Soooo here's come feels. John's letter is first, then Sherlock's reply.
John's letters written by NirvanaK (Check her out maybe, fics coming from her soon) Sherlock'a letters written by me.
Warnings/Triggers- Feels. A lot of them. Strong language.
Disclaimer-
We only own the letters, we owe the great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle the characters and the BBC for choosing such amazing actors that gave us such inspiration.
Anyway, away we go with the feels...
There was a reason I couldn't tell the therapist what I wanted to say to you, it was too personal for a start and, yes I know it's illogical, but it didn't feel right to tell her before I told you. Because, God damn it, Sherlock, you don't ever listen to me, do you? Not even when you're about to jump off a fucking building, you selfish bastard.
God, I miss you Sherlock. So fucking much.
I can't even walk past St. Bart's anymore. Don't really leave the flat anymore either, too many pitying stares from people I don't bloody well know. Too many memories as well, Sherlock.
They wanted me to move in with my sister, worried I'd do something 'drastic'. I don't want to leave, not yet, Sherlock, because I'm still waiting for my bloody miracle. Oh, God, what do you care about this inane babble anyway? You always preferred short and sweet and look at me, here, writing on and on about shit you don't care about because it hurts me so fucking much to actually talk about the 'important' stuff, as my therapist would so simply put it, but she doesn't understand, Sherlock, everything about you is important to me, even if you are dead you're still the most important person… thing…. I don't fucking know, you're what's most important to me, all the time, and fuck I'm sounding like a bloody sixteen year old lovesick girl, and all I can hear in my head right now is you with your bloody 'Sentiment, John', well screw you, Sherlock, screw you. You've left me alone, I'm alone again Sherlock. Just a crazy ex-solider with dead a best friend and a drunkard for a sister.
I'm alone and I'm having nightmares again. Not about the war this time, no, God no, these are infinitely worse. They're about you, lifeless, cold, and bloody. Dead. And it hurts, Sherlock, 'cause I fucking love you and it fucking hurts that I'm still so fucking in love with and you'll never know. You selfish, selfish bastard.
JW.
John glared at the letter in his hand. As if he'd just written that to his dead best friend. He screwed it up angrily and threw it in the waste bin beside the desk. He looked around the empty flat and sighed, "I miss you."
Dear John,
I found your letter, crumpled up in the bins. I thought that I owed you a reply. Because I do, I do John.
There was a reason I couldn't tell you I had to go. You had to believe I was gone. Or you'd be gone instead, and I can't live with that.
I'm going to use those things I hate in this letter- feelings and emotions. I don't need them, they don't aid me or my hard drive. But when I met you, I couldn't do it anymore, I couldn't divorce myself from them and stay detached. This is what you do to me John. You change me, and no one else can do that. You made me feel, you made me cry, you made me scared and you made me feel guilty.
You told me that you love me. I'm not exactly sure what love feels like. But if it means when you want to protect someone, and care for them, and hold them, and kiss them better, and stop them from hurting, and grow old with them- then I love you. I love you Doctor John Hamish Watson. With all my heart I now know I have.
I'm going to give you your miracle John. I promise you. One day soon I will walk in the door. I might look beaten, or bruised, or broken. But I'll be back. With you, the way it's meant to be. And I'll compose music at 3am, and you'll shout at me. And you'll drink tea all the time, and I'll call you an idiot. The way I want it.
You think I don't care about that stuff... Well I won't lie to you, I didn't. I didn't until I met you. When you flipped my world upside down and made me question everything about myself. I don't even know how to act around you, and it scares me John, it scares me that I don't know myself, because that's the only thing I've truly known since I was a child.
I miss you too John. I miss your smell. And your touch. The way you look at me when I deduce. The way you lick your bottom lip without knowing. I miss it all. And I want to come back so badly. I really do. And soon, I will.
I don't want you to have nightmares. They make you weaker John, and I need you to stay strong for me. I need to come back and find that I haven't broken you too much. Because I couldn't live with myself if I'd done that to you, because you're my John. My only friend. My blogger. My doctor. And maybe even one day, my lover.
Stay strong John. For us both. Please, I'm begging you here, and I've said it before, I don't beg.
SH
Sherlock put his pen down on the desk in the empty library. He knew he couldn't send this letter. He sighed as he carefully took it and folded it neatly, tucking into his coat pocket.
Thanks for reading! Tell me what you think in a review and I might continue this!