A/N: Okay. Well. Hi, is first, I guess. Second...uhm...please be nice? This is my first fic for this fandom/pairing ever, and I'm sort of just getting my feet wet here. I really hope you enjoy! Third, some little notes: This starts pre-Reichanbach (the first part) and the second half is post-Reichenbach. Fourth: A song! I'm not sure how well it fits with the story, but I listened to Eyes Off You by Bombay Bicycle Club while I wrote this, and I thought it worked. Let me know what you think! Fifth: This wasn't formally beta'd, but big huge hugs to one of my best pals Gaby for reading this over for me! Sixth: Contrary to what the title may lead you to believe, this isn't actually a star!John au. Okay, without further ado, I give you my very first Johnlock one-shot!
Dear John
No. He crosses that out because it doesn't sound right.
But maybe it does. This is a love letter after all, so why shouldn't he start it with "dear?"
He goes back and writes it again.
Dear John,
But it doesn't sound right. No, definitely not.
He crosses out the "dear," so that now it just says "John."
What does it matter anyway? He'll never see this letter. Sherlock has no intention of ever sending it.
He'd heard Molly say something about this form of "therapy" the other day. He knew it had been meant for his ears, but she'd said it flippantly, in passing to someone else. She had said "I've heard it helps, you know. Writing letters with all your feelings in them that you don't ever send."
Then, she'd looked at him pointedly and left the lab.
Sherlock had sighed, but the idea had weighed on his mind all day, so when he'd gone back to the flat, he had collapsed in his armchair to stare at the wall and think about it for a while.
It had been buzzing around in his brain for hours before he decided to do anything about it. There were so many other things to think about in regards to this case Lestrade had him on, and this was taking up too much space.
So, he'd stood up and stomped sullenly over to the desk and pulled out a paper and a pen and sat down with every intention of writing John a letter and no intention of ever sending it.
And the blank paper had sat there for days. Three of them, to be precise. John had come and gone, had written blog posts about this case and that one, had sat at the desk, but hadn't said anything about the paper.
There are no words on it. But today, while John is out, Sherlock resolves to write it. He's not sure when John will be home, so he wants to get this done quickly. With an exasperated sigh, he runs his fingers through his curls and sets out to write again, pressing the pen to the paper with what is probably unnecessary force.
John,
No. Too formal.
He considers dear John again, and scratches the word in front of his flatmate's name.
Dear John,
No. No, no, no.
Why can't he just write this? Why can't he simply put pen to paper and write down his thoughts?
Maybe because he's not accustomed to sharing his feelings, even with the few people he trusts. He hides everything, deep inside some compartment in his brain, locked, the key long lost. It's easier that way. So much easier. It's harder, more terrifying to admit to caring for something, someone. It makes him vulnerable, and he doesn't like that.
That must be why. Why he can't just write this stupid thing.
He groans and scratches out the words again.
My dearest John,
No. Absolutely not. Too...too sentimental. But how can a love letter be too sentimental?
Finally, after an extensive internal debate, he settles on
John,
There. Good.
He closes his eyes, exhausted.
If one word has him practically sweating through the purple silk of his shirt, how is he going to write any more of them?
But at least that's out of the way. It's a start. Sort of.
He taps the pen lightly against the edge of the desk and waits for more words to come.
And words do come. Words, that is. But not sentences. Nothing coherent. Things like love and apologies and lonely.
Then there's nothing and everything, and darkness and light.
He stares at the paper, at all the scratches and thinks that maybe he should start again, with a new, clean piece of paper. A letter to John should be perfect, especially one filled with such a confession.
But again, he's reminded that John won't ever see this. It will remain in the bottom drawer of his desk collecting dust and dirt until he's ready to rip it up and toss it into some kind of chemical fire or into a bin some place in London. And suddenly, he knows how to start.
One year later
John squeezes his eyes shut. Breathes deeply through his nose. Opens his eyes again.
Too many smells. Too many sounds. Too many things that remind him of Sherlock.
He hadn't wanted to come back here, but Mrs. Hudson had called and requested that he help her clear away some of Sherlock's things and he couldn't let her do that alone. Molly is here, too, and Greg. Mycroft isn't, but John is glad for that.
"Someone should go through the desk," Greg says quietly. He doesn't want to. That much is obvious. But no one else volunteers.
Molly is busy in the kitchen, sorting through all kinds of frozen body parts. Throwing some away, placing some on the counter to be taken back to the lab at Bart's.
John is staring solemnly at Sherlock's chair. He's afraid that if he opens his mouth to speak, he'll break down, and he doesn't want to.
Greg sighs. "Guess I'll do it, then," he says. John hears the metallic scrape of a drawer being opened, of someone rifling through papers and pens and clips and things.
He closes his eyes again.
Mrs. Hudson is in the bedroom, whimpering quietly each time she opens a closet door or a dresser drawer.
John can't bear it. He has to leave. Get out of here, get some air. It's cold in here, cold and quiet. The violin sits with its bow on the arm of Sherlock's chair, and it looks lonely without someone to play it. John hates it. He hates this place without Sherlock in it. It's wrong.
He's just about to run out the door when Greg calls his name.
"John," he says, "this has your name on it. Is it yours?"
Molly looks up from the kitchen and her eyes widen as she looks at a folded piece of paper in Greg's hand.
"Just throw it out, Greg!" she calls, her voice high and anxious. "It's probably nothing important!"
Greg casts a furtive glance her way and says, "if it belongs to John, he should have it."
Molly makes a sound somewhere between a squeak and a sigh and skitters over to the desk, snatches the paper from Greg. She unfolds it and presses her lips into a thin line.
"I-I was right," she stammers, her voice shaky. "It's nothing. Just toss it."
"I want to see it," John blurts, surprised at the husky quality of his voice. He clears his throat before speaking again. "If it's got my name on it, I want to see it."
Molly sighs again and walks slowly over to him, the paper crumpled between her fingers. "I'm not so sure it's a good idea, John," she says. "It's not really...well-"
"Molly," John says. "Please."
Molly casts a furtive glance over her shoulder toward Greg, who's watching intently.
"Alright," she whispers. "Just don't...read it in here. Maybe go somewhere private."
Greg's eyes widen a bit and he goes back to cleaning the desk with a bit too much fervor, commenting too loudly on things he finds.
John looks at Molly and decides not to follow her instructions, instead taking a seat in his chair.
With shaking fingers, he unfolds the paper and sees that it's a letter.
John,
It occurs to me as I write this letter that you will never see it. I have no intention of ever showing it to you, which seems absolutely ridiculous but nonetheless, I am writing it.
This piece of paper with these words that have taken up so much space in my mind over the past few years with you will live forever in my desk drawer, never to see your eyes. But I must say this because if I don't, I'll never be able to get anything done with it clogging my brain.
I love you.
There.
I love you, John Watson.
I don't suppose I've ever said as much to anybody before. Or at least, never said it and meant it.
But I mean this, John. I love you, and I have for some time.
I don't know how I got by without you in my life for so long.
I suppose I didn't really get by, at all, though.
Before I met you, John, I was an addict. Pathetic and weak. When I wasn't solving a case, I was thinking about where I might get my next fix. Mycroft sent me to rehab facility after rehab facility, but none of them had any effect.
Before I met you, I had no real reason to stay clean. You changed that. You changed me.
Before you, this flat was so dark. There were no stars or galaxies to light my way and show me I was worth more.
But you brought them back, John. You brought the stars back to me and that is why I love you with a capacity and a fierceness that I never thought possible before you were in my life.
I realize this is a bit poetic, but you'll never see it, will you? You'll never see it and you'll never know that when I think about you, I think of poems and songs and I understand why love makes people stupid and sentimental. I understand it all.
I love you.
I love you, I love you, I love you and you'll never know. I'll never say it to you.
Thank you, John, for bringing the stars back to me. You're the only star I need.
I love you.
I've said it too many times now, haven't I?
Yours, Sherlock
John reads over the letter once again. Then, he goes back and reads over all of the I love you's, brushing his fingers gently over the indents. Finally, he buries his head in his hands and weeps.
Far away, chained in a cell in Moscow, Sherlock remembers the letter and thinks of John, his star.
A/N Okay! Alright! Phew! I really hope you guys enjoyed. Really, I do. I will greatly appreciate your constructive criticism! Like I said, it's my first fic for this fandom and this pairing, so uhm yeah. Again, big hugs to Gaby for not only being a fantastic friend for many many years but for reading this over for me! Love you bunches!
That's it, I suppose! Have an excellent Sunday, everyone!
-Sarah