Inspired by the song "Letter" by Mother Mother. Awesome band, go check them out!
John Watson sat at the desk of 221B, a cup of tea beside him as he pulled out the familiar stationary. It was old fashioned, he knew, but somehow it made it seem more real. More real that his letters would be received by the man he was writing them for.
He chuckled mirthlessly at that thought. His rational mind knew Sherlock Holmes was dead. He had watched him jump, felt the lack of pulse in his body. The images of that day haunt John's dreams. But, regardless of what every ounce of common sense told him, he wrote these letters to Sherlock.
Maybe it was something his therapist had said about writing out how he feels, but he doubted it. The truth was, he needed to tell Sherlock things. Things he'd never said. Thing he wished he had. But of course, John couldn't just say them. He disguised them in recalling the days events, telling Sherlock what had happened. John picked up his pen and began to write that day's letter.
Dear Sherlock,
Today Mrs. Hudson fretted over me again. She seems to think I'm dying of something. I suppose in a way, I am. You would laugh, saying it's sentiment, that everyone dies at some point and there is no need to mourn the inevitable. But us normal people do. We do mourn. It's natural. It's needed. Impossible, you'd say, or perhaps boring. But it's the truth. For me it is, anyway. I had to take down your experiments today. The one with the pig skin on the counter. It was starting to go rancid. Now, before you complain, remember our agreement about rotting materials and how they shouldn't be left on places we put food? Well, it's not my fault it started rotting. I miss your experiments. I suppose I'll have to clean them all up eventually, but I can't bring myself to. Not yet. Maybe...maybe if I leave them, you'll come back, hmm? I know, it's hopeless. Forgive my sentiment.
Love, John
Dear Sherlock,
They're planning the funeral. Mrs. Hudson says I should go, but I don't know. Could I really stand to see your name on a tombstone? I'm a bit of a mess just thinking about it. I know I'll probably go though. Mrs. Hudson will need me, and maybe it'll be a chance for me to put on a false front for her to think I'm okay. I'm not okay, Sherlock. I don't think I'll ever be okay again. I never realized how much you were apart of who I am. I miss you, you arrogant sod. You'd better come back. You have to come back. Please. One more miracle, Sherlock. For me.
Love, John
Dear Sherlock,
Mycroft came over today. He asked me to speak at your funeral. I was honestly a bit shocked. I figured he would do it, or maybe your dad. I didn't expect to be asked. I must've looked surprised, because Mycroft told me that I was the obvious choice. Was I? Were we really that close? I mean, I viewed you as my best friend, but I never thought I meant that much to you. Not enough to give your eulogy, anyways. I said yes though. Of course I'd do it. You mean so much to me, how could I say no? Your brother's a prick though. He wouldn't stop treating me like I was going to break. I guess I must seem as devastated as I feel.
Love, John
Dear Sherlock,
It was the funeral today. Everyone cried at my speech. Several people came up and gave me condolences on "losing my partner". It surprised me, but they were actually comforting. I didn't fight it like I would have before. The truth is, despite your distaste for anything as pedestrian as love, we were partners, even if it was simply platonic. On that note, I have something to confess. I didn't realize it until recently and it's only been the last few days I've fully accepted it - I have feelings for you. Like, more than a flat mate and friend. Maybe...maybe we could've been something. Silly to think now, because of course it's to late, but I still thought you deserved to know. Well, I suppose I should leave it at that. Nothing I can do about it now.
Love, your John
Dear Sherlock,
I had a dream about you last night. I thought it you had actually come home. You...you said some things. I won't repeat them, for fear you write me back finally and don't feel that way. But when I woke from the dream I was almost happy. Of course, then I realized it was a dream and, well, let's just say in some ways I was glad you weren't here to deduce me after that.
Love, John
Dear Sherlock,
Sorry it's been so long since my last letter. I...I had a breakdown and was hospitalized for nearly two weeks. I won't go into detail, but it was rather stressful. Thank god for drugs. I finally got a good nights sleep. I'd been on edge for god knows how long. I guess I finally tipped over. The doctors tried to make me leave the flat, but I can't. Not yet. I suppose I'll have to. I can't afford it for much longer. But Mrs. Hudson is kind enough to let me stay at a reduced rate for now. She knows it's important I stay at Baker Street for the time being. But I suppose I'll have to move on sometime. It's been six months since you died. I don't want to move on though. I want it back the way it was before. Just write me. Let me know you're okay. Please?
Love, John
Dear Sherlock,
It's one year since you jumped. I went to your grave today. I left flowers. That shouldn't have been how I gave you flowers for the first time. I asked you for a miracle. One more miracle, Sherlock. For me. But I know you can't. You can't even read these letters. I wish you could. I wish I could see you again, and not just in my dreams. They've been getting worse. More frequent. The dreams, I mean. And more real. It's scary. I used to be terrified of my dreams of the war, but these are somehow worse. Just come home Sherlock. Please. One more miracle.
Love, John
Sherlock dodged the unsavoury characters, getting to the drop box. It had been a long and harrowing day. He smiled when he opened up the box to see a stack of letters bundled together. It had been weeks since he'd been safe enough to get mail from his brother.
He looked forward to John's letters the most. He dare not hope John would feel the same way when he came back in the next while, but the letters had been the highlight of this whole miserable experience. He stuffed the letters in his rucksack and made for the train tracks.
Once he was safe in his den, an almost abandoned shipping container, he opened the letters, each having been carefully dated by his brother. When he finally reached the latest one, his heart dropped.
Dear Sherlock,
I tried again today. I tried again to come to you. I know you're gone, that you're dead, but whatever afterlife or great beyond your in, I want to be there too. I'm done pretending. I tried to date that Mary I told you about, but I couldn't. My heart is yours, and it always will be. I'm done hiding it. Everyone has always assumed, and finally I know they were right. I'm just to late to see it. This might be my final letter. I'm done Sherlock. I'm so tired. I'm done fighting. I'll see you soon.
Love, John
Sherlock's only relief was the note Mycroft had attached stating John was under 24 hour surveillance.
Sherlock stood in the street, looking up at the window of Baker Street. It was dark. He knew John had moved out long ago, but Mycroft had informed him everything was pretty much how he'd left it. He turned the key, opening the door.
He was thankful Mycroft had convinced Mrs. Hudson to visit her sister. He climbed the seventeen steps to the Baker Street flat. He breathed it in. He was home. Except for one crucial element - John Watson. He pulled out the mobile Mycroft had given him, texting John.
221B Baker Street. Come at once.
He desperately wanted to put his initials on the end to let John know it was him, but he couldn't risk John not showing up.
John's phone vibrated in his pocket. He was sat in his dingy little flat watching crap telly and trying to drown out his anguish with alcohol. He frowned at the message, more than a bit confused.
It sounded like...but it couldn't be. But someone must need him. That couldn't just be a random text.
He groaned, and, against his better instincts, he got up and pulled his jacket on. It wasn't long until he was pulled up on the curb paying the cabbie across the street from 221B. He watched the cab pull away before looking up at the window.
The light was on, though the curtain was drawn. A faint silhouette was visible, and it seemed to be a man holding a violin. John's eyes widened and his heart started thumping before his brain kicked in to tell him it simply wasn't possible. He must be seeing things.
He steeled himself for disappointment, crossing the road and trying the door, surprised to find it open. He swallowed hard as he started to ascend the stairs. He didn't hear any violin music, but the light was definitely on as he approached the door. He placed his hand on the doorknob, taking a deep breath as he prepared for disappointment.
He opened the door.
Across the room, standing by the window was the great detective. He looked up, eyes meeting John's.
"S-sherlock?" He squeaked out, not sure he could believe it. The detective smiled.
"I'm home, John," he replied warmly. Something clicked on the bloggers mind and he launched himself at Sherlock, wanting to punch the man silly. He did get a few hits in before his hands fell to his side, utterly stunned that it was true.
"You're...you're really here," he said, voice almost a whisper. Sherlock chuckled softly.
"I am John. And I'm here to stay," he replied. The blogger pulled away, not sure what to say now. Sherlock took over.
"Mycroft...he made sure I got your letters. Every one of them," he said, hoping for some sort of reaction. John went terribly red.
"You did? All of them?" He asked, his mind flashing over everything he remembered writing and wondering what things he'd forgotten he'd written. Sherlock nodded.
"I have them. Each one," he said softly. John seemed to process all of this very slowly.
"Then...that means..." he looked up at Sherlock, sorry written plainly on his face. Sherlock held his gaze.
"If you think it means I know you...fancied me, then yes. But I do not expect you to feel the same now that I'm back," Sherlock said, rather sheepishly. John blushed redder, hands coming up to cover his face.
"Oh god." The words were almost huffed out as he sat in his chair. Sherlock was quiet, calculating.
"John...I want you to know...I return the feelings," he said awkwardly. This caused John's head to shoot up. He looked at Sherlock with pure wonderment.
"You...you do?" The doctor asked, blinking uncertainly. The detective nodded sheepishly.
"It's always been you, John." With that confession, the doctor stood again, closing the distance between them before being Sherlock's lips to his. This was better than anything he could possibly have imagined.
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