And I don't know how I can do without,
By Padfoot
"Picture perfect memories,
Scattered all around the floor."
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and, above them all, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This is just a fanfic based on the tv show. A Johnlock story.
Note: It's not perfect and I know I'm killing the English language between the words, once I can't truly write in English. For this reason, if you see some mistake, please, let me know and I'll try to get better. By the way, it's my first fanfic about them and the first one translated (of course, I write it in Portuguese then translated it), so be nice. Seriously, be nice. Anyway, I know no one will read this, so let's go…
"I can't fight it anymore."
There's been a while since the last time I wrote you something.
Yes, I can see my mistake — now more than ever. But I didn't come here to ask you to forgive me, because I know there's no way to unsay what was said, neither undo what's already done. We are separated by this thin consciousness line, one that cannot be broken even by thoughts.
And yet, I still have them.
Forgive me, but I have to be honest at least in this letter. Whilst I still can and the breath survive between the indescribable sobs of a suffocated heart.
Drama-queen? Yes, you'd say something like that. And I'd agree with you making an undisguised scowl. It's funny the way my feelings were always uncovered for you in some situations, isn't it?! I like to pretend this hasn't changed — despite everything.
No, do not try to deduce anything. You couldn't get it. And, please, don't start to feel angry about it, because it's true that you couldn't guess what I am talking about, and this truth is impossible to argue — don't even try, seriously; though I know that you can read my mind right now.
It's not a logical fact what I am compelling myself to write about, mainly because I'm very emotional at the moment to tell you everything I want to. What I've already done before, at the beginning. Since the first line or the first urge I felt to write you a letter. This emptiness between us.
I know it's not your fault. I truly believe there's a good reason to — oh, sorry! I can't handle it! Walk by the very same place we had ended it is not healthy for my sanity. Stop in the same corner I stopped to watch you decide by both of us my future — once yours was already sealed — it is not wise. I already can't look up at the ceiling without strike anything adrift my rage.
It's not my fault, either, I'm carrying this feeling.
Please, don't ask me "what is it", yet! I am really trying to get strength to confess to myself, imagine writing it. Yes, I know I put myself into this task — even when you were able to listen and answer it with your weird and unique way to handle things up. My eyes had always showed you what I'm about to say before I even notice you were what they were looking for.
Okay, following your logical sense, I even should not have started this — and I'm including everything I've been doing since we met in that lab. I should not, by the way, be this pathetic fool who dedicate his time, brain and paper to a dead body. After all, in what way could you answer me?
But the big question is: what could it have been when you were alive?
I don't know.
In fact, I can't waste all my afternoons thinking about it, because our good housekeeper landlady told me to keep myself busy. So I did it — not that needlework, cooking or paying visits to the library are really hard things to do, but it's a good occupation for a person too tired of keep waiting something that will never come back. Anyway, I'll not lie: at night or anytime a cold wind whisper at my window, the question invades my mind with his destroyed "it could have been" and I begin to swim with my memories and its unreal flashes I create by myself.
One of these imaginary scenes, for example, is the day we met that woman. I erase all my painful impressions about the way you were captured by her web and I fulfill it with ecstasy dedicated to me, and some sweet words that calm down my furious heart — "Do not worry: she means nothing to me"; "This is just business, nothing else"; "I don't think she's better than you".
Then, I begin to draw a kiss — really sweet, with warm and wet lips tired of wait this move for so long, desperate tongues and hungry hands that seek for more skin touch and hair. There, just right there, is where I can't continue drawing. I can't go any further than your scratched body above mine. I am afraid. What kind of feelings I'm calling to show up with this draw? Is it even possible to keep more feelings for you inside me?!
Well, I have not strength enough — or reasons — to procrastinate the truth: I love you. With a furious kindness, a freezing warmth and the illogical theory a lot of authors already have written about. I love you. I do. This is an unbreakable truth, the only one. And that's why I can't create a happy ending to our hopeless love.
I can't imagine what it could have been, I can't picture us as a couple because I'm already okay with the reality: we'll always be partners, best friends — the only friend you've ever had, as you confessed me once. Or, may be, because I have such enough pain without this cruel open scar: my imagination can't handle us together only there, it wants us together in real life as well.
And that's my mistake.
Not have been.
Not to be.
And just go on.
Keep going on despite everything.
Keep lying to myself.
Keep moving on all by myself.
Alone.
Whilst I carry you inside me — to somewhere we can be, at some point of our lives, quite close to our happy ending.
Sincerely, I don't know why I even insist. Write to you every morning that my heartache makes me scream and only let me breathe when I use a pen — it's like the pain is defeated by writing; or it pretends to be dead while I fall deep down into my love — it's not a good hobby.
In matter of fact, I just wanted to tell you. Actually, I wanted that I have had told you. In that moment. But my stupid fear stopped me to ask you. To beg you. I just could say "no. Don't". However, what could have stopped you, what could have persuaded you remain still till I get there and forced you to not lie to me, to not try to destroy our memories, our bond… That I couldn't tell you. I had not the proper time to say it.
This is what I'm doing, now. Too late and with tears in my eyes.
I just wish that I have not screwed everything up trying to hide from you what we could have been. Hiding from myself.
— Please, don't go away! Live! Don't jump!
— I love you, Sherlock.
"Another shot of whisky,
can't stop looking at the door.
Wishing you'd come sweeping
in the way you did before."