This is my very first attempt at fanfiction. Please don't kill me. Unfortunately I don't own any of the characters used in this fanfic, they belong the the amazing Godtiss and Satan. I also wrote this at 1:00am so except some spelling mistakes.

His recent case hadn't gone as well as he'd hoped. Yes, he'd caught the man, but not soon enough. He was in the process killing his forth victim as the police approached the crime scene. It had been too late to save her. Sherlock felt like a failure - no, he was a failure. He had to be. Otherwise John wouldn't have left him to be with Mary.

John. John was always able to reassure Sherlock that he wasn't to blame at times like these. It was the only thing that stopped him from using. But now... Oh God he would love some cocaine right now. John's voice drifted to the front of his mind, shouting 'you could have called me! If you felt like using again-' he shut it off. John didn't understand. He was ordinary.

Sherlock ran his hand through his hair and curled up on the sofa. Wanting- no needing- to think of anything but John. His mind wondered to the small stash he kept hidden under a loose floor board in his bedroom. This just made him crave more. But John- ugh John. Why does he have to keep thinking about him! 'He left you Sherlock. He never really cared for you' came a smug voice from the depths of his mind.

'Shut up' he snarled back at it.

'He's gone' came the voice again 'he's with Mary now'.

Sherlock couldn't argue with that. John deserved to be happy. But be wanted John to be happy with him. He wasn't sure why. Surely no normal person could actually enjoy spending time with a sociopath- even if he was high-functioning. But John did. They often laughed together. And John had called him I his friend. Best friend, in fact. But he's gone and he's not coming back. And it's all sherlocks fault.

'Freak!' Came to voice in his head. It sounded like Sally this time. He just wanted it to shut up. He needed to stop thinking. Stop everything.

He stood up and began to walk his bedroom when he caught his reflection in the mirror. He was crying. When had he started crying? He never cries. Not since mummy died. Shaking his head in an attempt to rid it of all thoughts he proceeded to his bedroom and knelt beside the loose floorboard hiding his stash. He reached out and let his had hover in the air an inch from the floor. What would John say? He sighed, and reached for the floorboard.

There it was. The small leather case containing his cocaine and everything else he needed. He ran his long, boney fingers along it. If he hadn't been feeling so desperate he might have noticed that it had been moved ever so slightly to the left since he last had it out; even is he had noticed, he wouldn't have cared. He slowly opened the case and saw the syringe filled with that familiar brown liquid along with his tourniquet and- a letter. A letter addressed to him.

Sherlock picked up the letter and examined it closely. The corners of the envelope were well-thumbed, suggesting that whoever wrote it had kept it for a while before placing it here. Perhaps unsure if whether to leave it? Or where to leave it? Then he saw it. His own name written across the centre of the envelope in John's neat scrawl. Interesting. As a doctor, John usually doesn't take great care in his hand writing. Preferring quantity other quality. Why would John wrote him a letter? And why did he take so much care when writing it? More importantly- HOW THE HELL HAD HE FOUND HIS STASH?

Sherlock ripped open the envelope. Eager to read the contents and find out what could be so bloody important that he would bother to write 'Sherlock' so neatly.

Sherlock,

If you're reading this, it means you're thinking of using again; or you already have. I don't know why and I don't pretend to understand. I know that to you, I am just ordinary - what was it you told me Mycroft said? Something about a goldfish? - and I don't understand how your brain works. I know you get bored. And that sometimes drugs can be the only thing that can stop your brain from whirring and processing everything you see. I know that must be exhausting and extremely annoying at times.

I know that you know I'm here for you (oh God, I sound like a teenage girl). But I also know that you won't call or text me. Why? Because you're an idiot. And you're too proud to admit that the Great Sherlock Holmes ever needs help with anything. But you do. You know you do. And so do I. You are probably thinking about calling now, or you've at least thought about at some point. You've probably dismissed it as being pointless because I don't understand. And you'd be right, I don't. So instead I'll tell you a secret. One I think you might already know by now...

I love you. Yes you great arse, I love you (and, no. I'm not gay. I'm still straight. It's just you, Sherlock. I'm not attracted to men, just... you). I have always loved you. When I first met you, I thought that you were amazing. You could deduce things about me that my closets friends didn't even know. But it was only when I got yo know you that I started to love you. Once I learnt how much of a dickhead you can be. And how you are often completely unaware of another human being's feelings. And even when you leave your experiments in the kitchen for weeks and ruin my favourite mug. And how your hand twitches slightly whenever Donavan calls you a freak. I love you, snarky, annoying bits and all. (That doesn't mean you can do that experiment with the mould again in my new mug. I had to get Molly to clean that down at Barts!)

I chose you Sherlock. I saw how amazing you can be and I saw his frustrating you can be and I still chose you. I knew you would never love me back because you've never been loved for who you are. Including all the extremely maddening parts that you hide from all those around you as best as you can. You try to impress them by deducing facts about them and it backfires and they blame you. They blame you for the things you deduced. Like it's your fault that Anderson and Donovan are fucking? You only observed it.

I know that I have a life with Mary now and I love her, I really do. But not like I love you. When I met Mary, she was exactly what I needed. A distraction. When you "died" (thanks, again, for that by the way) it broke me. I'd got so used to life with you that going back to normal pedestrian life seemed impossible. Mary was fun. I needed fun. As it turns out, that wasn't the real Mary. I didn't love all her flaws like I do yours. I still don't. I fell in love with Mary's facade but I fell in love with you. All of you.

I still find you amazing. Every deduction. Every witty retort. Everyday you surprise me.

Please, don't use. Call me or send me a text. I don't care what time. Night or day. Stay strong Sherl,

John

Sherlock leave back against the frame of he bead, unable to believe what he had just read. He slowly reached for his mobile and punched in John's number...

'Sherl?' Sherlock questions

'Hello to you too, Sherlock' Sherlock could here John sitting up and going onto another room. Argument with Mary, Sherlock deduced. 'So, you found my letter then?'

Silence

'Did you-'

'No'

'Good'

More silence. A deafening silence.

'What you said, I -err- agree. I mean I -erm-' Sherlock spoke suddenly, surprising John slightly.

'I know' and he did. He knew exactly what Sherlock meant. 'Look, thanks for ringing me. I'm really glad you did. And I really did mean what I said. If you want to talk, we can its just- I had an argument with Mary'

'Hm'

'Can I call you back maybe? In like 10 minutes?'

'Hardly necessary John. I am perfectly fine'

'Hm'

'Honestly'

'I'll call you in 10, Sherlock'

'You don't-' have to. Sherlock was going to say before John so rudely hung up on him. Shaking is head in annoyance he notices he was smiling. A true smile. John had said once that Sherlock had an nice smile when it's a true one. This one has never felt truer. He reached for his phone and sent four words to John.

'I love you too'

.

.

.

'I know, you arse'