I Promise

The sun was starting to set, painting the majestic wilderness surrounding the inn a lilac purple and staining the clouds pink. Sherlock rested his elbows on the stone garden railing and stared out towards London. Mycroft told him John wasn't doing well. His limp had returned and he wasn't sleeping. Sherlock hated that he was the cause of his faithful friend's suffering.

"You're grieving."

Sherlock turned sharply. A Canadian girl, one of the other inn's guests, was leaning against the garden gate.

"You lost someone." She joined him at the rail. "But they didn't die; you just can't see them anymore. Actually, I think you lost a lot of someone's but there's one that you regret most."

Sherlock couldn't speak. He felt as if this teenager from Northern Alberta who worked in a bookshop, had a pet parrot, washed her socks separately and had the spaghetti for dinner was reading his mind.

She smiled sadly at him. "I know grief intimately."

Of course she did, she was an orphan whose only other relative passed a month ago.

"That's why I knew he wasn't dead." She continued.

Sherlock turned back to longingly watching the horizon.

"You're from London? You keep staring at it."

"Yes." Sherlock finally found his voice.

"You're going back. Some day. When you stare you get this little twinkle of hope in your eyes. Don't worry. He'll remember you. If he was as a good a friend as you think."

"The best."

"Will you tell me about him? Sometimes it helps to talk about it."

Suddenly Sherlock's throat felt thick. "I can't." He choked out.

Gently the girl laid her hand on his arm. "You have to tell someone. I can it see it still bottled up inside of you. If you don't let it out it will explode and tear you apart."

So Sherlock told her. Slowly, painfully, he told a complete stranger about John and Moriarty and what Sherlock had done to protect John from Moriarty and his legacy of followers. Sherlock was careful about how much he said and what details he left out so it would not be guessed who he really was. When he was finished and the tears were hanging threateningly across his vision the girl wrapped her arms around him and just held on. In a way Sherlock felt like she was holding all of his broken pieces together.

"I know it hurts." She whispered in his year, the emotion in her voice almost overwhelming the words. "But you'll see him again. He's not gone forever and neither are you. You'll fix this and make him safe and then you'll go back and he'll be there waiting. Neither of you may like it now, but you two might just come out of this stronger friends than you ever were. You'll pick up the shattered pieces and you'll find a way to fit them back together. I promise."

Sherlock retired to his room later that night and sat down to write another letter to John. He had started this dangerous habit a week after he had abandoned John. Sherlock wrote the letters, but he never sent them. He wouldn't put John in danger like that.

Sighing, Sherlock picked up his pen and in the dim light of the desk lamp, he wrote to his friend.

Dear John,

I have heard that you are still grieving. I have heard that you of all people are taking my death the worst. The strong soldier, the doctor with nerves of steel who shot a man through two windows without blinking, who faced the Gollum, who stood by the fake detective, is breaking apart because of me. I was stupid John. I wanted to protect you and now I am afraid I may have destroyed you. You are my heart, and I don't want you to burn out.

I will return.

First I have to ensure your safety and the safety of Mrs. Hudson, Molly and Lestrade. Moriarty's men think I am dead. As long as they continue to believe so, you will not be in danger. So in order to return I must remove them from the equation. So far, three have been eliminated. Two in prison and one dead.

When I have completed my quest I will come back. We will fix each other. We will be stronger than ever before.

I promise.