Sleep did not come easily to Dr John Watson. Even before his tour in Afghanistan, sleep had been a fleeting event. When he returned from the war, it had gotten worse. After Sherlock fell, sleep was non-existent. He felt the exhaustion curling at the corners of his mind and boiling behind his eyes, but no matter what John did, sleep never came.
He napped, but only briefly. The deep, restful sleep that John's body craved seemed out of his reach. Sarah had given him all sorts of sleeping medications that had had little to no success. At the most he gained three hours of dream-plagued rest before he jolted awake, covered in sweat and tears.
Now, two months later, John Watson settled in for another night studying the ceiling in his room at Baker Street. He couldn't bear to leave the flat. Mrs Hudson had suggested it might be better if he moved out, but John couldn't have imagined living anywhere else besides Baker Street. The flat gave him the reminder of Sherlock that he so desperately craved.
He was particularly restless that night. His leg twinged, his shoulder ached and his hand was shaking at his side. With a sigh, John pulled himself into a sitting position and grabbed his cane as he hobbled into the living room. He had cleaned it up considerably since Sherlock had died. The piles of Sherlock's loose papers were filed away, something he knew Sherlock would have despised. The kitchen was clean and free of experiments, though Sherlock's microscope was tucked into the corner by the toaster, untouched except for when John dusted it.
His rocker creaked as he dropped into it, resting his cane against the table beside it. He flipped on the telly and tried to focus on it for a while. John's mind wandered again to Sherlock, as it did every night when he couldn't sleep. He looked to the narrow hallway that led to Sherlock's room. He hadn't ventured over to that side of the flat yet. He had tried many times, but he always stopped just outside Sherlock's door. Something always stopped him.
A split decision and a slow walk later had John standing outside Sherlock's door with his hand on the knob, cane forgotten in the living room. With a deep breath he twisted the handle and was surprised when the door swung open. He had expected Sherlock to lock his room.
The air in the room was stale and a bit of dust stirred from the carpet as he padded in. It was shockingly clean for Sherlock. There was no molding experiments, no rotting body parts, hardly any stacks of files. The bed was made, the nightstand was clear of anything save for a few books. Situated on his bed was his laptop, which was still plugged into the charger.
John stepped forward and sat down on the bed, reaching for the laptop.
"Password Required For User Sherlock Holmes." John frowned. What would Sherlock have used as a password? He coughed slightly and pulled the computer onto his lap.
"Deduction." Incorrect.
"The Science Of Deduction." Incorrect.
"The Game." Incorrect.
"SH." Incorrect.
"Bored." Incorrect.
"Get Sherlock." Incorrect.
"Consulting Detective." Incorrect.
John sighed in frustration and slammed the lid closed. He had been stupid to think he could guess Sherlock Holmes' computer password. What would there even be on the computer that would interest him?
A few minutes passed where John stared at the laptop. What kind of secrets would Sherlock have encrypted within it? Why did John even want to know? Maybe something indicating his plans towards Moriarty? Personal business?
He pulled the computer onto his lap again with shaking hands, trying to think of what would stick out to Sherlock enough to use as a computer password.
"Sentiment," John muttered, thinking of Irene Adler's phone password. Sherlock thought of sentiment and attachment as a dangerous disadvantage, but whatever would stick out to Sherlock enough to use as a password would have to have some sort of attachment for him.
"Mycroft." Incorrect.
"Irene." Incorrect.
"Irene Adler." Incorrect.
"Mycroft Holmes." Incorrect.
"Holmes." Incorrect.
"Goddammit!" John exclaimed, rubbing a hand across his face. What was Sherlock attached to? What was Sherlock sentimental about?
"Violin." Incorrect.
"Think, John!" He said to himself, almost imagining that it was Sherlock's voice telling him to think, to go deeper, to deduct, to understand. What did Sherlock Holmes value?
The answer hit John like a ton of bricks.
"I haven't got friends," John murmured as he typed, "I just have one."
"John." Correct. The screen flashed and opened to Sherlock's desktop. There were folders lining the right side, each labeled.
"Blog, Finances, Work, Moriarty, John," He read off. John? A folder for him? Had Sherlock left this for him to find? Or was it just random information Sherlock had found. He clicked the folder.
There was one document inside labeled, "To John". With shaking fingers, John double clicked on the document and read.
"John,"
"Mycroft told me once that emotional attachment was a defect, a fault, dangerous. I believed him for many years. Even as I type this, he's standing behind me, shaking his head in disapproval. He doesn't think you'll ever find this, and it's just as well if you don't, but I have a few things I need to say to you, for my own selfish benefit. This will be entirely out of character for me, so I do apologise for this."
"When you read this, John, I will be gone. This is unavoidable and entirely necessary. I'm going to explain why."
"When this business with Moriarty began, I formulated several possibilities for the endgame in my head. None of them were upsetting to me until quite recently."
"This, the ending where I die, was obviously one that I wanted to avoid, but only because I would have to stop my Work. Recently, however, I discovered another reason I wanted to avoid this. I did not want to hurt you, John Watson. You are my only friend. You are the best friend I have ever had. You mean more to me than any other being I have ever met. The intensity of my feelings towards you is unlike anything I have felt in my life. I know this has hurt you terribly. I know you will suffer for the actions I have to take to keep you safe. I know that your post-traumatic stress disorder will come back. I know your tremors will return. I know your limp will intensify. I know your nightmares will come back. I know, John, that this is my fault, and I am so sorry."
"There were times, when you first moved in, that I would be awake in the night and hear you upstairs. You cry out in your sleep when you have nightmares. At first it was an irritant, but as our relationship progressed, it concerned me. It started to upset me, even. You were in pain, and I cared. It was entirely new to me, to care for another thing."
"After a while I began to notice that if I played certain things, you would sleep better. You woke up in the morning more refreshed than normal. The thrashing and sounds stopped almost entirely. It was only when I played Tchaikovsky, however."
"In the last few months, the nightmares appear to have stopped completely, or you have been successful in hiding them, although I sincerely doubt that. It made me honestly happy that you weren't suffering and that it was because of my efforts that you were better. I have never cared for another being's condition so much in my life, and I have never directly related it to my happiness."
"You've changed me, John. Lestrade once told me that I was a great man, and that some day I could be a good one. You've made me a good man, John Watson, and for that I owe you the world. My appreciation is more than I can express through the medium of type. It may be more than I can ever express. Just know that I am eternally grateful for all that you've done and continue to do for me. It is more than I can ever repay you for."
"I'm rambling now, obviously, and Mycroft is anxious for my attention. I will leave you with this, Dr John Watson; This final sentiment from me."
"I do love you dearly, John, in more ways than I thought was possible. This is so awful and embarrassing to write; I can't believe I'm doing this. It needs to be said, though. For my peace of mind, I need you to know and understand that I love and care for you. More than anything in this world, I love you."
"I obviously understand if the feelings are not mutual. If that is the case, do disregard that last paragraph."
"I will see you soon, John Watson, and do make sure that Mrs Hudson doesn't try to throw away my skull."
"Yours,"
"Sherlock Holmes".