A/N Contains some spoilers for 'The Reichenbach Fall'. Hope you enjoy :)

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. If I did then it wouldn't be nearly as well written and Sherlock and John would be a couple by now :)

Sherlock quickly started to regret his decision to write a letter.

It was strange how difficult summoning words could be, how intimidating a simple blank page could appear as it stared mockingly up at him. He was sitting in one of the many studies in his brother's home, the room illuminated by the blinding white light from the laptop screen sat next to him on the desk, the only source of light in the place. Mycroft's recent e-mail was still open, his information burning into Sherlock's mind. He had managed to track down a small remainder of Moriarty's most trusted associates to Berlin and was asking Sherlock to assist him in taking them into custody and obtaining more information about the late criminal mastermind from them. Sherlock was willing to go - the need to destroy what was left of his arch rival's legacy was almost overpowering - but it meant he had to leave. The comfort of Mycroft's mansion, London, England, he had to abandon it all for now.

And for some strange reason, one that even he couldn't fathom, he had decided that now was a good time to leave a letter for John.

He knew this wasn't a rational decision; it seemed to completely betray his intentions to have John believe that he had been a fraud and was now dead. However it was an idea that had bounced around inside his head for a while now, ever since he had seen his best friend crying over his graveside while he could only watch from the distance. He hated having to face the knowledge that he had caused John so much pain. That in itself was tortuous for Sherlock to accept. He wanted to tell John the truth, or some of it at least. He wanted to tell John all of the things that had been left unspoken the day he'd left his 'note'.

And yet, he hadn't. He'd known that it was too dangerous, approaching John or even getting Mycroft to notify him of his continued existence was too big a risk. It could blow his cover, and while all that kept him working these days was the thought that some of Moriarty's organisation still remained, that was important enough for Sherlock to wish to protect.

Now though, several months on, the threat that had restrained Sherlock from making any sort of contact with John had been diminished slightly. What was left of Moriarty's vast crime network seemed to have fled elsewhere due to the death of their leader and the arrests of many of their comrades. It was still far too dangerous to even think about meeting John again, but a note or letter could be enough for now, even if it meant spilling the painful truth. Besides, it wasn't like he'd see the consequences of it. According to Mycroft he could expect to be abroad for some time – months at least – and by the time he returned, hopefully nothing of Moriarty would remain and he could finally face John properly without endangering the man's life.

Sherlock had tried to keep an eye on John now and again, just to see how he was coping. The last time he'd seen him was Christmas Day, when John had attended a small house-party organised by Mrs Hudson along with Lestrade and Molly. Of course Sherlock hadn't been able to approach him, the only reason he'd bothered going down Baker Street was because of a deep longing to see his friends once more, and even then he'd been disguised as a bearded old man with a limp (although he'd kept the scarf).

All he'd got was a quick glance through the window but he was Sherlock Holmes and even a glance could tell him many things. He could see that Lestrade had been on another holiday recently due to his extremely dark tan and that Molly was going on a date after the party because of the way she was nervously fiddling with her hair and the fact that she was wearing an outfit that was overly impressive for a simple get-together with friends. And he could see that John was... happy. He seemed to have put on weight recently (this was reassuring as he'd lost a worrying amount of weight in the weeks following Sherlock's 'death') and he was smiling with a small glass of wine in his hand. It looked to Sherlock like a genuine smile, not a fake smile that a worker would flash an irritating boss or a sad smile when one was remembering happy moments with a lost friend. He really did seem genuinely happy.

That was the last image Sherlock had ever had of John, one that he'd taken extreme care in storing within his mind. John smiling with friends, moving on with his life, unaware that the bumbling old man across the road had once been his closest friend.

Maybe that was for the best. John was starting to move on, a feat Sherlock doubted he could ever achieve.

At least not until he finally got rid of Moriarty's lap-dogs. The consulting criminal had been an interesting nemesis, there was no denying that. Insane and childish, yes, but also extremely intelligent, terrifyingly so. Though Sherlock tried not to admit it, Moriarty had very nearly defeated him. Sherlock's survival seemed to ensure his own victory but at a huge cost- he'd lost his reputation, his freedom and his friends trust. And worst of all, he'd lost John.

Whereas Moriarty had had the last laugh, dying with a smile etched upon his face.

Life for now could have been bearable had Moriarty's men been anywhere near as exciting as their leader. Instead they were simply a nuisance, armed to the teeth but completely lost without their precious leader pulling the strings. They made for dull enemies with little imagination when it came to hiding themselves away or carrying out petty crimes just to cause trouble. In fact Mycroft had been able to track most of them down so quickly that had their network not been so massive, Sherlock may finally have had enough information to destroy Richard Brook and Jim Moriarty completely.

Instead he still had a lot of work ahead of him, and seeing John again remained an unreachable dream.

God he missed his faithful blogger.

There was however some hope in the small group of men Mycroft had discovered in Berlin. They seemed to have been closer to Moriarty than a lot of the suspects they'd brought into custody had been. In fact they were supposedly the same snipers who had strapped a bomb onto John and tried to kill them both at the swimming pool ages ago. For that reason alone Sherlock decided he'd subject them to special treatment when he eventually encountered them. Purely for information, of course.

But that was for the future. For now, if he wanted to write this damn letter he'd better hurry up. In five minutes he'd be whisked away to an airport where he and his brother would fly to Berlin on a private jet. He only had that time to put his feelings down on paper yet the words seemed reluctant to present themselves. For all his brilliance, Sherlock was hopeless when it came to understanding human emotions, especially his own. All he had to do was tell John that he was still alive, that he hoped to be reunited with him one day but something told him that wasn't enough. Much more needed to be said, but there was no time to say it.

He picked up the pen anyway, scribbling his words messily across the page, not caring how little sense they seemed to make. He hoped to one day entrust more of this precious information to John face-to-face but that had to wait for now. He signed off the letter almost lazily, just happy to have something written down. The letter contained only a small portion of the things he had wanted to tell John since he'd faked his death, it was nowhere near enough to redeem all the pain he had caused both John and himself. Still, it would have to do.

Sherlock decided to leave the letter by his graveside; he could do it en-route to the airport. To deliver it to John's new flat or to his workplace would be too dangerous, there was a chance that he'd be spotted. He knew, however that John visited the cemetery every Saturday at eleven o'clock in the morning, and nothing had ever disturbed this routine before. It was past midnight already, John would have the letter in a matter of hours this way. Assuming nothing drastic occurred in this time, John would notice a strange note balanced against the stone, and by then Sherlock would be in Berlin with his mind focussed on hunting down Moriarty's men and a little weight lifted from his heart.

A light knock disturbed his thoughts and the door opened to reveal Anthea, totally engrossed in her blackberry as usual. "Mycroft has a car waiting for you," she said in a bored tone. Obviously he was getting in the way of her precious time for texting. "Your belongings have already been packed. Mycroft expects you to be at the airport by two hours, 33 minutes and 24 seconds."

Sherlock smirked slightly at his brother's usual way of organising things to the exact second, before gathering up his coat and scarf, stuffing the letter into his pockets and following her out. The letter felt like it was burning into him as he walked along the fine corridors, making sure Sherlock was painfully aware of its existence and how much it meant to him. Thankfully his brother had been rather lenient with timing, they had plenty of time to visit the graveyard if they were quick, and usually Mycroft's assistants didn't argue with Sherlock if they could avoid it. So as Anthea guided him to the sleek black car that had parked across the doorway he made sure to ask the driver as nicely as he could to take a detour.

Dear John,

I owe you a thousand apologies. I do not blame you if you choose to never forgive me, however you must understand that I had no choice but to have the world believe I was dead. I only faked my death in front of you because it was absolutely vital that you believed it too. I assure you that I did it to protect you and everyone else that I care about and I hope to be able to tell you everything one day, but I can't for now. Please tell no one about this letter and pretend that you still believe that I died. I shouldn't even have written this but there was something I so desperately wanted to tell you and I fear that I may not get another chance.

You were never just a colleague to me, or my faithful blogger, not even my right-hand man. You were something new – something I believed I could never have and still believe that I do not deserve – you were my friend. My only true friend. I wish I could tell you this in person instead of simply writing the words on paper but that will have to wait. So I suppose this is my only chance to try and redeem myself right now, and it needs saying - I'm sorry. Truly sorry for all the pain I have ever caused you. I'm even sorry for all those late nights that I spent playing the violin and for the experiments that often found themselves in the fridge and for all the times I ever got you caught up in a mad, dangerous case. Believe me when I say that I regret every one of the times where I ever wronged you and yet I can never regret meeting you, my dear friend, John Watson.

Yours faithfully,

Sherlock Holmes

The grave keeper furrowed his brow in confusion as he held the letter in his hands and quickly scanned its contents. Mourners leaving gifts or letters was hardly an unusual occurrence; flowers, toys and photos were often left by gravesides as an attempt by the mourning friends and relatives to keep some form of contact with their lost loved ones. Usually he never interfered; it was his job to tend to the graves not to intrude on other people's business.

However on this cold morning one particular letter had caught his eye. The letter itself was hardly suspicious; it was the usual pristine white paper, stained by raindrops from the night before and signed off in black ink. None of this had caught his eye, nothing except the name of its sender. Sherlock Holmes. This would not have seemed strange to him had the name 'Sherlock Holmes' not been staring him in the face, engraved in gold lettering upon the handsome black stone. This had been enough to affect his moral judgment and pique his interest.

This was a letter from beyond the grave.

A mirthless laugh escaped the grave-keepers mouth at the ridiculousness of it all. Strange happenings were hardly new to him; he'd heard his fair share of stories and hauntings while working here. After all, every graveyard needed a good old fashioned ghost story.

A few months back he had been bothered by people knocking on his door with tales of a ghostly man in a long coat who would keep watch over his own grave from the trees several meters away. Nonsense, the lot of it, but the stories had attracted several kids who seemed desperate to be scared out of their wits in the dead of night by this spirit.

That had been a while ago though, the attention had long since cooled down and hardly anything note-worthy had occurred to back up the sighting of the ghost. So how was he standing there, holding an impossible letter in his hands?

And then it occurred to him. He mentally kicked himself for not realising earlier and for getting caught up in thoughts of the supernatural. Chances were that this was simply a cruel joke left behind by bored teenagers who had nothing better to do with their time. It wouldn't be the first time they'd spent time making trouble in the graveyard, stealing gifts meant for the dead or vandalising the gravestones. God he despised those kids. His theory was only strengthened by the fact that the handwriting was scrawled almost lazily across the page, like it had been left in a hurry. It was either the work of kids, or a man had been able to physically write the words despite being eaten by maggots six feet under.

The grave-keeper decided to save some poor mourner unnecessary pain and crushed the letter in his hands before returning to work.