I seem to be involved in a lot of challenges recently… eh, it's useful, gets me used to deadlines. (which is what one of my New Year's resolutions is! heh) Anyway, this fic was written for the johnlockchallenges' first ever Grab Bag challenge, for entangledwood and their prompt –

"You cleaned my room?"

"Yes! You sure wouldn't have done it."

It could have been any genre, any rating, so I went with… well, you'll already know that. So, without any more hassle, let's hand it over to, y'know, the actual fic. Also, I apologise in advance. Because I swear I did not intend for the angst! It has a happy end, I promise!

Sherlock's eyes flickered over the shelves, taking in each and every change in the stacking of books, memorizing the new order of bottles and containers. He ground his teeth together in (somewhat uncharacteristic) irritation, balling his hands into fists and shutting his eyes, a sigh escaping him as he heard the front door clicking shut. Footsteps clunked up the stairs, and Sherlock turned to look as his bedroom door was opened, his flatmate walking in with a bemused expression. Not one that he'd be returning.

"Did you only just come in here? I thought you might have noticed a little earlier…" John raised his eyebrows, a slight chuckle escaping him as he turned to survey the room, keeping an ear open for Sherlock's reaction.

"…"

"…Yes?"

"…You cleaned my room?" Sherlock looked at his friend with a blank look, containing his irritation for the time being.

"Yes! You sure wouldn't have done it, and it was really annoying. Things were starting to smell… hey, you should be thanking me, you could have gotten ill or something, and then -" John stopped abruptly as Sherlock grabbed him by the shirt, pulling him close with a cold eye. "Uh…"

"You went through all my things… threw out some of my - highly important, may I add – experiments and you have the nerve to ask for a thank you? I… well then." Sherlock looked off to the side, a small smirk twitching on his face. "You wouldn't mind if I did the same, then?"

"Uh… what?"

"You heard me. Now then, I'll be done soon, I expect, so don't wait around for me." With that, Sherlock dashed past John, rushing as she heard the doctor chasing behind him with a frustrated growl. Making it to the door, he ran in and slammed it behind him, sliding the lock across with a grin as John knocked loudly.

"Let me in, damn it!"

"I doubt that'd be a good idea. Shall I take a look around?" Heading over to the desk in which most of John's items were kept, Sherlock slid the drawer open with a quiet chuckle. He removed the drawer and took it over to the bed, sitting down and beginning to sift through the papers and objects. He pulled out the gun that John kept and placed it by his side, then lifted up the laptop and did the same. "These are obvious, and hardly interesting. Now, let's see…" He lifted out a photograph, one with John and a group of other men, all dressed in army attire. "Colleagues?"

"Friends, Sherlock. Friends."

"Yes, well, I take it you haven't had much contact with them since. Not exactly good friendship there, is it?"

"They're still in the middle of war!"

"Perhaps… although it's unlikely they'd just ignore your departure entirely. Haven't they heard of letter writing? Dull… anyway…" Sherlock pulled out a handful of papers, flicking through each with boredom. "Bills… boring… therapist… boring… boring, boring, boring…" With each uninteresting discovery, Sherlock flicked the paper across the room, letters and documents littering the floor. "Oh, am I making a mess?"

"Get away from my things!"

"It's not like there's anything worth examining here anyw- oh, what's this?" Sherlock pulled out a sealed letter, without any mailing address or stamps. "A blank, filled envelope? I expect you haven't had the chance to finish mailing this, then. Mind if I…"

"Don't even think about it, Sherlock, that's personal."

"So were the eyeballs, and the assorted bacterial compound notes you threw out. So I suppose it's only fair." Sherlock pulled out a letter opener, the one he kept on hand for any suspicious packages, and sliced open the top of the letter, sliding out the paper carefully. "Handwritten… I thought you were more a computer, typed person, but there are some things that aren't important enough to dedu… ce." Sherlock blinked as he looked at the first few words. "John…"

"I'm telling you to stop reading!"

"Why would I now? Especially since this letter is addressed to me… well, I should definitely read this now." Raising an eyebrow, the detective unfolded the paper entirely and began to read it, whispering the words slightly to keep concentration.

"Dear Sherlock,

Don't be dead. Don't. Just… let me know, something, anything. Oh, why am I even writing this? It's not like you'll ever see this. You can't, can you? You're-

You're not dead, though. You can't be.

Still, writing this definitely helps. I feel like you're reading this, as I write it, and I bet you're just waiting to come back, right? I hope so.

I need you."

"John…what… wait, there's more…" Sherlock pushed some other papers aside, revealing an entire pile of letters, all sealed and unaddressed, all containing handwritten letters. Pulling a handful out, he continued opening them, reading out each one under his breath.

"Dear Sherlock,

It's been six months, and not a sign. But I won't give up, you know. I've kept myself busy. Worked long hours at the practice. Spend most of my 'spare' time outside, since I can't stand the silence of the flat. I won't let anyone else move in, mind. Mrs Hudson was a little worried about the rent money, but in the end she said I'd be fine. Your room hasn't been touched, no matter how much she complains about the mess. I couldn't do that. It's like the only reminder we have. And besides, I need to keep it the same for when you get back.

You will be coming back, I know it. You have to.

I miss you."

"Sherlock, just stop, it's…" John faded off behind the door, sinking down to sit with his back to it, pressing an ear to the door so he could keep listening as Sherlock read.

"Dear Sherlock,

Happy anniversary. Your death, I mean. Do they sell cards for death anniversaries? Like birthday cards? No… that'd be awful, and a bit tasteless.

A bit not good?

I've been so alone. I mean, I have Mrs Hudson's company, but I haven't made any new friends. I feel like I'd be doing you wrong. I have tried several relationships, but none of them work. Apparently, I'm always too distracted, and I never pay attention to them. Maybe they're attention seekers. Maybe it's the fact I couldn't care less, or the fact that I'd rather be out solving crimes again.

Maybe it's because I spend all my time thinking about you, and how you'll come back. Because you will, you will, you have to.

Right?"

"Dear Sherlock,

Time passes so much slowly than it used to. Well, it doesn't, that'd be one hell of a scientific phenomenon. But it feels like it. Guess it's because I'm not running about anymore. I just sit here, most of the time, writing these letters and trying to work out what I really think about all of this. I don't know anymore, I just don't, Sherlock. I feel… so many things. And then I cast them away because they don't seem like the feelings that I'm supposed to be feeling. What should I feel?

I miss you. I want those days back. I feel like I could have stopped this. I hate myself. I hate you, for what you did, how alone you've made me feel. Then that last one makes me hate myself. Because I don't hate you, not at all, far from it.

I … you, and …you could hear… …how much I … everything … those days."

The last few words had become smudged by droplets of water. Sherlock pulled the paper close to his eyes, noticing the spaces and the natural way the drips had fallen. Tears?

"Dear Sherlock,

I guess that last letter didn't really make sense, did it? Yeah. Well… I don't know if I can say it again. It just wouldn't feel right. Maybe when you come back? Yeah. Yeah, that'd be a good time.

Come back, Sherlock. Please."

"I get the majority of this. Let's just skip ahead to the ending. Ahem… oh, this one looks recent." Sherlock opened the final letter.

"No… wait, Sherlock, don't, I -"

"…Dear Sherlock,

If you're reading this, then I've been a coward and just left it here while I go out, or something. Not exactly capable of saying it in person. The words wouldn't be right, and I doubt they will be even now, but at least I'm getting it out of my system, aren't I? Still, here we go.

The last few months, a lot of things have happened, haven't they? You coming back was… pretty big, yeah. I can't say I wasn't angry, or hurt, but after the explanation I understand that there weren't really any other options on the line. So I guess I can forgive you for that. After all, I still got my miracle, didn't I? And now I can say it again, even though you didn't see the first time. Did you?

Well, here we go.

I guess I understand why I couldn't keep a relationship going while you were away. I couldn't stop thinking about you, could I? All the… adventures we had. The good times. I couldn't forget those. And how much everything had changed…I wanted that back. I wanted you back. And that stopped me caring about anything else, for so long.

That other letter I wrote, it helped me so much. I didn't feel embarrassed about what I said. It was true, all of it. If I write it again now, I know I won't cry again. The same words.

I love you, and I wish you could hear me saying how much I loved everything about those days.

You better get that, Sherlock. I love you. I mean that, even if you're married to your work or just plain uninterested, I… damn it. I love you.

Next time we go to Angelo's, let's keep the candle."

John listened on for several moments, silence hanging between the two of them as Sherlock sat on the bed, no longer reading. He dropped the letter on the pile, standing up and walking to the door, unlatching the lock and pulling it open with one quick motion. John, who had still been leaning on the door at the time, fell over and landed at Sherlock's feet, looking up with a cautious look, unsure of how Sherlock would react. The detective grabbed John and pulled him to his feet, staring him straight in the eyes. John looked back with mild fear in his eyes, unable to move as Sherlock kept hold of him by the front of his jumper.

Leaning over to whisper in John's ear, Sherlock chuckled softly. "Angelo's? Really? That's the best thing you could come up with?"

"I was in a really happy mood, okay?" John relaxed slightly, still partially nervous but at least aware that Sherlock wasn't going to kill him. "Uh… so? Now what?"

"I can only think of one thing." And with that, Sherlock moved over to John's face, pressing his lips against the doctor's with a swift movement. John tensed up, not expecting such an action, but soon relaxed again and melted into the kiss, eyebrow raised at Sherlock's sudden personality change. Tilting his head slightly, he let out a quiet gasp as he felt Sherlock slowly trace his tongue over his lips, the taller man moving a hand around to hold onto the back of the shorter's head. John opened his lips, moaning as Sherlock entered, twisting their tongues together with a technique that could hardly be a beginner's. John pulled back, eyeing up the detective with a smirk. "You've done this before, haven't you?"

"Experiments." Sherlock stepped away, walking past John to exit the room. Looking back, he grinned. "Seven thirty, the corner table. I'll be there, just have to get something first -"

"What? Be where?"

With a playful smile, Sherlock held the door half-closed, and just as he shut the door he called back. "Angelo's, obviously!"

Wow. I actually really like how this turned out. Eh, two days from now I'll probably hate it, but y'know, the power of insecurity! xD I hope you like it! Um… I'll just run away now. *runs*