I didn't want to post anything new until I had updated my other stories but, after watching The Fall, I had to post this.

Inspired by Deviant Artist ShadowTrinity102, this story is in the format of a letter written by John. As such, it does contain a bit of stream-of-consciousness and the tense does shift between past and present.

. . .

Dear Sherlock Holmes,

This is stupid I know. If you were here, you'd tell me the same thing. And you'd be right. But then you're always right.

My therapist told me to do this. She said that writing down the thoughts I have but can't say will help me. She said I can't hold all of this in and, if I can't vent to someone about it, then I should just write it all down. Why am I telling you this? I don't think you'd understand it even if I sat you down and lectured you with slides and a model for an hour. I know how "feelings" and
"emotions" are so foreign to you.

No, not foreign. And don't try to argue. I know you have feelings. I've seen them. And not just annoyance and anger. I've seen the way you smile and laugh with me; with Mrs. Hudson. I've seen you scared and confused when Moriarty had us cornered. I've seen you proud, so proud with every case you solved. And I've seen you sad. I know you don't always think I'm looking but I saw you on the rare occasion.

I know I called you a machine but, truly, nothing can be further than the truth. You are perhaps even more human than me. You just prefer not to show it. You deem your emotions as a weakness. And heroes don't have weakness. I know you told me you weren't a hero but I can see you as nothing less. And I believe that in your arrogant mind, you know yourself to be one too; complete with a flowing cape. That's why you can't be seen sad, confused, and scared. You're a hero. You have to be strong. You have to stand and face what the rest of us are too terrified to. But being a hero comes with its burdens and, as your friend, I had hoped you would share them with me. I am a doctor after all and, I'm sure you noticed, a damn good listener despite my occasional loss of patience with you. But you rarely did because heroes don't succumb to their weakness. They don't collapse to their knees in the dark hours and weep. No, they – you – carry on, being strong for the both us.

However, I am glad that you did sometimes break your decree for me. With me, you hung up your cape and put down your hat to sit with me like an ordinary man. I apologize. I know you hate that word and I'm sure I'll get the silent treatment and an anomaly in my tea for calling you such, but it's true. During a case, your actions and thoughts are at a level far above my comprehension. So those rare moments when you sat across from or beside me and sincerely smiled and talked like a normal human would are moments I treasure because those are the moments when Detective Holmes becomes my friend Sherlock.

I see I've deterred greatly from the path I set for myself. You see, this isn't a letter of praise.

You prick. You ass. You bastard. You prat, cor, blighter, bloody, narcissistic, arrogant, infuriating, incorrigible JERK.

How dare you. How dare you make that bloody phone call and try to feed me that idiotic lie. How dare you beg me to listen; to watch without letting me get a word in otherwise. How dare you say goodbye and not give me the proper courtesy to return the gesture.

You didn't let me say goodbye. You damn arse. I didn't get to say goodbye.

You never gave me a chance. There's so much I wanted to tell you; so much I had to tell you. I wanted to apologize for calling you a machine. I wanted you to know I never doubted you (although I'm positive you already knew that). I wanted to tell you off for wanting to kill yourself. I wanted to thank you. God, how I wanted to thank you and let you know how much you mean to me.

You don't get it. Or maybe you do. We are in the same boat after all, are we not?

I was so alone. I didn't know what to do with myself. I hated myself. I was useless, broken; permanently scarred. I was just a poor blighter fresh from the war with a lame leg and the haunting memories of men dying in front of me. I was scared. War was all I knew. I couldn't cope living a normal life. We are the same in that. You couldn't stay still. You always had to do something to distract that wonderful mind of yours. I am the same. I need the action otherwise I go crazy; lost in my own head.

And then I met you. Not the best of first impressions, I must admit, but you impressed me. I wondered how a single man could correctly deduce everything about someone with merely a brief glance. And suddenly we were flat mates. I knew nothing of you and you seemed content with just having someone to help pay the rent. Now look at us. Unwilling to be without the other.

We were both two men utterly alone in this god-forsaken world but when we were together everything seemed to make sense. You became my friend. And this is where my first apology comes in. I'm sure you remember that in our first case together, you introduced me as your friend and I so callously contradicted you. I didn't know. I didn't know that you who so despised the majority of the human race so eagerly found a friend in me. I apologize for not realizing this sooner: that being your friend is not just a casual statement but an earned privilege.

I learned later. Forgive the mind of a common bloke. I learned how important it was to be called your friend and to have you as one to me. I didn't know I could ever trust anyone after the war. And, knowing you and the people who know you, you weren't the type to openly trust another living soul either. But look at us. I follow you without question. Okay, I do question, but I still follow, albeit begrudgingly. And you tell me everything that crosses your mind, even the thoughts that don't pertain to a case. You confided in me and I only realize now how much of an honor that is because it was so foreign for you.

Seemingly overnight you became the most important thing to me. The thought of anything happening to you was unbearable. That was why I so boldly shot that taxi driver and threw myself into that fight with the Chinese acrobat. I wanted to be by your side, to fight beside you; to watch your back; to protect you. I only realize now that, all this time, you were doing the same for me. I told you that friends protect people and, in a moment of ignorance, I thought that you had detached yourself from this fact. Only now do I see that you've been protecting me this whole time. However, realizing all this now is, unfortunately, too late.

I'm sorry for taking your antics for granted. As I'm writing this, I find myself missing the sound of your violin. I am even desperate for the sound of the wall taking a beating. I know I yelled and sighed and reprimanded your childish, immature, selfish ways but that's who you are and, when that wasn't annoying me to the point of rage, that was who I accepted. If you had acted any different I'm sure I would have questioned your identity. You are Sherlock. If you had acted like any other man you would be dreadfully boring and I know how much you hate that.

Perhaps it was a good thing you hung up on me on that day. If you'd have listened to all this you would have surely jumped voluntarily off that building just to make me stop… But I know that isn't true. You would have listened to every word and I would have made you laugh and shake your head at my primitiveness and sentiment. But hearing you laugh at and condescend me would have been far better than hearing your voice so sad. Anything would have been better than hearing you cry. You broke my heart that day. My hero had fallen and yet he still stood with his head held high; speaking through tears if only to tell me his goodbye.

So here's mine. Goodbye Sherlock. You were a man unlike any other and never will I forget my time with you. Never will I forget you. You are my one and only true friend. Even though you are dead – yes I know you are dead and telling myself otherwise; wishing for a miracle will not change that – you still carry half my heart with you. And I like to fancy that I still have some of that heart I know you had, with me. You gave it to me and it is a gift I shall cherish forever. I like to think that my gift to you was acknowledged and while you were standing up there on that ledge, you had it with you. Telling myself that is my own selfish, foolish way to assure myself that, while you were up there, you already knew everything that I've just written down.

I don't know why I wrote this. But I do honestly feel a little better. I will be all right, you know. I'm tougher than I look. I survived a war after all. Mrs. Hudson is looking after me and even Lestrade visits to talk. You should know he's sorry, by the way. I can see it in his face. He still doubts you but he hates himself for it. That's the only reason I didn't punch him across the face the moment I saw him. You left me but you left me with more friends than I had before I met you. I'll pull through. I even made contact with my sister. She'll be visiting next week so I'll introduce you.

I can picture you laughing at me, asking your usual questions about feelings, and looking at me in that way you do when I do something so dully normal and sentimental. You'd have asked me why I took hours to write this, why it is so tediously long, and why anyone would want a letter marred with the stains of tears. But that doesn't matter does it? Because you're never going to read this.

Because you're dead. You're dead. Dead. Sherlock Holmes is dead. Sherlock, my best friend. Is dead.

The service was beautiful by the way. Not that you'd care but you had quite the crowd. You helped so many lives, Sherlock. They were all there to give you their thanks. And now I have given mine.

Thank you, Sherlock for all you've done and for all you've given me. You were and are my purpose for stumbling through this cruel world for I carry your legacy with me. You will not be remembered as a fraud but as the Hero of Baker Street. I promise you that. I believe in you, Sherlock Holmes.

Goodbye, Sherlock. The time spent with you has been the highlight of my life. It will all be so ordinary without you.

I am sincerely yours,

John Watson

OoOoO

John signed the letter and folded it with delicate precision and care. The papers were tucked carefully into an envelope and then sealed. John stood up, the chair grating against the floor and disturbing the silence that had encased the room for so long. John stretched stiff muscles and rubbed his neck and he turned towards the fireplace.

The fire had died down now, the blood-red embers trailing along the blackened wood in rippling rivers. John gazed at the dying fire without seeing it. Then he tossed the letter into the fireplace. It landed with a quiet whisper on the embers that crumbled under its weight. The dying sparks desperately reached for the food and a slow yellow flame flickered up and over the letter, turning the pristine white yellow and then black as the paper bucked and creased in the fire's wake. John watched listlessly as the flame devoured the letter until only ash was left and the flame returned to the blackened wood, rejoining its brothers in the rivets of the wood, the red pulsing like veins.

John continued to stand there, watching as the embers slowed, their pulse weakening, their lights dwindling until the river dried and only the scattered remains of sparks remained. These too slowly died, winking out into black. John watched until that last spark died and darkness claimed the room.

It grew suffocating as everything in the room was consumed. With the fire dead, it grew cold; no defense against the night.

And then a match sparked and a flicker of flame was touched against the wick of a candle. The candle flared to life and light and warmth pushed back the dark and cold, creating a barrier around John Watson that kept the darkness at bay. John lifted the candle and left the room on quiet feet. He walked first to the empty room where a truly great man spent his time.

"Good night," John said aloud before drifting towards his own room to get some much needed sleep.

. . .

Sherlock belongs to BBC. If it belonged to me, John and Sherlock would be back at 221B solving cases together again.