John still talked to the skull sometimes. It had worked for Sherlock, he reasoned. "Why did he jump?" he asked the skull in tears one night when he had had too much to drink. "It doesn't make sense." Lestrade said it was an unhealthy habit and Mycroft had pursed his lips. Mrs Hudson didn't even try to clear any of Sherlock's things anymore. Not since John had shouted at her. He had felt awful, wanted to apologise, but he didn't and they both pretended it hadn't happened.
Sherlock still went into the flat sometimes, when he was sure it was safe and he couldn't stay away, but only at night. Only ever at night. John never saw him, he always assumed the extra blanket over him was Mrs Hudson trying to look after him. Sherlock shook his head, despite feeling a little pleased when he saw his experiments exactly as they had been. He remembered the clench in his stomach when he saw the dark lines across John's wrists but he couldn't say anything.
One morning sat in his armchair, drinking his coffee and reading the newspaper. He talked to his skull, as was his habit. "What's the use? You never answer," John said after a while, picking up the skull, wanting to hurl it against the wall but he couldn't do that. This was Sherlock's; he couldn't throw it against the wall. He moved to put it back down, but as he did he saw a small piece of paper. He picked it up and turned it round his fingers. He looked at it for a moment, read it. Reread it, and read it again to make sure it wasn't wishful thinking.
I love you. -SH
"I found a note," John told the man opposite him.
"Hmm," Mycroft said, not interested.
"It was from Sherlock," John added.
"What did it say?" Mycroft asked curiously, looking up slowly. John passed Mycroft the note reluctantly. Mycroft read it, not surprised. "This could have been there for years, before he jumped," he said in a disinterested tone, tossing the note back to the other man. John nodded, feeling his stomach sink in disappointment though he had told himself that already.
"You shouldn't have left that note you know," Mycroft told his brother once John had left.
"I know," Sherlock said, not regretting it one bit.
"Just be careful," Mycroft sighed after a minute, "You won't be doing him any favours by getting him killed." Sherlock just shrugged and walked out of the flat to the hotel where he was currently staying.
John curled up in Sherlock's bed that night. He did that sometimes when he got too lonely. "I love you too Sherlock," he whispered into the pillow that was growing wet with his salty tears. John slept fitfully that night and Sherlock stayed away. He couldn't risk John knowing he was alive, not yet.