Letters Left Unsent

by consultingtrench-coateddoctor

Many times Sherlock told himself to write them. Many times he told himself to send them. He never did. Until he gained the courage to. These are his letters. Johnlock, sad, fluff

Letters Left Unsent

Summary: Many times Sherlock willed himself to write the letters. Many times he told himself to send them. He never did. Until he finally gains the courage. These are his letters to John. Johnlock, sad, some fluff.

Warnings: Sad, mentions of killing, telling someone not to commit suicide.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or its associated characters.

A/N: Blinny, please don't kill me. This came to me when I wrote a letter to Blinny pretending she was John and I was Sherlock. She got mad at me... TT^TT Probably shouldn't leave depressing things in her locker, huh?

~This is a line. Deal with it.~

To: 221B Baker Street, London, UK

LETTER UNSENT

Dear John,

Today I caught yet another of Moriarty's men. This one was dumber than the last, and his idiocy reminded me of Anderson. I know that you would have laughed at him along with me if I were able to have you here. He made himself painfully obvious to me. His stance was reminiscent of yours, and he kept a hand close to his hip. Both signs of someone with military experience, even though I am currently in a small town in Hungary.

I miss hearing your exclamations of "Brilliant!" as I deduced something new. And I know that I may not seem to have a heart, but I can assure you that it is broken by being apart from you. I wonder if your psychosomatic limp has begun to occur again, and if you're yelling out "Damn my leg!" Thinking about it brings a smile to my face.

I have so many questions that I can ask, but I dare not to. I would much rather see you in person, and ask you for myself.

-SH

PS: I lo- miss you.

~~

To: 221B Baker Street, London, UK

LETTER UNSENT

Dear John,

I have heard from Mycroft that you have begun to see a therapist. This lifts a small weight off my chest, knowing that many ex-soldiers do commit... I don't ever want you to kill yourself. I don't think this world would be able to continue without your ramblings on your blog. I hope that the therapist helps you to smile again, John. I hate hearing about you drinking until you can't walk, you putting in so much time at work, or you needing sleeping pills to keep away the nightmares that I caused...

I promise, it will get better. The world will move on eventually from the big headline of my death. Please, stop reading the newspapers. They're not helping you.

Moriarty's men are no longer in Hungary anymore. Now, I must move on to Russia. I hope the weather stays on my side, although meteorology suggests that it won't.

I hope this ends quickly.

-SH

PS: I lov- still miss you.

~~

To: 221B Baker Street, London, UK

SENT- DELIVERED

Dear John,

I'm coming home. I'm coming home to you. Only two more days, then I'll be home. I miss you so much. I will do whatever it takes to make you forgive me.

-SH

PS: I love you.

[Fin]