Just watched S2E3... THE FEELS T_T

Inspired by that... *sniffles*

Songs listened to: Hold On (The Secret Garden), and Starlight (Muse)

Ps. I'm willing to take prompts...

9/16

Dear Sherlock,

I know it's all silly, me writing letters to you and all. I can say this wasn't my idea - it was my therapist's actually. I find it quite useless, in my opinion. I mean, you're supposed to be dead - it's not like you are going to be able to read this (I'm leaving all the letters by your grave.. It's not helping). It's been about several months since you... you know what you did. I don't have to spell it out. Do one thing for me, Sherlock, please - If you can read this, which you can't, please... Do just one more miracle. Prove you aren't ordinary just one more time. For me. Don't be dead, please.

Life hasn't been the same without you in it. Rather boring, actually. I tried working at that hospital, you know the one- where I met Sarah. Didn't work out though- couldn't keep my mind on the job. Didn't help that Sarah never gave me a moments peace (she still blames me for that whole thing with the chinese smugglers). What good times we had. Have. Should still have. I suppose I'll get over it... Eventually.

Mrs. Hudson hasn't been the same. Well, she pretends to be ok- but I've seen her crying when she thinks I'm not looking. She thinks it will make it better if we don't show it. But she knows I know.

The Press tried its best to get my story - they want the "real" story about the motivations behind your suicide. Why you did it - "was it because he was exposed as a fraud? That he was a lie?" I'm not too popular with the Press myself right now actually... But I think they got the message that I don't believe that load of shit. I... May or may not have punched one or three of them. They were asking for it though. Wouldn't leave me alone. Thankfully, Lestrade still has somewhat of a spot for me; somehow managed to bail me out without charge. Least he could do, since he's decided you were a fraud all along. The bloody idiot. They're all idiots. I guess you just proved you were cleverer than all of us, in the end. I hope you put that cleverness to good use and come back.

I can't go in our - your - flat anymore. Too many memories. You'd be happy to know that I kept most of your stuff where it is - only some stuff was put away. The skull is on its spot on the mantel (where did you get that from, anyway?), the violin in its case, neatly cleaned and preserved... it's not like anyone is planning on using it anytime soon. There's still one of your compositions on the music stand.. I guess you'll never finish it now. I wrapped and boxed the microscope and other science-y stuff to keep the dust off, but I left it on the kitchen table. That poor table - you were always scuffing it, accidentally dripping acid on it, and god knows what else... I think you actually might have burned it with something, once. Must've been one of your experiments. Remember when you had that bloody head in the fridge? Gave me quite a scare, it did. You were "measuring the production of saliva after death" if I recall. How did you get that head, anyhow? Did Molly get it for you? She must've done something for you - where else would you get human body parts than from a morgue. You can't imagine all of the random pieces I found in the kitchen. There were eyeballs in the microwave, feet in the freezer... I actually think I found a bag full of what looked to be fingernails - some still covered with polish. What on earth were you doing with those?

I haven't been able to leave Baker street, though. You'll never guess where I live now. 221C. Mrs. Hudson finally got a client. I didn't actually move any of my stuff in though - it's still in 221B - I only took what I need. Would you know that there are actually still bullet holes in the wall from when you got "bored"? You often got bored, didn't you. I'm surprised you put up with me... All those times when you would talk to me when I wasn't there, or when you'd call me all the way home from the hospital just to give me a pen... or when we went to Buckingham palace and you forgot your pants.

You know what I'm trying to tell you, Sherlock. If you can read this, you can tell what I'm trying to say. Please come back. We need you.

I need you. I need my best friend back. Please.

-John H. Watson

John sniffed heavily, sealing the letter shut. Placing it in a plastic bag, he gently set it down by the black headstone that read;

SHERLOCK HOLMES

Consulting Detective

He will be missed

Next to his letter was the limp flowers that Mrs. Hudson had left there weeks earlier, rotting and mouldering from all the rain and damp. Huffing slightly from the chilly air, John sank onto one knee and traced the cold engraving with a finger. Against his will, the wetness collecting around his eyes dripped onto the smooth stone, leaving a dark trail against the already dark stone. In the light from the foggy sun, it almost looked like blood.

Clearing his throat roughly, John scrubbed a hand across his eyes, heading back to the cab by the graveyard's entrance.

He missed the tall shadow that snatched away his letter, reading it with quick eyes.

Slamming the door of 221C, John put on the kettle before sitting down at his desk, shoulders slumped.

Defeated, depressed, broken.

He needed his best friend. It just wasn't the same.

The kettle whistled.

Sighing, John fell back into his usual routine.

Pour the water, add the tea, grab a biscuit, sit down again at the desk. Watch the tea grow cold, remember to drink it, open the computer, check the blog.

Hits:1895

Final post: (6/16) He's gone. I lost my best friend today. But I believe - he'll come back, he always does. He was real - a right ass at times, but cleverer than all of us. He was real. And he'll come back. I believe.

Slamming the computer shut, John finished his tea, pacing over to the wall, and ran his fingers over the ripped holes in the paper. There still were bullet holes, in the perfect arc of what he knew to be the grin of a smile that was sprayed to the wall of 221B in yellow paint.

Sighing again softly, John rested his forehead against the wall. Someone was quietly playing violin music on the other side. Really, did Sherlock really have to make him feel worse by playing his violin right now-

The mug fell to the ground with a crash, followed quickly with the loud bang of the front door being slammed open. Not bothering to close it behind him, John raced next door into 221B. Was there a chance, really, could Sherlock be...

His heart pounding in his ears, John glanced around the room in excitement. Sure enough, the old violin is resting on the grey chair, the bow tightened, and just the slightest dusting of rosin on the strings.

John swallowed. "Sherlock...?"

Silence was all that replied to him.

AANNNGGGSSSTTT

Reviews would be lovely ;)

;Dark Moons