*Disclaimer: I obviously don't own anything. You all know what greatness belongs to the legendary Conan Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss and anyone who might claim Sherlock as their own. I just like to play with them occasionally :) Also the lyrics are borrowed once again from Mumford and Sons, the song White Blank Page *
Letters to No One
Dear Sherlock,
I can't believe that I am actually doing this. Doctor Janeson has been insisting that I give it a try for months now. She seems to think that the reason I can't move on since…. Well you know… is that I have too much left unsaid. Too many things that I want to say to you. Two years Sherlock. Two years. It simultaneously feels like a life time and as though it was only yesterday. Well, I've stared at this notebook long enough. I've rewritten this paragraph a dozen times. Here goes nothing.
A white blank page and a swelling in rage.
Jesus, Sherlock. I am so furious with you above everything else. You knew. You knew all along that this was going to happen and yet you did nothing about it. You gave me no warning before taking that final leap. We could have planned a way to get you out of it. We could have called Mycroft and used the entire Royal Army to defeat Moriarty if we had to. Hell, I could have been on that roof top with you. A pair, like we were always supposed to be. I thought we made a great team but I guess I was just your damaged, little, ordinary pet. Not good enough in the end, when it really mattered.
I would have followed you off that damned ledge, given the opportunity. Anything rather than living like this, feeling like half of a man. I can't even imagine doing something so drastic now; putting everyone through that pain again. I am stuck here until I grow old and must face the cold grip of death alone. Wouldn't it have been easier to face it together? Hand in hand; soldiers in arms. Maybe you knew that. Maybe you thought there was some glorious future awaiting me on the other side. Boy do I love it when you are wrong.
You did not think when you sent me to the brink.
Eventually though, every single time I get upset, I stop being so furious with you. It is exhausting to try to hate someone that you care for so deeply. I never took you for an idiot, but I know now that when it came to the things that really mattered, you were a moron. You never noticed how people cared about you. Not just me but Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, even Mycroft. We were all heartbroken and lost when you left. The Yard has managed to get by without you for the most part; it seems a few of their Detectives picked up on a few of your tricks. Molly and Mrs. Hudson miss you but insist that they are fine upon any further query. Mycroft has left me alone since the funeral but every month a check comes in the mail to pay for the full rent on 221 B and every month on the day of your death a large bouquet of flowers appears at your tombstone. We were all on that ledge with you Sherlock, you just didn't notice us. As usual.
You desired my attention but denied my affections.
I often try to imagine what we would be doing today if nothing had happened; if Moriarty had died, leaving you to walk away the free man that you are. That you should have been. You told me once that genius required an audience. Luckily for both of us, I was always around to witness your miraculous one man show. I was always there to flatter you with praise or refresh your cup of tea when it got cold. I took it upon myself to make sure you ate something enough to keep you going at least, and got at least a few hours of sleep whenever possible. I took the role as keeper of your glorious body seriously. Lord knows you weren't going to do it.
What I wish you had notice though, just once was why I did it. Of course it was out of friendship, you were the best friend that I have ever had. But, it was so much more than that as well. Every morning I saw a man that fascinated me; entranced me. The way you took care of yourself, you should have been a wreck physically, but instead you were a perfect specimen of man. Your body all sharp angles and smooth skin, broken up by small scars that told of the struggles and demons you had beaten and the villains you had caught. Your voice was intoxicating. I swear, you could have read me the phone book and I would have listened for hours. I guess it is a sad testament to my own skill as an actor as well as to your oblivious nature that you never knew the depth of my feelings. But even deeper than that, somewhere in your unconscious mind I think you knew how I felt, feel, but couldn't process it properly and therefore couldn't be bothered.
So tell me now where was my fault in loving you with my whole heart?
You were always the best man I had ever met. You still are the best man I have ever known actually. I might move on eventually. Who knows, maybe I'll even get married one day. But no matter what happens know that I loved with my whole heart. With my whole being I loved you. I adored every single insult that you threw at me, every severed limb in the refrigerator, every exasperated cry of 'Bored'. I will love you until the day I die. Probably longer.
Always yours,
John H. Watson
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
*Thank you so much for reading! I just had to try to deal with some more Post- Reichenbach feels. Please leave any sort of feedback in the reviews. I would love to know how I'm doing. Do you like it? Should I never write again? What's your favorite color? Anything! Cheers!