Dear Sherlock,
I'm sorry. I could have done better. I could've helped you avoid this problem. You didn't do anything, I know that. You're lying...you were lying. I believe in you, Sherlock Holmes. You are not and never were a fake. I keep seeing you, around London...I know you're not there. I chased a cabbie one afternoon, because I believed you were its passenger. I was admitted to a mental facility, heaven knows why. They were telling me that you were not alive. You had been buried. You were dead. I told them I knew. After a few weeks I was let out. Mary has helped me greatly, and Mrs. Hudson. It seems no one had taken your death like I had. I'd seen people die, yet I can't get over your death. I've asked Mycroft to take this letter to your grave, because I don't believe I can survive another visit. I miss you terribly. You helped me up when I wasn't able to stand on my own. You raised me to my feet again. You took me, someone you'd hardly met, to a case. All those times, it seemed no one would understand you. But I realized, I did. I understand you. Sherlock. One last thing, one small miracle, for me. Don't be dead.
Love always,
John Watson.
Sherlock mulled over the letter. He'd been near the grave, when he say Mycroft place it, neatly in a envelope, beneath some flowers. He saw in Mycroft's vehicle, John sitting-watching Mycroft. He made to hide around the other side of the tree. His brother spotted him, gave an almost unnoticeable nod and walked off, joining John and leaving the property. He remembered the cab incident. He'd told the driver not to stop, as he watched John fade in the mirror. It hurt him to do so, and here it was.
He made note of certain words and phrases, repeating them in his head. You are not... I keep seeing you... you were dead. Each time he read it, he kept thinking John was telling himself that he wasn't there. Sherlock was dead, but in the letter, it didn't seem like he'd done a good job at telling himself so.
You helped me up when I wasn't able to stand on my own. You raised me to my feet again. You took me, someone you'd hardly met, to a case. All those times, it seemed no one would understand you. But I realized, I did. I understand you. Sherlock. One last thing, one small miracle, for me. Don't be dead.
He couldn't bring himself to tear his eyes from the letter. He raised a hand to his face, hiding the emotion that had built up and overwhelmed him. His head shot up at a sudden tire squeel and the sound of a car door slamming. Down the road, about twenty feet, a black car stood still. The man that had slammed the door shut looked like he was on the verge of a breakdown.
"John, get back in the car." Mycroft's voice rang out, Sherlock bit his lip, turning his head.
"Don't you see him, Mycroft?!" John shouted. "He's right there!"
Mycroft kept from turning his head in that direction. He hadn't spoken directly to his brother, just a small little bit of information and that was it. John had moved from Mycroft's sight, and that's when he finally looked. John was a few feet from Sherlock, and Mycroft walked over. John sat on the bench next to Sherlock, looking over to his friend.
"Hey." He said faintly. "I know you're not here. I know this is just my mind. But I feel better talking to you."
Sherlock turned to look him. John though he was hallucinating. Mycroft didn't take his eyes off John.
"John." Sherlock started, his voice matching his friend's. "I'm here."
"No..You're not..I have to admit to myself, you're not here." John closed his eyes, tightly. "When I open my eyes, you'll be gone...again." He opened his eyes, and was surprised when he saw that Sherlock sat next to him, looking close to the verge of tears.
"I'm here, John. Truly here." A single tear fell from Sherlock's right eye, and John reached up and wiped it, he began to smile, ever so slightly. He laid his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Actually, truly, there. Before Sherlock knew it, John had wrapped his arms around him. Mycroft watched as his brother instinctively did the same. His little brother couldn't hide his emotions any longer.
"Sherlock..." John said, his voice was muffled as he buried his head in Sherlock's scarf. He hit Sherlock's chest, hard, but not hard enough to knock the breath out of him. He repeated it a few times, and all Sherlock did was pull him closer, resting his head on John's. "Why?"
"To protect you." he whispered. "to protect you."
"Come, I'll give you a ride to your flat." Mycroft said. "Come along Sherlock, John."
Mycroft had confirmed that John hadn't gone completely crazy, and that was all John needed. He stood up, Sherlock standing beside him, walking to the vehicle. After so long of being told Sherlock was dead, John finally got stability back in his life. It was normal once more. Normal was better than anything either could wish for.
A/N
Hello! Just a quick story. I seem to be best at short stories for Sherlock and John, but anyways. Hope you enjoyed the short story.
~Lissa Joan