Hello, everyone! This is an idea that popped in my head that simply wouldn't go away. So I wrote it out. I'm thinking about turning it into a multi-chapter fic? Please let me know what you guys think! :D Also, this hasn't been beta'd or britpicked. Let me know if you see any mistakes!
Warning: Brief mentions of suicidal thoughts/depression.
Hey Sherlock,
Sorry I haven't written to you all summer. I know I promised that I would. My mum kept all the letters you sent. They're in a stack on my bed. Haven't had the chance to go through them yet. I just got released from St. Mungo's. They were keeping me pretty isolated. No visitors and things like that. Which I don't really understand, but hey I'm not the healer. My left shoulder is scarred up pretty bad. I can't move it very well. I'm trying some physical therapy things to try and loosen it up. I also have a limp, but there's no damage to my leg. The healers said it's all psychological. Same with my hand. It's got a tremor in it that comes and goes. Anyhow, I hope you're doing well. I haven't read through your letters yet, but I guess I'll find out shortly. Just want you to know that just because you're in Slytherin doesn't make you a bad person. I know it's going to be rough this next coming year, but I really need you there at Hogwarts with me. It's going to be hard coming back.
-John H. Watson
John sighed and sat his quill down on his desk. He scrubbed tiredly at his eyes. It was half past four in the morning. He'd been tossing and turning in his bed all night and hadn't gotten a wink of sleep. His gaze kept going to the stack of letters that were now sitting on his desk. He'd been avoiding writing this letter. He wasn't sure why. Guilt, perhaps? Or maybe the thought of Sherlock brought back memories from the Battle of Hogwarts that he would rather forget. He winced and felt his heart jump into his throat. He practiced the breathing exercises he'd been taught at St. Mungo's to calm his racing heart. He folded his parchment carefully and sealed it into an envelope.
A sense of guilt washed over him and he hesitated before giving it to his owl Gladstone. Gladstone was a beautiful Spectacled Owl in a rich brown color. Gladstone gave him a small tilt of the head as if to ask, 'Are you sure?' John nodded and said, "I'm sure." Gladstone gave a small noise of approval and then took off through John's open window. John sighed and slouched back in his chair, his hand reaching up to massage his bad shoulder.
He knew why he was feeling guilty. He felt like he wasn't telling Sherlock the entire truth. Which, maybe he wasn't. He was trying to spare Sherlock from the gruesome details of his stay at St. Mungo's. (He had a feeling Sherlock already knew, however, with Mycroft's position in the Ministry.) He knew Sherlock felt guilty about what had happened and John didn't want to make that guilt any harder for him than it already was. His gaze then flitted over to the calendar hanging on the wall. Fourteen more days until he left for the Hogwarts Express. He couldn't believe it. He only had sixteen days of summer outside of St. Mungo's.
With a groan he got himself to his feet. He plopped face first onto his bed with another longsuffering groan. He hadn't slept since he'd been home. He wanted to. He really did. His limbs were trembling from the lack of sleep. He saw images at the corners of his eyes that weren't actually there. Noises and sounds seemed to echo beside his ears, but he could never find the source. He wished the bed would just swallow him whole and end his suffering.
After another solid hour of tossing and turning, his eyes drifted to the letters on the desk. He wasn't sleeping anyhow. He may as well make use of his time. He wished he didn't have to move to get them, but he did. With some stifled groans of pain (his shoulder was still quite stiff and his leg screamed when he put weight on it) he got the letters and then collapsed on his bed again. He opened the first one and began to read.
May 13th, 1998
John,
I know you won't get this. My brother has informed me that you are in solitary confinement at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. He has assured me that the best Healers have been put on your case. I only hope this is true. Despite knowing you won't receive this letter or any that may follow, it seems to make me feel better to write to you. I'm not sure why. I'm sure you would be able to tell me. As I write this, reconstruction on the castle has begun. Classes have been cancelled until the coming fall, but students are still welcome to stay and help if they choose to do so. Most students have left, but a few of us are still here. Most notably your Gryffindor friend Neville Longbottom. He's taken charge of a good portion of the rebuild and living up to the Gyffindor name. You would be happy.
I wish you were happy now, though I know that's probably not the case. I apologize again for the ordeal you had to go through. Being under the Cruciatus curse for that long is very dangerous and I can only pray that you make a full recovery. School will not be the same without you, John Watson.
SH
June 4th, 1998
The summer is boring me to death. Please hurry up and get better, John. My skull can talk, but it's not the same as having you around to talk to. I'm not quite sure how I handled cases before our inevitable meeting in fourth year Potions.
SH
June 11th, 1998
John,
I tried to sneak into St. Mungo's today to see you, but I was stopped by a very observant Healer. I was impressed, to say the least. I did see you for a few moments through the window of your room before I was forcibly hauled away. A Healer appeared to be massaging your shoulder. Your back was turned to the window, so I doubt you saw me. It's fine. You looked too pale and too thin and I believe that to be quite the statement coming from me. When I see you again I will make sure you are back to a normal weight before Quidditch season. I promise.
SH
June 24, 2014
John,
Happy Birthday. I tried sending you a cake, but I believe it was turned down. I don't understand why they're keeping you so isolated. I've been doing my own research and I believe that your symptoms need a different treatment. I've argued with Mycroft about it, but he won't listen. You need to be around people, John. I know because of my experiences with you. Isolation is probably killing you, driving you slowly insane. You're very social and you need social interaction to help your mood which will then increase the speed at which you heal. I'm going to try and write to the Healers on your case, but they'll probably turn those down too.
SH
John read every single letter. Each of them is of varying lengths. One of them was only a sentence long. "I'm out of milk." John had actually laughed at that one. It was well past eight in the morning when he finally reached the last one, sent only three days ago. His brow furrowed in concern as he opened it. There was no date. There was no "John." It simply started with Sherlock's scrawl of a script. The writing seemed shaky and there were evident blotches on the parchment, as if he'd been crying when he'd written it. John took a deep breath and braced himself before beginning to read.
I can't do this, John. I got into St. Mungo's, this time without being seen. I saw you begging the Healers to kill you. You were crying and begging them to end your pain. If I wouldn't have been so careless you wouldn't be screaming yourself hoarse every day and night. I read all of the Healers' notes. I know everything, John. Everything. I can't sleep now without hearing your screams. I dream you're at my feet. You grab onto my leg and begin to plead with me to kill you. I hold my wand in my hand and the killing curse rolls off my lips before I can stop it. I hold your corpse in my arms and it feels so real. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, John. For all the hurt that I have caused you. Please forgive me.
Sherlock
John sobbed.