First chappie of a fic I've been dying to write! John reads the journal Sherlock kept after her "suicide". Hope you like it, and hope you'll leave feedback too. No flames, please; I used my last fire extinguisher when I accidentally set my kitchen on fire. Thankees muchly!
Oh, and I almost forgot: Own not, profit not, sue not.
-Rookie Cookie Baked Crispy
John,
I feel secure in writing this because I know you'll never read it. Mycroft has insisted I keep a journal, to record my "feelings" during my exile; bloody insufferable git. You know I've never enjoyed talking about things I don't really understand, so I'm going to pretend I'm writing to you to make this a bit more bearable. You would know what to say to make me feel better, always know what advice was proper for whatever situation. I'm hesitant to admit that I'm starting to miss you, not because I'm not sure if I do(believe me, I'm sure,) but because to do so means that I'm not so untouchable, that I… that I haven't forgotten how to care. That frightens me, John. To care is to be vulnerable, and I don't like being vulnerable. I've only ever been hurt, and I was so sure I'd found the solution to that problem, but then you came along and flushed that theory down the loo. I know you would never hurt me; that's not who you are. But if someone tried to get to me through you… it would work, John. That's why I faked my own death. To protect you. Moriarty threatened to kill you.
Be safe, John. Be safe.- SH
John Watson gaped as he read and reread the small, neat handwriting. Had he seriously found the private journal of Sherlock Holmes? Had she really written to him for some measure of comfort? Had she really seen him at her funeral? Had she really admitted to caring for him? Sherlock was out for the day on a trivial case that gave her an excuse to stretch her legs, and she'd waved off his offer to accompany her with a short, "Relax. You've been working long shifts, John. Your eyes and lack of deodorant are telling. Get some rest."
He hadn't argued. After she left in a whirl of scarves and coats, he showered, took a nap, then looked for something to read while he had lunch. Sherlock had used his newspaper in some inane experiment, so he searched for something else. Quite by accident, he'd knocked over the bookshelf beside the window, only to discover it was double- sided. There were shelves on the back, but they housed only a single item: a small, velvet- cover book that appeared to be a sort of journal with Sherlock's name monogrammed in small gold print on the front. He grinned evilly as he plucked it from the shelf and settled in with his sandwich and book. Sherlock wasn't due back "till tomorrow, so he could read at his leisure. And so he read the first entry. He'd completely forgotten his sandwich after realizing she'd written mock- letters to him, of all people. He shook his head to dispel the memories of that day, the day of her funeral. He'd never felt so hollow, so hurt. He reminded himself daily that the detective had done it to protect him, but that didn't stop the deceit from hurting. But reading those last two lines really drove home Sherlock's earnestness in protecting her loved ones. Those three simple words, he knew, would be ones he would treasure 'till the day he died. "Be safe, John."