"Hello Sherlock. I know I haven't visited in a while. It's been three days. Things were busy at the surgery and I had drinks last night with Lestrade. We talked about you. We always talk about you. Well, at least I do. He mainly listens, listens to me rant and rave and cry because I know the truth and no one believes me anymore. I'm the crazy doctor who still believes in Sherlock Holmes. Huh.
Funny, isn't it? It's been, what- ten months now? Ten months, fourteen days, three hours and twenty two minutes. I always know how long it's been since I heard your voice that last time. Sorry Sherlock, I know that I told you I wouldn't cry anymore. I won't. I really won't this time.
Well, not much has happened in three days. Mrs. Hudson asked me again about what I was going to do with your things yesterday. She asks about it more frequently now. I just can't bring myself to move any of it. Your things belong there just as much as mine do because it's still our flat. Still ours. Some days, when I'm sitting in my chair, I find myself actually talking to that damn skull of yours. Suppose it's because our flat is so empty now, and it helps to hear myself talk, even to a bloody skull.
Oh! And that girl called me back. Mary. She said that despite the fact that I seemed to have a bit of a broken heart, she thought that I was charming, and was willing to give it a go, if I was ready.
Ha! Fuck. Just-fuck. God, I wasn't going to tell you this, not ever. I was going to tell you about how she might be the one, the one girl who can pry me out of your clutches. I was not going to tell you about how the first time a girl flirted with me after- after everything happened, I burst into tears. Great, big, uncontrollable sobs, right there at the bar. The thought of smiling at some girl, talking to her, flirting, it made me sick. I went home and threw up for hours. I hadn't even had anything to drink yet. All I could think about was- fuck! This is just too hard, Sherlock. I was going to tell you that I'm going to call her tonight and I'm going to take her out and be the kind of man she thinks I am. The kind of man you admired me for being.
But I can't. I'm not that man anymore. I just fucking can't. You took that part of me with you when you-
Fuck. No crying. Right. When you l-left, you took me with you. Every fucking thing that mattered. I'm just an empty shell now. I talk and walk and sound like John. Like I'm getting better. Like I'm finally moving on. But I'm not. I will never.
You just- I can't- fuck. I was absolutely not going to tell you this. But that was always my problem, wasn't it? It was never the right time to tell you. And then it was too late, too fucking late to let you know.
No more waiting. I'm done. No more waiting for you to drop some cryptic little hint that even an idiot like me could pick up. No more waiting for you to pop out from behind a tree and tell me to hurry up because the game is afoot. No more waiting for you to crawl into my bed and show me just how much you have missed me too. And no more goddamn waiting to let you know that I am in love with you.
That's right Mr. Sherlock Holmes. John Watson is madly, irrevocably, and helplessly in love with you. You drive me absolutely crazy. But you probably knew that you sneaky bastard, and I bet you figured it out before I did. You were always like that.
Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and my body is on fire. I burn for you, for your touch. I need- I need so much to feel your skin on mine. It eats me alive and tears up my soul. Fuck, it's so wrong Sherlock, I can't stop myself when I need you so so much and you aren't here. I cry, and I hate myself because you're gone and it's sick for me to feel this way because you were never mine. Never.
But every time I give in. Every time I pretend that, for just a moment, you are still here. I pretend that there is the tiniest chance that you might love me-might have loved me- too. It's your hands stroking all across my body, and it's your fingers deep inside me, making me moan and pant and beg for you to fill me up, to own me and make me yours. It's you and your beautiful face and that voice that turns me to jelly. Then I'm lost, really lost in my stupid fucking fantasies.
When it's all over it's just me. Alone. Again. Just me, lying in your bed, cradling the shattered fragments of my grieving heart with a puddle of sad regrets cooling on the sheets.
Yes, Sherlock, I sleep in your bed now; even though it stopped smelling like you a long time ago. Your clothes still do though, and often I fall asleep with them and dream about you holding me in your arms.
Fuck! This is too much. It's too damn hard. All the time, Sherlock, all of the time I think about how easy- how fucking easy it would be to just- to just- just- and then maybe I would be able to see- to see you again. B-bloody fuck I'm crying again. Sherlock I- I'm sorry. Fucking fucking sorry. I just loved- fuck! Love! Still love! Love you s-so much. You just can't be d…d… gone. Can't be gone. Stop it right now Sherlock! Stop! Get up right now you sorry bastard! Just give me sign and I'll start digging! I mean it! I fucking mean it! Fuck!
If you are alive and out there somewhere, you had better come back to me you mother fucker. And if you are- god- if you are- well you had better be waiting for me. Even if you don't- if you didn't- I know you still need me. Even if it's not the same way that I need you.
You only lied to me once Sherlock. No matter what anyone else says, you only ever told me one lie. You told me you were a fake you fucking liar. I know the truth because I love you, because I believe in you.
Well. Now I've told you everything I had ever hoped to hide from you. I guess it's time for me to go. Getting dark anyway. I'll be waiting Sherlock. I'll be waiting forever. You know where to find me. No matter how long it takes, I will wait. But please. Please please please . Come back soon.
Guess I will see you tonight, in my dreams. Goodbye Sherlock, see you tomorrow. I love you. I love you."
"And I love you too John."
"Sher-"
"Hello, John."
