Disclaimer: I own no part of the Sherlock worlds (specifically BBC) and am making no profit from this.
A/N: This story honestly took me nearly a month to complete. I think it was just hard for me to think of John in a situation like this and all the emotions that went in to it.
There's confusion, drama, angst, murder, all finished off with a happy ending somehow. I hope you can make it to that part.
Also, regarding this happening in June, I went off the assumption that John and Mary's wedding really did happen in May (as referenced at the end of The Empty Hearse), meaning Mary was 7 months at Christmas, meaning Baby Watson was born in February, meaning June makes 4 months since the birth.
The first letter catches Sherlock off guard. Mrs. Hudson brings him a few pieces of post, one of which is a personalized envelope bearing his name in an extremely familiar scrawl: that of John Watson.
Sherlock hasn't seen or heard from John since his daughter was born four months previous. He had assumed that John was simply busy settling in to his life as a first-time father and had no time for traipsing around England with him any longer. Sherlock has tried so hard to stay occupied so he doesn't notice the aching hole that reminds him that John is gone.
This letter, though, is very curious. No one writes letters anymore.
He opens it quickly.
June 1st
Dear Friend,
I hope this letter finds you well. It's been an incredibly long time since we've spoken. Too long, really.
I'm sorry.
It's
Mr. Hilston came in to the clinic today - the accident-prone one that you always liked to keep track of? Well, he came in complaining of ear pain, and it turns out he had a spider living in the ear canal. Nearly drove him nuts. Can't say I blame him; can you imagine? Hearing it move around, feel it crawling deeper? Ugh, no thank you.
Anyway, I'm not really sure why I wrote this letter. I guess I just miss you. Is that weird to say? I mean, you don't exactly enjoy emotions in general, but it's true. You're still my best friend and I miss being able to tell you about my day even though you hardly ever listened to what I had to say about it.
Please write back and let me know how you're doing; I worry about you.
John
Sherlock's brow furrows in confusion. Why would John write a letter instead of texting or emailing? He thought that John was staying away by his own volition, but this letter makes it sound like it's somehow out of his control.
He picks up his phone and finds their old text conversation, opening it and typing the first words to him in a while.
What the hell is this letter about?
I'm not going to talk about the letter via messages.
Then how am I supposed to get any answers?
Write back.
This is a form of writing back.
Not this way. Write me a response and I'll answer your questions.
All of them? Because I feel like there are quite a few.
Yes, all of them. I promise.
Sherlock lets out a breath of disgruntled air, frustrated by John's lack of clarity and communication. This entire situation feels off somehow, and it's quite honestly making him uneasy.
He walks over to the desk, finding a notebook to write on.
June 2nd
Dear John,
While it was nice to finally hear from you again, I must admit that I am confused.
What is this about?
Why will you only answer my questions via letter?
Why didn't you simply text or email me to check in?
This is starting to give me a poor feeling in the pit of my stomach, so if you could kindly clarify as quickly as possible, that would be best.
I (here he hesitates at the sentimentality) truly hope that you are all right.
When you're ready to fill me in, I'll be waiting.
Sherlock
He addresses and stamps the envelope before walking to the corner of the street and dropping it in the postbox.
He returns to 221B and sits, impatiently waiting on the post like he's suddenly been transported backwards in time to the early 20th century.