John stared at that leather chair for hours, not noticing Mrs. Hudson's comings and goings. He barely registered the change in light let alone the chill that crept into 221B Baker Street.
"Mycroft." he croaked, his voice rough from lack of use. John hadn't spoken much since Sherlock's funeral, "What're you doing here?" he coughed out, his eyes not leaving Sherlock's chair.
"He told me to give this to you," John turned and saw him holding a crisp white envelope, "He said it was important that you read it."
John turned away and said nothing. He couldn't say anything. Too many ideas were whirring around in his brain. What was in the letter? Did he know? How could he not have known?
Mycroft shuffled the envelope between his hands as he waited for a response from John. Realizing that he wasn't going to get one, he walked past John and placed it carefully in the center of Sherlock's chair.
"Take care John," Mycroft said, awkwardly gripping John's shoulder, "please read it." and walked past him towards the door. John heard his receding steps until they stopped.
"I'm sorry."
And with that, Mycroft was gone.
John got up slowly from his chair and limped to stand in front of Sherlock's chair. He picked up the envelope and opened it, taking a single sheet of paper and read the single line written on it in that familiar script.
John sighed and closed his eyes, falling to the floor, and leaned against the chair, sobs pulling themselves out of him, the letter fallen to his right. John covered his face and slowly, the sobs became laughs, a ghost of smile gracing his worn face.
"I'm alive. Go to Molly. She'll take you to me. Oh, and I love you too."
- SH