Sherlock AU: John and Sherlock have known each other since primary school, and Sherlock was never a detective.

John and Sherlock were best friends, everyone ought to know that. Once in a while, people would suspect they're a couple, with John quickly apologizing and saying that he was married.

It hurt Sherlock's heart a bit, to know that it wasn't him whom John had loved. Of course, he was thankful that they were best friends, he was thankful that he was always there for him whenever he'd feel lonely; but he wanted more.

Every night, Sherlock would write a love letter to John, yet he'd never actually give them to John, he'd just keep them to himself. Each letter would start out with a 'Dear John,' and ending with a 'Love, Sherlock.' The letters had been going on since secondary school, when he was 14. He is now 32.

One letter in particular was when John was on his honeymoon, with his new wife, Mary Morstan. Sherlock had to admit, Mary Morstan was kind, and aesthetically pleasing. But he did not like her, he did not like her at all.

'Dear John,' the letter began, 'I miss you and I'm wondering how you're doing in Italy. I've been there, with Mycroft and my mother when I was 12, of course, you knew that. How is Mary? I don't really like her, John. I'm sorry, and I know she's your wife, but I don't like her. You see, I used to think that I was the one who would earn your last name, not her. And it pains me to imagine you in her arms— in anyone's arms in the romantic way. I want to go back to when it was normal, John. I don't want Mary in the picture. I want just us, when you still lived in my flat at Baker Street and you would always complain about me shooting the walls or playing the violin at 3 AM. I miss that. I miss you. You're probably making love to Mary right now. You're probably holding her and kissing her and loving her. You're not holding and kissing and loving me, of course. But I wish you did. Because I would've done the same. I love you, John.

Love, Sherlock.'

The letters that were very depressive made Sherlock cry mid-sentence of writing them. The pen in his hand would shake, as the words in his throat made him choke so badly, that they could not even be conveyed to paper. Tears would spill all over the parchment he was writing on, causing the ink to smear.

He was 13 when he realized he felt such strange feelings for John. At first, Sherlock believed it was a phase, seeming as he was only 13, and most teenagers go through a sexuality phase. He shrugged off the feelings for a year, but the feelings grew stronger and stronger, until it bothered Sherlock so much that he broke down in the middle of supper as he was lost in his thoughts when he was 16.

He did not tell his parents about the feelings. Mycroft suspected it was anxiety, or stress, due to school. While he was in Sherlock's room, on the chair next to his bed, it had shocked him when his brother spoke to him, in a soft, quiet tone that he never heard him speak in. "I'm in love with John," he said.

Mycroft never knew his brother was gay, or bisexual, and he didn't understand why the younger man seemed so ashamed of it. Being 23, still young, he matured too quickly as his teenage memories faded, as did the feelings. "Well," he shifted awkwardly in the chair. "Do you want to talk about it?"

No reply from Sherlock.

"You could have told me. Or Mum," he added.

The answer was a hysterical scoff. "Why would I tell anyone, Mycroft?! The society is judgmental enough when it comes to women's clothing, how the hell am I supposed to come out as bisexual?!" Sherlock turned, his back facing his brother. "Just— leave me alone, okay?" his words were muffled by the pillow, and Mycroft could sense the sorrow in his voice.

Now, here Sherlock was, age 32, and still hopelessly in love with John, and no one excluding Mycroft and Molly Hooper knowing about how he felt, how he truly felt.

Two years passed, and Sherlock was now 34, on the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. He couldn't handle it. He couldn't handle the feelings that he had kept inside for 21 goddamned years. He couldn't handle seeing John fall in love with another person, over and over again, every single day. He couldn't handle the pain of the shaky hand that had to write a love letter that John wouldn't ever read. He couldn't handle loving John.

But he found a solution. He was going to fall, like a bird flies out of its cage, only with a much more permanent destination.

Sherlock had also called John, who he found looking around for him, not knowing he was on top of a building. His phone rang, and he answered it.

"Sherlock, where are you?" It was the voice that Sherlock had loved all this time.

Sherlock sighed. "I'm on top of St. Barts, John. I'm going to die."

"You're wha—" he saw John look up, right at him. "Oh God, Sherlock, don't! I beg you, do not do this!" He knew that the man he loved was concerned. It warmed his heart, but not enough to refrain.

"John, I need to tell you something." This was it. Sherlock sucked in a deep breath. "There is a note, right next to where I am. After I die, I need you to look at the note. There are several manila folders in my flat, all with your name labeled o—"

"NO! STOP IT. Sherlock, you are not going to die!"

He saw John run from his sight, and he knew that he was coming up to the roof. But he didn't hang up.

"Sherlock, you still there? Don't do this."

"There are several manila folders in my flat, in the storage drawer. They have your name on it, John."

"Sherlock, I will look at them after this. After you don't die."

"John, guess what?"

"What?" The sense of hope in John's voice made Sherlock's heart break.

"I love you."

And then he jumped off the building, like a bird flying out of its cage.

A year. It had been a year since the suicide of his best friend, Sherlock Holmes. John had not opened the manila folders with his name labeled on it; he decided it would be too much burden to bear. And he did not unfold the note Sherlock had left on top of the building he jumped off of.

But he couldn't let the envelopes stay closed for another year.

John closed his eyes for a minute, and stood up from his seat to retrieve the many manila folders. They all had a date on them. One of them even dating back to 22 years ago. He opened that one, and took out a lined paper, inkstained, as it had been wet. But the handwriting was legible.

What he read made him choke on tears of his own.

Weeks had past, when John had read all of the letters, and cried through all of them. There was still the note, the note still folded. The note that Sherlock left the day he died.

John unfolded the paper, carefully. What he read, broke him.

Dear John,

I found a way to stop loving you.

Love, Sherlock.