the Letters

Summary: "I have written you twelve letters, - one for each month - in the hope that this will help ease my passing. I'm not so vain to think that you will be a complete wreck without me, but I'm not so stupid to believe you won't mourn me either. All I ask, is that you read these letters on the exact dates they were intended for. This is the one, last thing I ask of you. - SH"

Pairing: Johnlock (John Watson x Sherlock Holmes)

Rating: T, just in case

Hey guys!

So I've had this idea for a while, and I finally decided it was time to write it. I've had to discontinue a lot of stories lately, all for different reasons, but I think now I've come up with some that I can continue with. I think I can almost definitely finish this, because my plan at the moment is for it only to be about 13-14 chapters long.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it, and please review!

Megan

oxox

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twitter: OxOxMeganOxOx
YouTube: sherlockian13 (MyNamesNotDorris)

Sherlock bit his lip, and shook his head frantically, as he crumpled up another piece of paper. He ruffled his hair, and put his head in his hands, sighing with frustration. He'd been at this for hours, and it was now five o'clock in the morning. John had been gone for hours, and he was quickly running out of time. But this suddenly seemed more important. It didn't matter if his plan went wrong, or back-fired . . . he just had to get this done first. Because for whatever reason, it mattered.

The only problem was, he just couldn't find the words. No matter how hard he tried, nothing seemed right. He knew every word in the English language, and could recite almost all of their definitions from memory. He could tell you the hidden meaning behind anything anybody said, and what it meant when they wrote something a certain way. However, when it came to this . . . all of that suddenly just seemed insignificant.

He kicked the table-leg in anger, picking up the crumpled piece of paper, and throwing it across the room in anger. It landed in the pile, with the rest of them. His crumpled pile of failed words.

Ignoring the sharp pain in his foot, he pulled another piece of paper towards him, and began scribbling once more. He no longer cared what time it was, or how long he had left. All he cared about, was making sure that it was right. It just had to be right. As suddenly, writing this felt more important than anything he'd ever done in his life.

And it was hard. God, was it hard.

He'd tried to remain distant, tried to stay strong. Not just for him, but for John. He didn't want to make it any harder than it already would be for him. He didn't want to cause him any more pain. Then, everyone had their breaking point. Even the great Sherlock Holmes, it would seem. Because here he was, all alone in the lab, surrounded by crumpled pieces of paper, sobbing.

The sobs shook his body with such great force, that he feared he might break. But he carried on writing, because he had to finish this. Because it mattered. A few years ago, this would have been easy. He could've disappeared off of the face of the earth, and not a single person would have noticed. He could have done that, and it would have been easy. Because he wouldn't have had anyone to leave behind.

But now he had John. John, who'd stuck with him from the beginning. Who'd put up with his early-morning violin playing, shooting holes in the walls, even coming home in the middle of the night, covered in blood. He'd never once asked any questions, and he'd never once yelled at him. Well, at least not properly. John had trusted him, no matter what. And he was about to destroy all of that in just a few, short hours.

It was funny, how long it took to build something up, and how quickly it could be knocked right back down again.

As he reached the end of the page, he signed his name carefully and slowly. He folded the page neatly, and slid it into the last envelope. He wrote John's name across the front, and scribbled a date in the corner. One year from now. A whole year until he was going to see him again. The thought itself was unbearable.

He added the envelope to the pile, leaving them on the table. Molly knew what to do with them next.

Taking one last look around the lab, the very lab where him and John had first met, he sighed. What he was about to do would be one of the hardest things he'd ever done. He'd never minded lying before. But lying to John was different. Especially, about something like this. He didn't want to do it. He wanted it all to stop, and to just go back to before he'd messed it all up.

Even though he knew this had been Moriarty's plan all along, he wondered if . . . if things would have been different, if he'd figured it out sooner. If he'd found a way to stop him back in that swimming pool, maybe they wouldn't be in this position right now. He'd been too smart, too clever, to look for the obvious. And Moriarty's plan was so painstakingly obvious . . . that he'd missed it completely. Yes, it was him and his tremendous ego that had gotten him into this situation.

He wiped his eyes with the back of his hands, and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was shaking now, and he didn't even try to stop himself from letting out a small, choked sob. He'd never really cared much for emotions, he simply didn't have the time. And yet here he was, sobbing, alone, at five o'clock in the morning. And he felt nothing but shame.

He was ashamed of himself, for letting his emotions get the better of him. He was ashamed of himself, for not figuring this all out before. He was ashamed of himself, for letting John down.

John.

That was always what everything seemed to come back to. John. And he supposed, in a way, it all made sense now. Because really, it'd always been about John, right from the start. He couldn't believe he'd never thought of it before, but now it was too late. He'd just have to hope that he was doing the right thing. Because now, he finally knew what Moriarty had been talking about.

"I will burn . . . the heart out of you."

"I've been reliably informed that I don't have one."

"We both know that's not quite true."

Standing behind a cluster of trees, Sherlock watched as John made his way over to the grave. His grave. Sherlock's grave. This was the fifth time he'd visited in a week, and Sherlock had been there every time. He knew he had other things to do, knew that there were more important things. But . . . this was John. It didn't matter that he was risking being seen, risking the whole plan going wrong. He just had to know that John was alright.

He wasn't alright, of course. Sherlock wasn't stupid. As John walked through the graveyard, his hands were shaking. His limp was back as well. It had returned a few days after Sherlock's fall. He was using the stick to get around again, and it broke Sherlock's heart every time. He just hoped that one day, John would be able to forgive him.

John stopped in front of Sherlock's grave, sitting down on the grass. He placed his stick at his side, and traced over the name that he'd spoken so many times.

"So . . . it's been a week already. Christ . . ." John whispered, as his fingers fell back into his lap. He began to twiddle them, not daring to look up at the grave again. It just made it more real whenever he did. "You know . . . I used to wonder . . . what my life would be like with-without you . . . sometimes, I thought it might be better. Just . . . just for a second, I thought . . . it might be nice, you know? To have a normal life . . . . well, I was wrong. God, was I wrong . . .

Life before I met you, it was . . . it was hell. Just getting up in the morning was . . . well, it was hard. Every day was the same, and . . . I was so close to giving up. I thought that was hard, Sherlock, but . . . now . . . now that you're . . . not here . . . I don't think I've ever felt so lost. I don't know what I'm going anymore, a-and . . . I miss you.

I think about you all the time, and . . . do you know what the worst part is? I'm scared that I won't remember you. I'm scared that . . . in five months' time, or even . . . a year from now, I won't remember. I'm scared that . . . that I won't even remember the little things. Because somehow, they seem like the most important. Like . . . the way you turned up the collar of your coat . . . or the way you'd yell at the TV when we were watching Jeremy Kyle. Even the colour that your eyes were under florescent lights . . . I just . . . I don't ever want to forget you. And I'm scared that one day . . . I might."

He rubbed his tired eyes, and sighed. When it'd first happened, he'd wondered if it would have been better if he'd never met Sherlock at all. Was it not better to live his normal, boring life without ever knowing what he was missing out on, than to have to live without the one thing that had made his life better? But after thinking about it for a while, he'd realized that no, it wasn't.

Reaching out his hand to touch the gravestone again, he ran his hand over the cool marble. He looked at the carefully engraved lettering, and shook his head.

"Sherlock Holmes. That's all. No epitaph, or small quote. Not even a date! . . . I can't quite decide whether that's better or worse. Because, who could ever think of a word to describe you? It seems wrong to even try, because . . . because no words could ever really do you justice. You were just . . . well, you were brilliant. But even that doesn't seem enough now.

And as far as the dates go, well . . . a life like yours was much more significant than that. Much more significant than just a line between two dates. Because that's all we're worth in the end. Nobody's remembered, nobody really makes a difference. But you did. And even when everybody else forgets about you, when everybody else moves on . . . I'll still remember. Because you were so much more than just a line.

I mean . . . that's your whole life. All those things you did . . . all those people you helped . . . and in the end, it all means nothing. No, that wouldn't have been right. But at the same time . . . I can't help but feel like it should say something, you know? One day, I'm not going to be around to remember you anymore, and I feel like . . . like people should know that you were here."

John breathed in deeply, and let out a large sigh. He picked up his stick, and used it to help him get up, leaning on it for support. He reached over, touching the top of the gravestone, as he'd done every time before. Sherlock felt it were some kind of goodbye. One that John just didn't seem to be able to get out.

"I don't know, maybe I'm just . . . over-thinking things," he muttered, looking out across the graveyard. "Can I just ask . . . just one more thing? Just one thing I'd still like to know . . . why? Why did you do it Sherlock?"

Sherlock shrunk back into the trees, as he watched John make his way back to the taxi that was waiting for him. Even though John hadn't spoken about, Sherlock could see how torn-up he was. And he wanted nothing more to just go to him, and to tell him everything. But he knew he couldn't. The word would eventually get back to Moriarty's assassins, and that was the last thing he wanted.

He wouldn't mind dying, honestly, he wouldn't. If the assassins got hold of him today, and shot him through the head, he wouldn't mind. Because he'd know that everyone else was going to be alright. But he knew that Moriarty had known that already. His plan had been designed to hurt Sherlock was much as possible. Because he'd known, that if there was one thing he cared about more than anything, it was John. He'd known it even before Sherlock had.

John was his one weakness.