To My Dearest Boffin
It's been a year.
A lousy year. God knows how I've managed to survive this long without you, in London, of all places.
I didn't tell everybody, Sherlock, that crap that you told me to say. I didn't. Of course, you know I didn't. You knew that I wouldn't from the moment that I wouldn't. But you had to say it anyway.
You had to disappoint me.
You had to be normal.
You had to leave a note...
Oh, Sherlock, by the way, my limp was psychosomatic. The original wound was traumatic. You know what else is traumatic?
My limp's back, Sherlock. Of course, you know that.
You always knew everything.
So, you already know that I never stopped believing in you. You know that someone still cares. You know that somewhere, in this whole wide world of people who misjudge and miscalculate, and base their entire lives on those miscalculations, someone still cares and someone still knows the truth.
You taught me to see through the lies, Sherlock. You taught me. You can't lie to me.
Wherever you are, Sherlock, just know this. I miss you, Sherlock. Still. After this year. After this year and after every year to come.
There is one person on this earth who wishes that you were here. So, please, come back, my dearest boffin.
Sherlock, seriously. Come back. Please.
A 221B Baker Street style death anniversary fic. It's the first year anniversary of his "death". Poor John. He's still being sentimental. Don't worry, man. I'm still mourning with ya.
Reviews make John smile. Just a bit.
