Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters.

Enjoy!

John,

This is the sort of letter one can only compose at three in the morning, under the cover of darkness and loneliness, with cold hands and a wistful heart.

(I apologize in advance for whatever poetic drivel this letter wrings out of me)

I suppose I should start by explaining my death. You can't see me right now, but I just sighed quite wearily and paused to tap my pen against my thigh after I wrote that. Understandably this subject matter is not pleasant for me to revisit, but I imagine it was even less pleasant for you to endure, so I shall stash my selfishness and give you the explanation you deserve.

John, I jumped because if I hadn't, then you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade would have been killed.

Thinking he won, Moriarty shot himself in the head and left me to my own devices, certain that I would eventually be forced to play his game and fall to my death. However, Mycroft and I were more prepared than he anticipated and I managed to make it out without a scratch.

The details of How are not important, I just felt that you need to know Why.

It is vital to understand that I didn't want to leave you, John. I wish you did not believe me dead or think that those lies I told you on the roof were true; I am not a fake and prior to that moment, I never lied to you.

As I write you this letter you can assume I am crouched in an alleyway somewhere in Europe, most likely on the run (even likelier with a weapon), penning this as I wait for my impending doom or success—not quite sure at the moment, I have no idea how adept Moriarty's assassins are.

Or perhaps I am dining at an expensive restaurant, wearing a chocolate-colored suit and a stranger's identity, speaking in foreign tongues with someone of national importance. A president, a prince, a world-renowned criminal: the delight is in not completely knowing. It's fair to suppose that my date and I are speaking in layers—hiding the serious topics under the foolish ones, and the foolish ones under an exotic language—and perhaps sipping expensive wine laced with flecks of gold (or something else equally as exorbitant and ridiculous).

Either way, I am certainly not here, sitting on the balcony of yet another nameless hotel, freezing my arse off because it's winter, trying to write this out despite my cold, aching fingers (sorry if the words look shaky). I am definitely not holding one of the shirts I stole from your drawer—squeezing the bundle of material so tightly that the buttons are digging into my palm—and I am not staring out at the sleeping city of Glasgow, wondering if it'd be worth it to hop over the bannister and kiss the pavement.

(My apologies on that last bit. They are simply the results of my wandering mind and aching heart. I'd cross them out, but I find that dashes look incredibly unbecoming in a letter, and I'd hate to mar this nice parchment with ink)

I am not thinking about you and missing you and wondering if you're drinking tea or reading the paper, or staring out the sitting room window with your fingertips tapping absently against the pane. I am not trying to recall the exact smell of your freshly laundered jumpers or your skin once you've taken a shower, and I am certainly not reminiscing the bright twinkle that lights your eyes when you smile.

On second thought, who am I kidding?

Just now I smiled to myself and half-sobbed a little—it was more of a sad choking noise, really—because I know it's pointless to try and lie to you. I'm afraid I am doing all of the above, John, but you knew that already, didn't you?

Maybe I should be sleeping right now. I don't know. It's hard, because without you my bed is too cold. Not that we ever shared a bed of course, but the thought that you were in the next room used to keep me warm at night. Now I can't stop shivering.

If you were here right now, I would hold your hand. I'd kiss your knuckles and the tip of each finger, and press my lips against the whorls of your thumbprint, relishing the little bit of you that is as unique as a snowflake. Though I suppose your entire being is quite snowflake-like, in that you differ greatly from the rest of the boring, unbearable human race. Either way, I'd kiss a path down your palm, perhaps pausing to feel your heartbeat thud through the smooth plane of your wrist.

I'm very cold right now, John, but I imagine your hands would be warm.

Oh, speaking of warm things, I tried hot chocolate the other day after remembering it was one of the many things you told me I was 'really missing out on". The verdict: it was okay. Perhaps a little too sweet and definitely far hotter than I expected, and I ended up burning my lingual papillae (or, in Layman's terms, the tip of my tongue) but the experience was worth it because I got to imagine the way you would've smiled and laughed, had you been there beside me. Do you drink your hot cocoa with marshmallows? A stick of peppermint? I am torn between the urge to guess all of the above and neither, since you can be both indulgent and incredibly pragmatic.

(If it matters, I had mine with a stick of peppermint, which tasted rather good)

Christ, it's freezing out here. From my current vantage point on the balcony, I can see inside all twenty-three lit windows on the building across the street. In one window, a woman is dancing. In another, a couple is either having sex or engaging in some very intensive yoga positions—I can only make out their silhouettes, so it's hard to tell. There's a few faceless nobodies doing dull things like watching telly or reading, and then there's me: a sad man with stooped shoulders and a notepad, frantically scribbling out the most important letter he will ever send.

(Christ, this needs to be perfect but I don't know how to accomplish that)

John, I wanted to contact you so many times, and nearly did on several occasions. Last Tuesday at 12:45pm, I stumbled into a phone booth in the middle of nowhere, half-drunk on liquor and heart ache, and dialed up the flat. When you answered, your voice sounded the exact way I remembered it, if not a bit tired. You said 'Hello?' and then repeated yourself when I didn't answer. Once the silence stretched on, you sighed as if you carried the world on your breath, and the sound made my heart split straight down the middle.

So I hung up the phone, fled the booth and fell to my knees on the dirty, cold pavement, and cried until I was sobbing, then retching and gasping and keening. I felt as if I were dying. I suppose in a way I was.

(Does that make me a ghost?)

I'm sure you're wondering why I'm choosing to contact you now, then, yes?

I suppose I ought to clarify; John, you will not receive this letter unless something quite tragic happens to me, in which case I have instructed Mycroft to deliver it to you personally and answer any questions you might have—though, in truth, I am writing this letter as a solution to that latter bit. This is not just the ramblings of a half-mad, half-lovesick man (though it is that too); it is also an explanation. A confession. A cleansing of my soul.

Though I am gone, I urge you, do not mourn me. My life was short and bright and I am immeasurably pleased that you were a part of it—I daresay you are the reason I managed to burn for so long. Who's to say the cold winds of solitude wouldn't have snuffed me out long ago if you hadn't come along?

Above all, you must understand that ours is a love story, John. Our relationship is nearly Shakespearean: the stalwart doctor meets the brooding detective, hearts and minds collide, and unspoken, untainted love echoes across the abyss between them. Unfortunately, like most love stories, ours ends in tragedy.

In my opinion, we are poetry; but more so, we are each other's missing piece. However, I do not believe our existences will be captured in epics and plays; we will not be immortalized within the pages of some trite novel or romanticized painting, because the truth is, we are above art. There are too many rips and wounds inside us both to merit a pretty portrait or an organized story; Your leg, my heart, your pain, my past, the endless, relentless danger you and I thrust ourselves into in order to feed that dark, insistent hunger clawing at the pits of our bellies, is all far too complex to melt down into legible, palatable matter.

But that is not of import. What matters is that my heart will always beat within your palms and my thoughts will never stray too far from you. I suppose even in death, there will still be a faint, invisible link tying our souls together—or at least I like to think of it that way.

Among the many things you ought to know, you should be aware that I often wanted to kiss you.

(Though, want sounds far too mild. The desire burned beneath my skin like magma; it was an unbearable, indelible itch I could never scratch.)

I wanted to kiss you, John, so bloody badly, but I didn't—mind over matter and all that rot, I never could let myself simply do things just because the desire was there—and It is killing me. My lungs ache with all the things left unsaid.

Sometimes when I am alone (which is quite often if I am to be frank), I think about what might have happened had I ignored my doubts, swallowed that lump of fear, and told you how utterly vital you are to me (please do note that I said 'are' as opposed to 'were'). If I had said it, how different would things have been?

I am not a religious man, John, but I would have worshipped you.

I often wonder what it would've been like to cup the angles of your jaw within my palms, cradle the sides of your face, and kiss every inch of you. I would've pressed my lips to the shells of your eyelids, the jut of your hips, the dip above your mouth, the arch of your back, and the soft swell of your bottom lip. I would have praised each thump of your heartbeat and revered every strong bone that comprised your ribs, your fingers, your spine.

At one point, Love was a foreign country. It was a dish I'd yet to try, a shop I'd heard of but never cared to visit. I never dreamed of understanding the sensation, let alone experiencing it firsthand, yet you have allowed me to do both.

If there is one thing you should take away from all of this, John, it's that I love you. It is vitally important that you understand this. Perhaps I am a coward for being grateful that you are receiving these words through a letter—for I could never dream of being as articulate in person—but even so, I can rest easy knowing that my feelings have finally been made clear.

I don't need to know if you loved me too (I do not dare hope for the present tense) because what you have given me has been more than enough. Your kindness, patience, companionship, and care are things I never dreamed of possessing, yet you have offered them all in abundance. I can die knowing that you were always there for me; you spoke when I needed a voice, stayed when I couldn't be alone, and calmed me when the noise of everyday life became unbearable.

Anything you wanted I would've given you, John. I would have lassoed the moon if you so desired. I'd have stolen the stars. But as of now, I suppose this letter will have to suffice.

It is late and my hands are nearly indigo from the cold, and there is no doubt that I will have something vital to attend to in the morning, so I suppose that it would be wise to sleep now. I hold no hope for restful slumber, only hope that you will grace my dreams and walk alongside me once more.

Goodnight, my love.

-SH

In the sitting room of 221b, John carefully folds the letter into fourths and closes his eyes against the welling tears. "I didn't need the moon, Sherlock," he whispers. "You would've been enough."

A/N: Feedback would be beautiful, darlings. Thanks so much for taking the time to read!

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