, new story. This one if gonna be smack-full of just about every emotion that both you and I can come up with together, but I hope I can continue this one on quite well. I have a lot of ideas, but I mean, I have no bloody clue how in the world I should put them all together. xD Though, I'm sure I'll get the hang of it as the story blends in. Hoep you like? R & R, if ya will! x3
Dear John
Chapter One: Letters
~oOo~
Third Person POV
John:
Your persistence never seems to sustain me. How much longer must you fight for a country that's already written out for self-destruction? Come home already – the instructions for tea you left me must have been written in some way, shape, or form in a different order than what you have previously made it as, for every time I try to make it, it doesn't as it should. I blame you. Our bed is too large for me to sleep in now so I am forced to sleep on the couch for a decent night's sleep, and it seems as if the flat had been getting smaller and smaller the longer you are out there. So, stop fighting and come back to me, alright?
Sherlock
Dear Sherlock,
You know I cannot do that, Sherlock. It's already been two and a half years – I'll be released in another six months. And I miss you too, which is what I presume you were trying to get out from all of your complaining. Our blankets are extremely uncomfortable while serving and the only thing that helps me sleep at night is knowing that you are at home, pacing back and forth probably complaining to thin air about being extremely bored, as you always are when you are not working on a case. But don't worry, I'll be home soon and then we can work on cases together again, okay? I love you.
Love, John
John:
I do not miss you, John. But on another note you are correct, I am extremely bored without you here seeing as your one of the few normal people with half of a brain – and it would help to have a medical doctor back in the field so I don't have to learn every unnecessary thing once before throwing it into my not needed folder within my brain. Talking to Skully can only last so long because, of course, skulls to not reciprocate words that I give.
I'll hold you to working on cases. No excuses about being too tired to work on them; I expect nothing but the fullest from you.
I love you.
Sherlock
Dear Sherlock,
I am writing this before I have received your letter, Sherlock, must you know. We're leaving for an invasion of the East Harbor Co. at sunrise, which is only a few hours out, and I probably shouldn't even be writing this to you at the moment, but I am. I just want you to know that should I not make it out alive, that I still love you, and I know you love me regardless of if you say so or not. It's been a long time out here without you, without your arms wrapped around me, without your bickering comments and biting insults, and I know that that bed feels empty without me in it. As honorable as it is for you to not sleep in our bed anymore, I do think you should start again, for your health and my happiness.
This invasion is purely out of the minds of any sane man. I doubt very many of us will make it. I, usually faced at the medical doctor on the field, had been stationed forth to front lines due to the lack of men we have. This is probably the last time I will speak with you.
So Sherlock, this is a warning and a goodbye: I love you, and stay healthy. Don't go all sociopath-mode just because I'm gone. Talk to Lestrade or something.
And for the sake of all things holy, just ask Ms. Hudson to make your tea.
Goodbye. Love you.
Love, John
~oOo~
Sherlock can only stare at the faded paper – not blinking, not moving, and not thinking ever since he had read the practiced words through at least thrice. He had looked into it, of course – thinking it maybe a code or something if John actually happened to be in trouble – but he deduced nothing of the sorts. The letter was nothing but a 'goodbye', just as his lover had said. John could very well be dying at this very moment. He could be bleeding out on the field, or already dead, because of some un-thought out situation a par of idiots decided to come up with as a suicide mission.
Besides the red-hot fury that burned within the usually ice-cold orbs of Sherlock Holmes, the curly dark-haired figure also felt a sudden burst of anguish and loss. At first he was unable to distinguish what these feelings were – he had never really felt he needed him – but then he thought about continuing on his life without John Watson to make his tea, warm his bed, laugh at his jokes and stroke his ego with the sheer 'brilliant!' he always shouted out when Sherlock had re-incited someone's poor, sad, mundane life.
Still shocked into the brill silence that suffocated him within his empty flat, Sherlock slowly descended onto the first thing he was able to sit on – the couch. Not only were his legs unable to work at a normal pace anymore, his hands had begun to shake and his eyes felt a lot moister than they should be. Was this what it was like to feel emotion? Because if it was, Sherlock was sure he would rather lock away any emotion for the rest of his life back in the darkest depths of his mind and make sure he was unable to reach them ever again.
However, even as he tried to, Sherlock found that he couldn't simply just stop the raw feeling that coursed throughout his veins. He could feel it now – more than loss, more than horror, more than hate or love – it was loneliness.
Had Sherlock ever felt lonely?
Yes.
Not in a long while, though. It was one of the emotions Sherlock remembers being incapable of blocking out. Before he had met John, he had felt it all the time. How Mycroft would often try to find people he would be interested in, and how he would always blow them off because they couldn't comprehend what kind of person he was, or how his mother hated his nasty mouth and how his other siblings couldn't care less what he was like – how even Lestrade kept his distance and how Ms. Hudson was just a mere acquaintance.
Sherlock didn't only feel the loss of a lover, but he felt the loss of a friend as well.
And that was something he couldn't bear.
~oOo~
Sherlock stared at the ceiling, absentmindedly sipping at possibly the worst cup of tea he had made yet. However, it seemed as if he didn't care at that moment, because be continued to drink the searing hot liquid, not caring that his tongue was swelling and burning with each and every gulp of liquid he swallowed. The ceiling, the dark-haired once-consulting detective noticed, had been growing less and less white and more and more yellow. How could that have slipped his perception the last two months?
Holmes shook his head and decided to continue to stare blankly at the top to his makeshift home.
Yes, it had been two months. Two months since Sherlock had heard from his lover. John was most likely dead. He had not received word yet from the Force that the blonde was, in fact, gone, but that didn't mean anything because those good-for-nothings were always late anyway.
Sherlock began to think of what John used to smell like. It was more of a burning wood smell, like a burning fire and freshly cut grass – and Holmes now remembered how comfortable that smell used to make him. It was better than his nicotine patches – which John had made him stop using. He glanced at his arm. There were six of them.
Any less and Sherlock could possibly snap.
He had already deduced this. It was also quite possibly his last experiment he had had – a month and a half ago, Sherlock was become extremely restless and he later found he was not able to sit still unless he had some sort of reliance. Ms. Hudson thought it was unhealthy as well, and the woman had even told him to get out and so something after a little while, but Sherlock, as politely as he could, told her to blatantly 'piss off.'
It wasn't the best choice of words, but Sherlock wasn't feeling up to it.
Bollocks, even Anderson checked in to see how he was feeling. And that was stooping quite low to his standards.
Lestrade came over about a week or so ago, Holmes gathered, and that was perhaps the best help he had gotten from someone. Mycroft fussed over him and Anderson made him feel awkward, Ms. Hudson was too motherly, but Lestrade just sat there and felt his pain for a good three hours before walking out without saying a word. That helped him a little.
Made him feel slightly less lonely, as well.
But then again, Sherlock remembered that he wouldn't have any of those people without John. Without John, he wouldn't have stayed in this apartment and he wouldn't be anywhere near as close to Lestrade as he was – not that he was close to the other on normal terms, but they were, Sherlock liked to think, also acquaintances – and therefore Ms. Hudson wouldn't fuss over him as much as he was. He wouldn't have as much worry from Mycroft without John, and, even though he hated to admit such a thing, that gave him a slight amount of sanity in his moments of despair.
Mycroft stopped over at least twice a day and forced Sherlock to eat, which was growing more and more irritating as time went by. His brother also forced him to sleep, as well.
It was tiresome.
Once in a while, Sherlock would look towards the kitchen and see John making them dinner or making him tea or telling him that his experiments were going too far. Or sometimes he would envision John opening the refrigerator only to see his jar of eyeballs or human fingers which would cause his lover to shut the door immediately and proceed to yell at Sherlock, telling him to 'get those bloody things out of our fridge for the last time, Sherlock! I am not gonna put up with this!'
John always put up with it anyway.
Sherlock missed those bickering arguments. Not many people were able to withhold an argument against him for long – he would always shoot them down almost immediately – but John never did back down. Sherlock actually admired that about his blonde lover.
Sherlock didn't sleep that night either.
~oOo~
The next day Sherlock didn't do much either. John's blog lay untouched due to the face he was, well, not there to continue it, but Sherlock decided at about 4 A.M to begin reading the posts John accumulated ever since they had met. It was 7 P.M now, and he had read each entry twice. However Sherlock wouldn't continue it. It was John's. John was the one who needed to continue it, not him.
He had to admit, some posts made him crack a half of a smile. John always called him 'The Prat' or 'The Bloody Sociopath' in them, and very rarely, when it was a good day, by his real name – Sherlock. Which he thought was funny because John very well knew he sat down once a day at 11 P.M to check John's post over the day – unless the case somehow went over that date and John would have to post the next day. Yet, the blonde never called him those to his face.
Er, that, or he never really paid attention in those moments in time.
Anyway, as Sherlock turned to glance out the only window in their flat, where his violin sat, untouched, underneath. That was right – Sherlock also hadn't picked up the violin since his lover had sent that letter – it didn't feel right without his colleague sneaking up behind him and wrapped his arms around the lithe frame playing the instrument, telling him to come to bed and stop disturbing people.
John always ended up staying with him to listen to the music, anyway. So he didn't see the problem.
"B-Beyond the boundaries….of your cities lights…" Sherlock whispered unto the darkness, his eyes sliding shut and his body relaxing against the couch. He remembered when John used to sing that song – what was it, American made? Somewhere around that region anyway. The man couldn't exactly recall who the artist was, possibly because John had never told him, but he heard his lover humming it all the time around the apartment when he had nothing to do; or, sometimes, when he was making tea.
"Stand the heroes waiting for your cries, So many times you did not bring this on yourself…. When the moment finally comes, I'll be there to help."
Where was he now? Where was John? Laying on some battlefield, letting the crow pick at his decaying flesh? Having other miscellaneous animals chew on his carrion?
"On that day, when you need your brothers and sisters to care, I'll be right there…." No, no you won't John. Where are you now? I need you. Oh god, I've never needed any sort of life-form before. This was an experiment I wished not to go through. So why are you making me, John? Why did you go, if this mission was ludacris?
"Citizen soldiers….Holding the light for the ones that we guide from the dark of despair, Standing on guard for the ones that we've sheltered, We'll always be ready because we will always be there…." This was bloody horrible. John, why won't you walk through that door? Why can't you crawl back to me and comfort me? Why are you gone? What did you do? Why did you deserve this?
Was it me? Did I deserve this, and is that why you are gone? Could I have caused this? John, WHY!
Sherlock beat his clenched fists against the arm rests then, his eyes squeezed shut and his breath labored and intoxicated. Oh, for the love of Science, he missed his lover. He needed to get him back – something, his body, anything. Let him know that he's gone. Let him bury his lover. Let him cremate him or whatever he was going to do.
Sherlock couldn't even remember any of John's favorite songs anymore – he used to know them all and sometimes, when John was being extra nice, the dark-haired figure would hum, sing, or play the violin to John's addictions – but now he had no one that would listen to him when he did those things. Sure, they've had their video chats over the years, but it's been so long since he's actually been accompanied by his lover.
Usually, that would make him feel slightly better than he would if, say, he had been right next to the man when he died – but he didn't. Sherlock always knew that John was somewhere out there, alive, lying under the stars thinking about him – and that got him through all the time.
But now.
Now, Sherlock didn't have that comfort.
He didn't have his thoughts of John.
And now, all he wanted…all he wanted was to have his John back.