He sat in front of the violin, arms folded, fingers laced together. It was another gloomy London day, and Baker Street 221B was quiet.
Relatively.
Mrs. Hudson was going about her daily rounds, and everywhere she went, noise ensued. She had stopped by earlier too, but slipped out soon enough, money in hand. John always made sure to leave the rent out on the table weeks before it was due - a tendency that once irked Sherlock but which he slowly learnt to accept, much like the many other things he had come to terms with regarding the doctor.
Running one finger over the violin's strings, a minor chord rang out. He remembered how John would always wince whenever he played anything in a minor key, how his forehead would crease up, how he would ask him to stop. To Sherlock, music had to be in minor in order to have depth - the major scale was too optimistic, too joyful, too surreal.
Sherlock removed his hands from the violin and instead started running them over the smooth grain of the wooden desk. There were a few wet spots where Sherlock eye's had laid last night, but nothing had changed. Baker Street 221B was still Baker Street 221B, it was just missing the most important component.
John.
It had been a month since John had died from "excessive injuries to the cranial region", caused by a blow to the head by no other than Jim Moriarty. In fact, John had died in Sherlock's arms, on a night much like this.
There was no blood; no blood flowing from John's head at the time. His chest didn't move, and when Sherlock put his hand to the left side of John's chest, there was nothing. Sherlock checked both wrists, his neck. No pulse. He leaned in, ear pressed to John's lips. No breath.
His hands had trembled as he reached for John's face, gently opening his eyelids - that was when Sherlock truly knew that he was gone. There was nothing in those once brilliantly emerald eyes that had once looked upon him with admiration and affection - nothing at all.
Sherlock closed John's eyes and waited for Lestrade to come and take him away. Looking back on it now, Lestrade had been quite tactful in not asking him how he felt, considering he had a gun in his pocket. But no words of comfort could stop the world's only consulting detective from feeling emotion now - unfamiliar drops of liquid had started to fall from his eyes, ceasing only when John had been fully examined and certified dead by the ambulance doctors and all of them had arrived at the mortuary.
But that was a month ago. John's funeral service was held three weeks ago, and Sherlock headed the proceedings. John had been a popular man, and everyone from Mrs. Hudson to the waiter of the restaurant where he and Sherlock first ate together (well, John did most of the eating, Sherlock was analyzing a case) came to pay their respects. It was a sunny day and he had despised it; how could the sun be out when John was going to be buried deep in the ground?
The rest of the funeral was quite ordinary. Lestrade and a few army officers gave speeches.
Mrs. Hudson and Molly cried for most of it.
Sarah, Donovan tried not to, but dissolved into tears after seeing his body lying peacefully in the casket.
Anderson teared up too and even called Sherlock by his first name, trying to comfort him.
Everyone spoke about how wonderful John was.
Everyone except Sherlock after the eulogy, because he knew that John was a hero.
Because he knew that John was wonderful already.
Business had gone on as usual afterwards. Scotland Yard continued to find itself in a midst of murder which meant that Sherlock barely had time to register the fact that he now had no assistant; Lestrade tried his best to accommodate Sherlock but had given up after one long case.
At any rate, Sherlock was used to working alone. He had, after all, been alone for most of his life. No one could ever match his intellectual capacity, and though women and men did try to win him over, he resisted all their advances. He didn't need anyone.
Letting out an inaudible sigh, Sherlock reached into the desk and pulled out John's laptop. As his will stated, Sherlock was to be the one in charge of all his possessions, and so naturally he left them where John had last put them. The only possession Sherlock actually used was John's laptop only because all his case files were there; John really was the best blogger a consulting detective could have.
Plugging the laptop to charge and opening it up, Sherlock was amused to find that John hadn't logged out. Another silly tendency that he had tried to change about John, but to no avail.
Looking around at all the desktop icons, he was once again reminded of John's love for cats and sweaters. But something was different this time; Sherlock noticed one particular document that he hadn't realized was there before - one simply named 'to sherlock'.
Intrigued, he double-clicked, opening the document. At first glance it was quite short, so Sherlock figured he would be able to finish it before heading out to meet Lestrade - yet another homicide case.
Sherlock started reading, but stopped abruptly at the first sentence.
To Sherlock, with all my love.
All his love. Never had John expressly declared 'love' for Sherlock, ever. Finding this strange, he continued.
If you're reading this, I am making the assumption that I have died, and you're being a prick and digging in my files. Just as I expected.
The corners of Sherlock's mouth lifted slightly; John really did know him best.
It's something of a tradition for soldiers to leave last letters for loved ones in the event of sudden death and I don't feel its in me to break it. So if you're truly sure that I have truly died, and you have seen my body as well as all the circumstantial evidence, read on.
To be honest, I had no idea what I was going to write here, seeing how black-and-white our relationship's always been. You, the hero; me, the bumbling sidekick. You, the clever, inquisitive genius; me, the silly, reckless soldier. But for quite some time now, I've thought us to be... to be more than just we are on the surface.
I've always tried to understand you and be your trusty blogger at all times, but lately I've been speaking in code to you; making your meals, patching you up, following you, putting up with all the strange things in the fridge... have you cracked it yet?
The truth is, Sherlock, the truth is that I've fallen in love with you. I love you.
I'm a soldier, Sherlock, and like you I don't believe in petty emotions; they tie you down, make you weak. But what I've felt for you is stronger; every time you look in my eyes, its like a new day has arrived - every time you open your bloody mouth and utter something completely insensitive, there's nothing I can do but smile inside, no matter how awkward you've made the situation. So heterosexual of me, I know; with all the times I've said we're not dating, or we aren't a couple, you would think that I'd know better. Oh well.
Just know that I will always love you because you will always be mine, Sherlock, whether or not you reciprocate my feelings.
In the unlikely event that there is an afterlife,
I am very much, for the last time,
Yours faithfully
John
P.S I really do hope you won't do anything fancy for my funeral and won't let Mycroft organize it. I'm sure Lestrade knows a reasonable undertaker. Mrs. Hudson should be caterer, and please for the love of God, please don't give the eulogy - you're an atrocious public speaker, love. Give that to Mike Stamford - dull but sound, which is probably what you want on these occasions; you can pick the music.
Sherlock finished reading the letter and closed the lid of the laptop. The letter brought back memories: memories of all their years living together, all the times they laughed and lived; memories of the night John died, and how Jim had cornered Sherlock and he was sure it would be the end. Until John showed up and took the blow for him.
The unfamiliar feeling of tears came across Sherlock again, this time because he was feeling something for the first time, and it felt so very bittersweet.
He loved John, it was painfully obvious now. No degree of surprise could take away the fact that he, Sherlock Holmes, the great detective, had fallen in love with someone, had fallen in love with Dr. John Watson.
The fact that John was dead did nothing to abate the sensation, only strengthen it to no bounds; surely he should've known. After all those years. The one thing, the one man he truly loved. It wasn't his work, it was never his work; Sherlock only started loving his work when he started working with John.
John.
John.
The bloody, brave, beautiful soldier who had taken his heart!
Sherlock knew John couldn't hear him nor see him, but he wanted to say it once, just once, to the man or at least the spirit of the man that he had loved and would always love.
"I love you, John, and I will love you for the rest of my life."
"Thank you, for everything.