Dearest friend,
Two years today, mate. That's how long it's been. All at once it seems like it's been so much longer, and yet there are times when it seems like it was only yesterday that I was running about the streets with you. Lestrade and Anderson have been chasing a serial killer, you'd have liked this case. He left riddles everywhere, like that one comic book villain you've probably never read about. They'd been on it for a week and a half before they showed up at my flat. To say I was surprised, well…it was a happy distraction. They asked if I might be able to help, after all I knew you and your methods better than anybody.
But I turned them down, I couldn't shake the feeling that my accepting this, it'd be like I was trying to fill in the void in me, where you used to be, with myself. Lestrade, being the right bastard he is, left a file behind about the case for me to look over, and call him if anything came to me. Would you believe it if I told you Anderson apologized for the way he treated you, right before he and Lestrade left. I didn't say anything, logically I know he didn't directly have anything to do with…what happened. But surely you can't blame me for holding on to my grudge.
After Greg left, I'll admit my curiosity got the better of me. I imagined that you were there, sitting on the sofa next to me, looking over the details, commenting on the stupidity of the Police Force. It was the most surreal thing, Sherlock. Your voice talked me through the entire case, finding connections where I'm sure I'd never have found if I hadn't known you. It was obvious, the pattern that the killer was following. It hit me, out of nowhere as the you-voice in my head was talking, that the next victim would be that young banker who was in the news recently. The one involved in that scandal last week?
I phoned Greg and before he'd ever got a word out, I blurted everything out: the pattern, the motive, the victim, the answer to the latest riddle and, most importantly, that the killer was the drama teacher at the local middle school. He was silent for a good while, and for a moment I felt embarrassed. Then Greg told me I was brilliant.
I hung up.
It hurts so much Sherlock. For a moment, I lost myself in the thrill of having another case, pretending that you were still here with me at 221B. The pain had disappeared without me realizing it, just like my old limp. But as soon as Greg said that, everything came crashing back all at once. Part of me—a small part, mind you—thinks that, maybe I should try taking on more cases, to ward off this horrible, horrible pain. But most of me doesn't want to, I need this pain. I don't ever, ever want to forget you.
I love you, Sherlock. And I'm so very sorry I let you go without ever telling you. I love the way you dance around when you'd gotten an exciting case. I love the way you always burn the tea when you try to be nice and fix it up for me. I love that little smile you'd give me when I figured something out. I love your scowl, the one you reserve for Anderson and Mycroft. I love your laugh, and I treasure the few memories I have of it. I love your impeccable fashion sense, and the way you'd sashay all around a crime scene, looking for all the world like a movie star. I love the way you used to turn at look at me with that look of confusion in your eyes when you'd ask me "Not good". Whenever you did that, it was always all I could do to remain stern and not crack up laughing. I love the way you looked when you finally fell asleep. I think I only ever saw you asleep twice (I don't count the times you were unconscious in the hospital, I didn't love those times, those times were hell.) I love the way you pretended like I was so much smarter than the other idiots you always have to deal with. I love the way you played your violin for me, during the nights when I couldn't sleep.
It's still there, by the way. Your violin. I keep it right where you left it, only moving it to dust it off. I'm sure Mycroft must think I'm insane, keeping the flat like it is. Pretending that there are still two people occupying it. Your bed is still unmade, a Sherlock-shaped wrinkle in the duvet that I'll never, ever smooth out. I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I cleaned up your mold experiments. I hope you'll forgive me. But I put back the containers and beaker right back where you left them, after I wiped them out. Your microscope is still sitting on the table, that slide with your own saliva still pinned to it. Your toothbrush is still in the cup, next to mine. Your robe is still hanging on the back of the bathroom door. I gave the body parts in the fridge back to Molly, but Lestrade gave me foam body parts last Halloween as a prank: a severed head, a bag of thumbs, a jar of chocolate eyeballs, even.
They're still there in the fridge. When I see it, they make me smile.
Again, your brother must think I'm insane. He comes by, every now and then. Just to check up on me, he says. Apparently, you left me a lot of money. But I'll never use it, it's yours. Mycroft keeps insisting I use some of it to live more comfortably, but honestly I'm fine the way I am.
Though, I'd be better if you were here.
God that sounded cheesy.
Will you mock me if I tell you that this morning, I would have sworn I heard you clanging about the kitchen, muttering to yourself? I leaped out of bed so fast that I ended up tangled up in the sheets and I fell to the floor tied in a knot. After I'd freed myself, I fairly ran down the stairs screaming for you.
For the first time in two years, I felt hope. Sherlock, you right bastard, how could you do this to me? Did you really think that…jumping was the best thing to do? You could have talked to me, you idiot. I would have helped you, I've always tried to help you, Sherlock. You know that. I miss you. I've killed for you, and I'd die for you. When I made it to the kitchen, and you weren't there, it felt like Moriarty was there in the kitchen, slitting my throat with a serrated knife while ripping out my heart straight from my chest. It hurts Sherlock.
I feel so small. And I know it's strange, because you were always so much taller than me, but when you were alive and we were together solving crimes, it made me feel invincible. I felt ten feet tall and build of steel. There was fire in my bones and lightning racing through my very being. Every moment with you was an adventure, even in the moments you would have considered dull.
It's very strange to think that you've now been dead for just as long as I'd known you alive. Before I met you, I'll admit I was just a few days away from eating my gun. I couldn't take it. I was meaningless, worthless, aimless. I was going nowhere, and had no ambition to do anything about it. As soon as money ran out, that would have been it for me.
But then I met you, brilliant you. You saved me, Sherlock. You were, are, my rock. My lifesaver. I was drowning, but then I met you and all of a sudden I could breathe. Your brother was wrong, Sherlock. I never missed the war. I missed having purpose. You gave me that back. And I never told you how very grateful I am that I met you, my dear friend. Thank you. The feeling you gave me, I wanted everyone to know just how wonderful you were. And so I made you a part of my blog. I know you didn't always appreciate that, particularly once we started getting far too much unwanted attention from the media.
And I can't help but wonder if it was my stupid blog that even drew Moriarty's attention to you in the first place. I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm so, so sorry. Life with you was vibrant and beautiful. Sometimes scary but, god, always worth it.
Worth it, I suppose that sums it up nicely, dear friend. My best friend. Knowing you, even for those short two years, was worth it. Worth every injury, every insult. It was worth these last two years of hell, because my darling, I'd rather have known you for that brief time, than have lived a hundred years of a happy life, never knowing you at all. You will always be the most brilliant, beautiful, wonderful, incredible, amazing and human man I've ever known in all my life. I love you, and it hurts almost more than anything that I'll never get to tell you that.
I can't tell you how often I've dreamed about holding onto you, both before and after your fall. Just wrapping my arms around your shoulders, and feeling you warm, and solid and safe. And alive. I want to bury my face in your hair and discover what it smelled like. I want to lean against your stupidly pointy, boney shoulder and watch telly while you insult my favorite shows. I want to fall asleep, knowing you're only a few inches away, hearing you breathe.
I'd give anything to hear your heartbeat. To rest my ear against your chest and feel it against my cheek. I want to cradle your head in my hands, and watch as your eyes change colors. I'll never know what color they really are. Blue? Green? Silver?
I feel numb, Sherlock, all except for the pain in the hollow of my chest that I fear will never go away. Now that you are gone, my darling. Every bit of meaning, color and happiness has disappeared from my life. I feel cold all the time, empty, now that you aren't here to keep me sane.
I'll be seeing you soon, my love.
Your friend,
John.
*****1047*****
John knelt in the damp grass before the smooth headstone, lovingly tracing his fingers over the name Sherlock Holmes engraved there. The aching grew more pronounced, but he ignored it. It'd be gone soon, anyway. It had been raining earlier, and the skies were still grey. 'Fitting', John thought to himself.
Out of his pocket, John pulled out the letter he'd written. The main thing he resented Sherlock for, was denying him the chance to say goodbye. Perhaps, this would help? John pined the letter beneath a smooth stone he'd found, lying in the grass, before sitting back on his haunches. Ella had once suggested that, to get the closure he needed, he write Sherlock a letter. She had suggested that nearly two years ago, and he hadn't been to see her since. But he finally did it, yesterday. And he had to admit: He felt no better. Vaguely, out of the corner of his mind, John wondered if some hobo would read it. He found he didn't really care.
He hadn't cared about anything for a while. He hadn't cared about eating, and so he'd lost weight. He hadn't cared about sleeping, thus the deep bruises under his eyes. He hadn't cared about work, so he'd quit without notice (Mycroft was paying Mrs. Hudson for John to stay in 221b). He really didn't care about dating anymore, or even seeing people in general, and so he didn't. In place of the urges in his brain that would normally tell him "Eat, you're hungry" or "It's time to sleep, now", it's just repeated it's pathetic mantra of "I want my Sherlock."
"I want my Sherlock" John mouthed sadly at the gravestone, knowing this was goodbye. Suddenly, he was overcome with the strange urge to kiss the gravestone. He restrained himself, settling for leaning his forehead against the cool, damp marble. He rose to his feet, his joints cracking, and began limp away, back towards his flat where his old hand gun was waiting in his top drawer.
****1047****
As soon as John had turned the corner, out of sight, Sherlock stepped forward. After two years of assassin work, espionage and murder, Sherlock was almost ready to come home. He was just waiting for a call from Mycroft to tell him that he had, indeed, been successful in dismantling Moriarty's web. He'd been in London the past week, now. He was staying with Molly. He'd never thought it'd be so hard to be in the same city as John, without him nearby. It was even worse than when Sherlock and John had been continents apart. But now all that separated them were a scant seven streets.
It killed Sherlock to see what John had been reduced to. The once fiery light in his eyes had gone out. His once straight-backed posture was slouched. His head was bowed. His limp was back, and worse than when he and John had first met. He was much too thin, and Sherlock thinks he can finally understand why John was always so insistent that Sherlock eat at least once a day. His poor John.
Sherlock had taken to watching his John from a distance. John barely ever left the flat, and on the rare occasion that he did, it was always to go visit Sherlock's "grave". Sherlock approached the stone now, kneeling to pick up the paper that his John had left behind.
"Dearest friend" it began, and Sherlock's eyes watered. He smiled through his tears at John's recounting of the case he'd solved, but the smile soon melted away as he read on. John loved him? Did he really? Or was it the grief talking? He couldn't tear the eyes away from the letter, so John had heard him in the kitchen? He'd thought he was being more careful than that. "John" he felt himself say. He felt warmth pool in his gut as he neared the end of the letter, John telling him how much he wished he could hold Sherlock. Then his heart froze as he read the last sentence: "I'll be seeing you soon, my love".
Oh, god, no.
Sherlock took off running, shoving the letter into his coat pocket. Please, gods above, let him not be too late. He barely felt it as his shoes splashed in dirty puddles, soaking the bottom of his coat. He threw himself between cars as he ran across the street in traffic. He shoved pedestrians out of his way, not hearing the angry shouts thrown after him above the frantic beating of his heart.
'John' he mentally screamed. 'Don't do this to me'.
In a matter of minutes, which felt like hours, he was pounding along the street past the Tesco John frequented. Moments later he was throwing open the door to Baker Street and scrambling up those achingly familiar steps. The door was locked, he jiggled the handle. "Not now, Greg. Busy, come back tomorrow, please," came John's voice from within. Sherlock tried to call out, he really did, but no sound would come. He just stood there, frozen on the top step, his fist still resting motionlessly on the wood of the door, his mouth gaping open.
He heard John's movements from the other side, Sherlock could almost imagine his old friend padding around the flat, straightening up. Sherlock's heart rate began to calm, perhaps he wasn't going to go through with it right now? He had time to call Mycroft and let his brother handle it? But what was the point in waiting, really? If there was anyone Sherlock himself had missed, he'd just let Mycroft's minions deal with it. He was desperate to be home again, and if being with John meant swallowing his pride and asking Mycroft for more help, so be it.
Sherlock took a deep breath and was about to call out, when he realized that there was no sound coming from inside the apartment. His stomach dropped to his feet like it'd been petrified. Without thinking twice, he rammed into the door, knocking it open. He took the steps two at a time, racing up to John's room. He threw open the door to find…nothing?
The room was empty, the bed made without a single wrinkle. Honestly, it looked like no one had been up here for a while. There was dusk on the desk and nightstand that was thick enough to tell of at least three months of disuse. There were cobwebs in the corners where the walls met the ceiling, and there was thick brown dust there, too. John hadn't even been cleaning up here? Down below, he heard the door to his own, old room open.
Oh.
John's footsteps. The front door being swung back and forth on its hinges as John inspected it. "Bloody hell" Sherlock heard John mutter. Sherlock slowly stepped out of John's room. In his best friend's hand was his old hand gun, loosely hanging from his fingers. John closed the front door carefully, sighing when it just fell back open. Sherlock bit his bottom lip. He'd have to fix that soon. Sherlock silently crept down the stairs, not wanting to startle his friend, who was still holding a loaded gun.
As if John sensed someone was behind him, he tensed, ever so slightly. But Sherlock knew John; John was preparing to spring into action like a crouched tiger. For the first time in his life, Sherlock acted by instinct alone, not sure what else to do. Sherlock lunged forward at the exact moment that John spun around, bringing his gun up into firing position. Sherlock grabbed the barrel of the gun as he threw himself towards his friend, pushing it upward. John's trigger finger reflexively tightened and the gun went off, shooting a hole in the ceiling. Sherlock made another mental note to have that repaired as well. That was all he had time to think about before he collided with John's chest, sending them both crashing to the floor.
Sherlock felt John freeze from where the older man was laying beneath him. Sherlock closed his eyes, knowing that, eventually, John would grow angry. John would probably yell and throw things, he might even knock Sherlock around. But it would be worth it, Sherlock thought with a smile. He looked up at John, getting a good look at his friend's face and vice versa. Sherlock felt his body unconsciously relaxing on top of John for the first time in forever, as he breathed in that familiar scent that can only be described as John.
John's eyes were wide as he craned his neck upward to see the prone figure sprawled across his chest. Sherlock curled his fingers into John's jumper, burying his face in the warmth. Slowly, John's arms began to wrap around him. They were awakened an hour later when Mrs. Husband came up, after seeing the wrecked door, and screamed when she saw both of her boys (one of whom was supposed to be dead) curled around each other on the floor.
Fin.