A Letter
It was nearing Valentine's Day as John decided to do a bit of housecleaning. He had finished with the kitchen, the living room and the coat closet when he moved on to his own room. Sherlock's, he knew, would be out of bounds. Not that it would need much cleaning anyhow, given all the detective did in that room was sleep, and even that was a rare occurrence. So he moved on to his own cozy bedroom, tidying up with earnest.
Old photos were unearthed and placed in a stack on his bedside table, dirty clothes were thrown into the hamper, ready for washing day. To finish the look, he folded the sheets of his bed back, straightened them, and pulled the top sheets and the comforter over for a smooth finish. As he was fluffing the pillows, something fluttered out and onto the floor. Curious, John bent over to retrieve it and found it was a letter, written in his own handwriting. He sat on the bed and unfolded the thing, the delicious crinkle of the paper fell like music upon his ears. The letter was written with long, sloping words; he recognised his handwriting from about age sixteen. It read;
Martha,
On this day, February 14th, I just want to say
How very lucky I am to have you in such a way
That I feel I will never again be alone
Since you're only a ring away by phone.
I love you, Martha. And I wish you a great St. Valentine's Day. Hope you enjoy the chocolates!
All my love,
John
"I don't giggle, John, but I'll have you know that letter almost did me in."
He started, tearing his gaze away from the paper and landing it on Sherlock, who was casually leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest.
"You read this?"
"Of course. I found it in one of your journals last month. I do hope it isn't crossing some sort of line with you, my reading your old love notes."
John stood up, crumpling the note in his fist. "No, not really. I just don't see how you could find something like this," he gestured to the letter in his hand, "interesting enough to snoop around for in my private journals. Which makes me wonder what it was you were looking for."
"I was looking for a bit of light reading." Sherlock hoisted himself off the doorframe, so he was standing on his own in the threshold to John's bedroom. "People tend to disclose more intimate things about themselves on paper, rather than on a keyboard." Before he turned into the hall, John could have sworn he saw a loopy grin take over Sherlock's features. "I was right," he said as he disappeared into the kitchen and John felt his face flush.
I don't know if this tells you what I want it to, but I am a beginning writer, so I'll allow myself some mistakes.
-V