Then I'm Happy and all the stars smile sweetly, a sherlock fanfic

Then I'm happy and all the stars laugh sweetly

iorekbyrnison

(30 June 2012)

Dear Sherlock,

The only useful thing my therapist ever did was encourage me to start the blog. As you can imagine, documenting your life somehow made mine more interesting. I wonder if you've ever felt it. Huh Sherlock?

When I was shot I remember laying there in the dirt pleading with God to let me live. The sands were so red, not much different from all the blood. Mostly I remember the sound of bombs going off around me, but the pain, God it was unbelievable. Men, my friends, were going down, but I couldn't hear them. I wanted so badly to survive. I kept thinking 'Please don't let this be it. Please don't let this be the end.' I didn't know then, Sherlock, what my life would become. I had never imagined the hopelessness, the loss of purpose that followed.

My buddy Bill Murray dragged me out of the line of fire. He got me to the medic evac and then went back for two more of our comrades, I was told, before getting shot clean through the head with an anti-aircraft. There wasn't much left of him to identify except eye witness testimony, but by then I was already unconscious somewhere far away. I went through two surgeries before I was sent to an actual hospital, but by then the infection had started in.

Have you ever seen my scar Sherlock? I don't think we've ever really talked about it, but the actual gunshot was a through and through. Not much of it but a hole. It was the infection that took out the nerves around it and the surgeons cutting me open in near desperation that left the biggest marks.

My scar would have been fascinating to you probably. It's proof of what the human body can handle, can survive. You see murders all the time Sherlock, but you would have been fascinated by a wound that was intended to kill but failed.

My shoulder was a mess, compounded with a prior leg injury, it was sufficient cause to have me medically discharged. Even now, I can barely move it, my shoulder. It's always bloody raining here in London and that certainly doesn't do me any favors. Sometimes it's like the pain has moved into my bones, invaded everything until all I can do is curl up on my bed until it passes. You always play the violin during those times Sherlock, so I'm sure you've already deduced it.

I had lived, certainly not untouched, but it seemed such an awful trade at the time. My shoulder was useless, my hands trembled, and I had that damned limp that was obviously psychosomatic, but what the hell could I do about that huh? I'd been spared my life, but the price was everything else. Murray's corpse, my shoulder, my hands, my leg. No more army. No more soldier. No more doctor. I was only John Watson then and it was such a shock to learn how little of a person I was without those things.

I love London, but I could not afford to live here at the time. Harry offered to help in one breath and then shoved a phone at me with drunken slurs the next. I wasn't about to get myself mixed up in the "Clara situation". My therapist kept chastising me about my "trust issues" like it wasn't a problem I'd be harboring since I turned thirteen.

Sherlock? Did you know? When I walked into Bart's that day, you tried to lay me bare. Did you deduce that, Sherlock, the loneliness? The loss of purpose? I wonder how much you really saw that day. You've always been so brilliant.

Sherlock, I have a confession to make. I almost killed myself the day before I met you.

I'm not proud of it, but the place I was in was so empty, so devoid of things that I didn't have any clue how to regain. Sherlock, I put that gun to my head and almost blew my brains out across that damn infested bedsit I was staying in.

Isn't it funny? My death would have rated less than a three on your scale. You wouldn't have even entertained the idea of showing up to the crime scene.

It wasn't a dramatic thing. I was just so tired. Tired of wanting. Tired of feeling guilty for wanting, just tired of it all. I don't know, really, why I stopped. It seemed such a pity to give up when I'd already survived war. I detested the idea of becoming an army suicide statistic, but I couldn't pull the trigger. I told myself I needed just one more day, one more chance to convince myself.

And the next day I met you.

After the army, when I began taking mandated therapy, Ella, my therapist, latched onto the idea of the blog. I had mentioned in passing that I enjoyed writing and she came up with the idea. It was such an invasive idea Sherlock. I enjoy writing, but I had nothing going on in my life. The thought of proving that emptiness to the world was horrible.

Sherlock, was it worse that I was afraid people would know or that I was more afraid people would know and then turn away, ignore what could have very well been a cry for help? Was it worse to be recognized for my failures or forgotten? I struggled with a topic until I met you. Of course, you know that already. After you though, Sherlock, it was easy.

No, I don't mean the writing. You've berated me enough about flowery prose and weird sentence structures. I mean, once the blog no longer became about my therapy, it became easier to write. I stopped seeing Ella, government be damned. Though now that I think about it, I should probably have known Mycroft was responsible for covering that up. If I weren't so angry with him about you and the Moriarty situation, I would thank him. Now I think any gratitude will show up when it's a cold day in Hell. I wrote that blog, not for myself, but for you, because I couldn't imagine a world that didn't know or recognize your particular brand of brilliance.

I'm John Watson, regular bloke. Turn any street corner and you'll see a ton of me, but you, you are something special Sherlock Holmes. I wanted the world to know it. Please . . .

Oh Sherlock. You saved me and I wanted to do something for you in return. That was my reasoning at the time. More exposure would bring more interesting cases. I never for a moment thought it would end up like . . .

Damnit Sherlock.

These letters are for me, because I can't keep it in anymore. Everything is eating my up inside like a cancer, deforming my cells, killing each piece of me you so meticulously brought back to life.

Sherlock, please don't scoff. I know you would if you were reading this. Hell, you've probably already deduced me a thousand times already. Please forgive me if these letters are too dull. It was never my intention to bore you.

I just need it, so much.

Sherlock, I won't forgive myself for doubting you even for a second, but know this:

I forgive you.

No matter what open on that roof. No matter if you chose to . . . I want you to know that I believe in you. I have since that moment in Bart's when I finally became a useful man again.

John

(3 July 2012)

Sherlock,

You're an absolute twat and I want you to know that. It must run in the family because the same can be said for your brother. He came to visit today, Mycroft did, and it took all the patience I had left within me not to punch him in the eye. I hadn't seen him since your . . .

Well. Anyway.

He told me that you've paid for both halves of our rent for the next three years. Were you actually planning to . . . ? You're a daft bastard Sherlock Holmes. Did you know that? I'm sure it's something you've been called over the years, probably at least ten times from myself.

Sherlock, this flat, I don't know if I can stay here anymore. I know it was most likely your intention to keep me and Mrs. Hudson comfortable, but the rooms are too full of memories. It's strange. People always were aghast at the amount of clutter in our flat, but somehow even when it's emptier than ever it still seems to full. That doesn't make any sense at all. You would scoff and say something disparaging, but it's the truth. I don't feel like I can breathe anymore. Something sitting on my chest and I can't . . .

You were the worst flat mate ever. I mean, really Sherlock. Did you even realize?

If you were planning to bloody well jump off a building, couldn't you have at least cleaned out the rest of your experiments?

When someone loses a loved one it's supposed to be sentimental items, or photographs, or smells that stir up the grief, but no. The great Sherlock Holmes couldn't be bothered to bin the damned pig intestines from the bread box. That's really great Sherlock. Poor John Watson losing himself all over fermented body parts. Two weeks ago, I finally found the fingernails in the sugar. And you could have bloody mentioned the brain slivers in the microwave. And Sherlock, by God, I finally got up the energy to cook dinner the other night only to find crisped toes in the oven.

Fucking Hell Sherlock. I miss you.

Does that make me insane?

I've told Mrs. Hudson that she should just take the money for rent and use it to fix up the flat. I can cover both shares for a few months. By then she should be able to find some new tenants. It's not like there's a shortage of people who haven't caught on to the fact that there's a vacancy at 221B. The look she gave me though. Christ. You would have thought I'd found her stash of "herbal relaxers" and given it all to Mrs. Turner as a gift. Though, now that I think about it, I suppose that would make bridge night on Fridays a little more interesting. In the end, Mrs. Hudson won't hear of renting out the flat to anyone just yet. She and I spend the majority of the time these days going through the communal areas and organizing them. Mrs. H. tutted at me for an entire day about all the leftover mold cultures you'd left under the kitchen sink.

Though, between you and me Sherlock, I thought she was going to enact a voodoo ritual on your body when we moved the large bookcase in the sitting room and discovered the gaping hole in the wall. What on Earth were you doing to cause that one? When did it even happen? That book case has been there for almost forever.

It looks crazy when I write it down Sherlock, but Baker Street feels too much like home. I enjoy Mrs. Hudson's company, but in the nights I can't sleep. All I do is wake up from dreams of falling, of running to you but never getting there in time, of reaching and screaming and throwing that Goddamned cell phone under a passing lorry as if somehow it will stop you . . .as if somehow . . .

Sherlock. Sometimes I dream of pushing you. I'm always calling your name, but sometimes I'm the one . . .

Yesterday when I finally got out of bed, I went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. When I was finished I realized that I'd accidentally made two cups. Yours was in that silly mug you prefer. You know, the vintage one with the royal crest you say makes you feel like you are drinking coffee instead?

I think I laughed a long time. I can't remember too well. I was always making fun of you because you honestly thought tea just appeared in front of you in the mornings. I laughed a long time Sherlock. And then I sat down on the floor and cried.

Sherlock.

Sherlock I'm sorry, but I broke your tea mug.

I'm sorry.

So sorry Sherlock.

John

(9 July 2012)

Sherlock,

I pulled out your violin today. For whatever reason, Mycroft has left it in my possession. Seriously, that thing is probably more expensive than everything I own put together you know. I can't play it of course. Sometimes it's debatable whether even you can, but it's a little lost on me.

The only instrument I can play is the guitar. Did you know that Sherlock? Could you deduce that? What would have been the indications? Not callouses, I haven't played in so long, my fingers would probably bleed if I started now. Maybe you didn't know huh? Maybe it was that "something" you seemed to always miss.

Obviously I know now that you aren't infallible.

My father taught me how to play when I was a kid. That was before mum died, before he started drinking, before he lost his job, his home and eventually Harry and me. You would have like him before all that, I think. I know he would have liked you. It's just, when mum passed it took something vital from him. I guess I understand more about that now. There's a whole history you never uncovered Sherlock, hidden underneath my jumpers, written into my skin. You never asked about it, so I assumed you didn't care.

When I turned fifteen, dad obliterated the guitar. He smashed it up against the fire place and then slapped Harry. When I tried to stop him; he cracked a beer bottle over my head.

A bloody affair that.

I had to go to the A&E for stitches. That's the night that probably made me want to become a doctor you know? Hell, I know that night is why Harry became an alcoholic.

Two weeks later we were on our own. Harry was old enough to sue for custody, though we didn't know anything really about having our own apartment. Mum had left us some money, mostly to pay for college, but those first few months, it helped us survive, because we had to survive Sherlock. It's all we knew how to do.

The year I joined the army I got a phone call from Harry. It was the most bizarre thing. She wasn't crying. She wasn't drunk. She just sounded defeated. I remember it so well, that day. Da had killed himself. His body was too eaten up with cancer and Cirrhosis of the liver to last much longer. I suppose I get it you know. I didn't want to at the time, but by then I understood the need to go out on your own terms. He didn't have much longer to live and I was too confused, too young and belligerent to realize I guess.

You know what he did Sherlock? You know what he fucking did?

He committed suicide by jumping off of a bloody building.

You once told me that there is no such thing as coincidence. Please, Sherlock. Be wrong about this one okay?

John

(13 July 2012)

I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES.

(27 July 2012)

Sherlock,

Had lunch with Harry today.

Sorry, but it's not a good day for me.

I would say I don't need you here to deduce from afar that she's started drinking again, but that would be a lie.

I need you here.

Always Sherlock.

John

(8 August 2012)

Sherlock,

I write to you because it's easier to write to someone than it is to write about myself for myself.

But you don't care do you Sherlock? Because you're fucking. . .

I write to you because you are the only person I could ever tell any of this to. And yes, I'm including myself in that. Isn't that the bloody saddest thing you've ever heard?

John

(12 September 2012)

Sherlock,

I worked a case today. Lestrade invited me as a sort of peace offering I think. He sent Donavon and Anderson back to NSY without any hesitation when I asked. Let me tell you Sherlock; the looks on their faces . . . Well, I probably shouldn't feel so blood thirsty about that, but what the hell? I think with everything that's happened, I'll bloody well do what I want.

It turns out, Sherlock, that I have a head for crime. You would probably take credit for that if you were here. I suppose it would be true. I have learned everything from you.

I walked into the crime scene, saw the body and the scrapes and contusions, but then I took notice of all the things you do. I'm sure I missed most of them, but I got enough from the dirty wedding ring and the scratches on the floor to understand that the bloke met his death at his daughter's hand in a fit of rage, not the wife or the mistress like Anderson "suggested".

It only took fifteen minutes Sherlock. It was barely a five on your scale. Would have taken you less than half a moment probably, but I'm pleased. Are you proud of me Sherlock?

Sherlock? I don't have a conductor of light.

I can't be my own, after all. I solved this case, but there will be tons of others I won't be able to.

Sherlock? Why did you . . . please help me Sherlock.

John

(30 September 2012)

Sherlock,

You're homeless network has adopted me, or maybe I've adopted them? At any rate, they've been systematically introducing themselves to me in the strangest places. Do you have any idea what it's like to take a piss in a public place only to have the homeless man cleaning himself in the sink try to shake your hand?

Oh right. You probably invented that technique. It sounds appropriately heinous for the Great Sherlock Holmes.

I've also been creating a network of my own. Don't laugh, but you wouldn't believe the invaluable information you can get from little old ladies around London that love to gossip and have an ear for the important stuff. I've been doing some things for them, nothing large mind you, but I'm a handy man in some parts of London (more respectable than the lay about sons apparently), a house call in others, and just a kind ear to some. Two days ago I solved a case, just from taking tea with Mrs. Went from down the road.

The people in the homeless network have been kipping on the sofa. I know you wouldn't mind. Nobody goes in your room of course, I can't . . . Well, anyway. I'm not sure what Mrs. Hudson thinks of it all, but she never seems too surprised. She does rather insist they all shower and wash their clothes whilst visiting, but that isn't any hardship. I've been lending them my jumpers. I don't really expect to get them back, mind you, but I amuse myself with the idea of an entire homeless network having a uniform of frumpy oatmeal colored jumpers.

Somehow Sherlock, even with I'm this busy, even when people are coming and going in the flat at all hours, I still feel lonely.

Sherlock, without you, 221B is a cold and lonely place.

John

(4 October 2012)

Sherlock,

I'm picking up extra shifts at the surgery. I feel an obligation to keep paying Mrs. Hudson my half of the rent.

You berk.

Anyway, jumpers aren't free, so I've been entertaining the idea of learning to knit. Mrs. Katterwalling by the Speedy's has offered to teach me. Somewhere you are laughing at me aren't you? I know. It sounds awfully dull doesn't it?

I wouldn't knit you a jumper of course. You would never wear it. I think my first project will be a scarf. Maybe purple? You have that one purple shirt you know that just . . . that just . . .

Sherlock, you goddamned fucking berk.

John

(6 November 2012)

Sherlock,

I gave your scarf to Mrs. Hudson.

So there.

John

(7 November 2012)

No I didn't. I'm lying to figments of my flat mate that I keep in letters that no one will ever see. A flat mate that I write faithfully to like a teenage girl writes in her bloody diary.

I put the scarf on your bed.

I hadn't opened the door to your room for a long time. It still smelled of you.

And the dust, dear God, Sherlock, the dust. I left that alone. You would have thought it glorious, all that untouched evidence lying there on the surface of things.

Sherlock, I might have cried a bit. That'll be the splotches on the floor okay?

John

(13 December 2012)

Sherlock,

There are still days when I can't get out of bed. Mrs. Hudson calls them bad days when the network informs her. I guess she's the one who calls in to the surgery for me, because my coworkers always give me the most pitiful looks the days following.

You would call it sentiment wouldn't you?

Sentiment leads to ruin. That's what you always say, so maybe that's what I'll call it too.

John

(20 December 2012)

Sherlock,

Your homeless network won't stop calling me "Dr. Watson". Somehow this is all your fault isn't it?

Damnit Sherlock.

John

(25 December 2012)

Sherlock,

Last Christmas we didn't exchange gifts. I believe I might have yelled at you most of the day about severed thumbs in my pants drawer. I said it though didn't I? You said it back too if I recall. And later we had tea with Mrs. Hudson by the fire.

Happy Christmas Sherlock.

John

(2 January 2013)

Sherlock,

Mycroft visited today. Still wanted to punch him. I'm starting to understand how you feel about him I think. He has apparently made me his new pet project. Has he always been this suffocating?

He wants me to get help, but therapists have never been much good for me. For all that you Holmes brothers are brilliant, you can both be utter idiots.

Sherlock, let me tell you a story.

When I was little, my mother had a china set that was very old and very delicate. It was one of those things that were passed on through the generations, an heirloom. My family was never wealthy and besides her wedding ring, that set of china was one of the most valuable things my mother owned. This is sentiment Sherlock. You might not understand it, but my mother loved that set.

One day, she took it out to clean and accidentally dropped a cup. It was a small thing. One of those dainty numbers with hand painted flowers and it looked sort of like a mosaic when it shattered on the floor. It frightened me at the time, you know? The image of my mother kneeling there in the kitchen, the glass scattered around her knees. She cried for a long time, but I didn't understand then. When I was a kid I couldn't understand that she was weeping for what was lost, but also angry with herself for being so absent minded. It was a routine thing, for her to clean that set. One moment of inattention led to the irreplaceable being broken.

I suggested at the time that we could glue it back together, but my mother would have none of it. She stood up and swept the little pieces of porcelain into a dust pan and binned it. The floor was spotless and she put the rest of the set away.

You know what she told me Sherlock?

"John sometimes, even when you love something, if it's too broken, it must be thrown away."

My parents gave me shit lessons as a child didn't they Sherlock? But I suppose there's a truth to it. Perhaps I'm too broken? When you put something back together again, it'll never be the same as it once was.

Perhaps the pieces of me are shattered too far and too small to ever possibly glue back together.

Maybe I should be binned too huh Sherlock?

John

(15 January 2013)

Sherlock,

I've started posting more of our cases on the blog. The one's that I never really got around to. I was hoping that it might be cathartic, but I've gotten mixed reactions. Most everyone is supportive, but there are so many people out there that still don't believe.

No matter what, my friend, I believe.

I will always believe in Sherlock Holmes.

John

(1 February 2013)

Sherlock,

Do you pay attention to adages? There's one that goes, "You never know what you have until it's gone."

I think that's false Sherlock. Utterly false. I knew what I had. I've always known.

Maybe the adage should be, "You ignore what you don't want to see until you can't see it anymore"?

I have many regrets in my life, Sherlock, but meeting you will never be one of them.

John

(4 February 2013)

Sherlock,

I'm afraid I broke the telly. Mrs. Hudson has been frowning at me for two days because of it so I guess it was her telly all along, not something you moved in before I even got here. I just couldn't help myself.

The headlines for the last few weeks have been about you. Didn't I tell you? Your mind is beautiful Sherlock. People are starting to believe that now. They should have never forgotten it in the first place. The final evidence against Richard Brook was released today, proving your innocence once and for all. A fraud. Moriarity was real. I believe in Sherlock Holmes. Take your pick Mr. Consulting Detective, because now your name is clear. That's why there may or may not be a foot shaped hole in the telly. Because it's too damn late.

It doesn't matter Sherlock, you hear? Listen for once to me okay? You were never a fraud. Never, not once. You've impressed me from the moment I met you. I don't mind following perpetually two steps behind you Sherlock. I don't.

I don't, because it's closer than anyone else has ever been isn't it?

You let me in.

Thank you. Thank you Sherlock, for everything.

John

(10 February 2013)

Sherlock,

Anderson showed up at the flat today. He was begging for forgiveness, the pillock.

I might have broken his nose.

You're welcome.

John

(14 February 2013)

Sherlock,

Why? Goddamnit, Why?

John

(17 March 2013)

Sherlock,

It's been a year today. I haven't slept in four nights. This morning I gave my gun to Mrs. Hudson for safe keeping. She must have been worried enough by the look of me to make some phone calls because the flat been full all day. The homeless network dropping in for a meal or shower, the little old ladies bringing baked sympathy goods, coworkers wringing their hands, not knowing what to do, past clients, Lestrade, fucking Mycroft. Harry even showed up. She was sober, Sherlock. We sat up in my room hiding from the world like we used to hide from our father as teenagers.

I know a danger watch when I see one.

Sherlock, I wish I didn't need it.

I wish you were here.

John

(3 April 2013)

Sherlock,

I met someone today. Her name is Mary Morstan.

She's nice and sweet, a looker, blonde with blue eyes and she doesn't smile so much as she smirks with glee. I think I like her so much because she reminds me so much of you. I think maybe lurking in that smirk is the hint of danger you lured me with so long ago. Isn't that absurd? She might be dangerous and that's just lovely?

Honestly, the two of you would have gotten along swimmingly.

I can't love her though Sherlock. There's not enough left of me to do that. We've agreed to remain just friends. Isn't that something Sherlock? You are still somehow managing to ruin my love life.

John

(6 April 2013)

Sherlock,

I was right. Mary? An assassin. In the past I mean, not that she was assigned to assassinate me. Or, at least not yet. I guess we'll cross that bridge later huh?

That's okay though. It's all okay. It's all fine.

I told you that once before, didn't I Sherlock?

John

(10 April 2013)

Sherlock,

Sometimes when I wake up, I don't feel good or bad. Sometimes I just feel sort of empty.

What does that mean? Why is it more frightening that the bad days?

I hadn't said it yet to myself Sherlock. It's easy to say it to others. Telling people things is always subjective. It's like there's a layer between the truth and myself. It's like the words are shielded from my heart because they leave my brain and get stuck in my throat and have no choice but to leave through my mouth. But Sherlock? I think I've finally admitted it to myself now.

You're dead.

You jumped off a bloody roof while I watched.

You gave your suicide note through a mobile and bled your life away on the pavement below.

Sherlock. You are dead.

And it just feels empty.

John

(13 April 2013)

Sherlock,

Look at this:

"Nothing that is worth doing can be achieved in our lifetime,
therefore, we must be saved by hope.

Nothing which is true or beautiful or good makes complete sense in any immediate context of history,
therefore, we must be saved by faith.

Nothing we do, however virtuous, could be accomplished alone,
therefore, we must be saved by love.

No virtuous act is quite as virtuous from the standpoint of our friend or foe as it is from our own standpoint,
therefore, we must be saved by the final form of love, which is forgiveness."

Reinhold Niebuhr

Sherlock, I'm not one for religion and neither were you, but isn't this just perfect? Isn't it just?

John

(10 May 2013)

Sherlock,

I wonder? Is there any redemption in death?

John

(20 June 2013)

Sherlock,

Solved another case today. It was only a three, but it feels good to know I'm continuing your work. Yesterday Mrs. Hudson and I cleaned all of the flat, from 221C to the attic. We left your room alone of course. Sometimes I feel like it's a specter. Mycroft still thinks I need therapy. I still think Mycroft needs a broken nose.

When you were alive your presence could be overwhelming. Sometimes I was left behind. Sometimes I was sucked up into the whirlwind of the case, but it was always at your pace wasn't it? I heard what they said about us, before the fall. "Freak Sherlock and his loyal dog the doctor." I suppose you were right about that too huh? People see but they don't observe. Why didn't they observe the truth Sherlock? Why were people so content to believe Moriarty's lies?

You exposed the truth. You told the secrets that people were embarrassed to hear. You laid their insecurities, their incompetence out for the world to see and so people jumped at the chance to prove you wrong so they could redeem themselves. Most of them don't care that their validation meant your death. The world is callous like that Sherlock. Surely you knew that? It's amazing how similar home in London is to the battlefields of Afghanistan.

Sherlock, the things I write to you are things I've never told anyone, not even myself. I guess I could excuse it by saying it's not really you, just some paper and a pen, and an old distraught man, but I don't believe that. If you were still here Sherlock, I believe you would have learned all of these things about me anyway.

I've always been laid bare to you Sherlock.

So you might already know why I can't step foot in that room anymore. I've forgotten many things about you Sherlock. Little things to some, but larger to me. When you died I started using your shampoo. It's done wonders for my hair, I assure you, but it never smells quite the same. I remember the clothes you wore, how they emphasized the length of your legs, the slimness of your hips, the lean torso that certainly needed some fattening, but I can't recall the feel of the silk. It used to slide against my fingers when I was collecting your shirts for the laundry. It was luxurious and I always thought it a bit spoiled of you, but now I can't exactly remember the texture. Everything about you was sharp and angular save your hair when you got dressed. And when you decided to wear only your dressing gown and brood about the flat all day, it was as if all your structured lines had been taken over by the chaos of your personality, your boredom.

But Sherlock, the reason I can't go into your room is because I can't remember exactly how you smelled. I'm afraid Sherlock. If I were to open that door, would the scent of you still linger there? Would I be swept so far deep into my memories I would get lost and never return? Would I recognize it and lose all of the progress I've been making or would I open the door only to smell stale air and dust. Would the last physical aspect of your body have disappeared forever?

I'm equally afraid, Sherlock, of both options, so I choose to let your room languish in the dust and resolutely ignore the way the idea of it claws at the back of my mind like a half-starved animal.

Sherlock I miss you, but I can't keep doing this. You wanted me to move on didn't you? I'll try my best, but please, please Sherlock, let me keep the pieces of you for just a little longer.

Please Sherlock. Please.

John

(20 July 2013)

Sherlock,

I haven't had a bad day in a while, but this was one. It didn't start out that way, but Sally Donovan has a way with words you know. She always threw the both of us off didn't she? You might have been able to ignore her when you were alive, but I find my patience quite a bit shorter these days.

The "I believe in Sherlock Holmes" movement has gained prevalence. There wasn't any stopping it once the public started murmuring about your pardon and the government (Mycroft) started whispering about granting it. I wish people had believed in the first place, but now that I know your name has been cleared for so long, it's easier to breath.

Except in cases of Sally Donovan.

She's guilty, Sherlock, but she can't bloody admit it like Anderson did, because she can't stand the thought that she was wrong. So she retaliates each time I see her. I'm honestly not sure why she still has a job. She no longer hangs around Anderson. Lestrade feels betrayed because she backed him into a corner. If it weren't for the hang up with you, she might be a competent officer, but Sherlock, nobody understands like I do what your death meant. I may not know the particulars, but I know you wouldn't have killed yourself without a good reason. Moriarty pushed you, maybe not literally, but I know he did it.

Some days I'm just tired of it all Sherlock. I want to go back to 221B and curl up on your bed and wish myself to where you are. Then I remember that I've shut the final piece of you away.

Sherlock?

What should I do now?

John

(1 August 2013)

Sherlock,

The irony of this situation . . .

I'm so bored right now.

John

(15 August 2013)

Sherlock,

It was at least a seven this time.

Hell yeah!

John

(13 September 2013)

Sherlock,

Did you ever deduce what my biggest fear is? I wonder sometimes. You always said sentiment was the path to ruin, but you could do some awfully sentimental things sometimes.

I'm ordinary aren't I? Except for my addiction to adrenaline, I am a completely normal bloke who enjoys heinous jumpers, strange flavors of tea, and way too much rubbish telly. At the heart of it Sherlock, that's who I am. How long would it have taken before I became dull? How long would it have been before you lost interest in the Soldier Doctor who followed you around like a pup?

That's my biggest fear Sherlock, more than dying, more than living.

Being deleted by you would be a return to the emptiness I just could not bear.

The end of John Watson.

John

(27 November 2013)

Sherlock,

Anderson has created a club. Well, I write club, but it's more like a smallish cult. Get this. He gets a group of people together every Thursday night to talk about you. Are you amused yet? It would be great if they weren't so keyed up about thinking you were still alive. Apparently, you were too smart to die.

Hah.

Wouldn't that be something Sherlock?

John

(1 December 2013)

Sherlock,

Jenny in the homeless network has been kipping on the couch for the last two days. She showed up at the door and I swear every jumper I'd ever knitted was wrapped around her. It's pneumonia and she's awfully miserable so Mrs. Hudson and I have been nursing her back to health. I'm glad they have somewhere that they can come to feel safe.

The thought of being the one to provide that for them makes me happy.

Isn't that great Sherlock?

John

(17 December 2013)

Sherlock,

Jenny is all healed up and has expressed that she will be returning closer to the holidays. I have a feeling this Christmas might be a little less lonely than the last. That's a good thing honestly. I just have to remember to warn Mrs. Hudson that we might be cooking Christmas dinner for a good portion of the London underground rather than just me, her, Lestrade, Mrs. Turner, and the married ones next door.

I don't think she'll mind all that much though. She always was fond of people who considered you their friend. Honestly, Sherlock, I'm dreadfully fond of them myself.

John

(25 December 2013)

Sherlock,

I was right. The entire homeless network has been trickling in and out for the last couple days. Mrs. Hudson and I have been busy certainly, but it has been nice. Your illicit network has been helping as well, bringing what little they can. I wish you could see it Sherlock, what you left behind. You may have never had children (God forbid the thought of it), but your legacy is brilliant.

You were absolutely brilliant Sherlock.

Happy Christmas.

John

(27 January 2014)

Sherlock,

Sometimes it feels as if you are still alive. I know, that's silly. I watched you jump after all. I felt the corpse. No pulse. Too much blood. Too serious of a head wound. There's absolutely no way you are alive. Sometimes I wish it though, like Anderson's silly little group, that you were too smart to die.

Sometimes I think I see you in a crowd, always walking away, always just a glimpse. In the night I imagine I hear your voice, but it's always when I'm in between sleep and consciousness, so I can never pass it off as anything but a pleasant dream. Sometimes, Sherlock, it just feels as if you are there with me. I can't explain it, but those are good days. I feel safer on those days.

I've lied to you Sherlock. I said sometimes I wish Anderson's group was right, but that's not true.

I wish it all the time.

John

(6 February 2014)

Sherlock,

Valentines has come around early this year. Everything is awfully "blushy". You, of course would absolutely hate it.

I sort of hate it too, but it's kind of nice to see people so drunk on what they think is love.

John

(17 March 2014)

Sherlock,

You've been dead today longer than I even knew you alive.

It doesn't feel like that though does it Sherlock?

It feels as if I've always known you. Like that day in Bart's was just a reunion and not an introduction.

John

(25 May 2014)

Sherlock,

Life has been dreadfully busy. Between the surgery, the work, and maintaining the networks it seems as if I've been too busy to sit down properly. Last night I had a pint with Lestrade. He says there's been rumbling about promoting him. He's not too sure about it, but at least I wouldn't punch him if he took up Gregson's place. Or, I guess I might not punch him. You never know really what will happen. Do you remember that case where you badgered me into punching you? God that felt good.

Ah wait, of course you remember it. That was the case with The Woman.

I don't know if I ever told you this Sherlock, but I hated The Woman.

Isn't that strange?

John

(13 June 2014)

Sherlock,

You know Sherlock, people still fuss about you on the blog? I have this bloke "Sauron" something who insists, even after all of the proof, that you were evil and manipulative. I'm tired of arguing with him (or her I guess).

Sherlock, I'm just incredibly tired today.

John

(12 August 2014)

Sherlock,

Harry has insisted we go on holiday. How absurd is that? She thinks I'm "still mooning after that detective bloke". How offensive. I've never "mooned" a day in my life. No, don't take that as a double entendre Sherlock. For Christ's sake.

Still, I suppose a holiday might be nice. It might be nice to get out of London and 221B if only for a bit. Sometimes it feels like this place is haunted.

John

(12 September 2014)

Sherlock,

My dear recovering alcoholic sister thought Italy, the land of love, wine, and ruins would be the perfect place for a holiday.

It was awful Sherlock. Dreadful. Like taking care of you when you were in a strop. I haven't felt that frustrated keeping somebody from some illicit substance since I hid the cigarettes form you.

You know what Sherlock? With you it was more fun. Everything was more fun with you around.

John

(24 September 2014)

Sherlock,

You'll never guess what I did today! If you were alive you would be so envious, even if it may still have dire consequences for me.

Today, Sherlock Holmes, I punched Mycroft, bloody "I am a small government official", Holmes in the face. Yes, I am expecting to disappear soon too, but oh man did it feel good. If you were alive, I guess you would remark that I've broken a lot of things in the course of these letters. Really Sherlock, I'm still only guilty about the mug. Maybe the telly, but that thing was old anyway. I hope I managed to give him a black eye at least before "Anthea" called in the troops. That's all I wanted.

He should have never said it. Is he even human Sherlock? I can't just "get over you" like you were a bad meal or a case of the sniffles. You died. DIED. That bloody ponce thinks he can dictate how I should feel. You know what, never mind, I hope I broke his damn nose too.

It's the absolute least he deserves for betraying you.

John

(5 October 2014)

Sherlock,

Here's the thing I could never admit to myself Sherlock. I've known it all along, I suppose and I hope you don't think less of me for it. It's sentiment of course, but I can't keep it inside myself anymore. These letters to you have always about being honest with myself after all.

I'm in love with you.

That's right, present tense. Still, even more than a year after your death, I can't help but be in love with you.

I'm absolutely crazy. I know that. Hell, there's no logical reason I should love the man who put me in constant danger, who drugged me and frightened me, who left me behind constantly, who thought it was a good bloody idea to send me an audible suicide note and then make me watch you jump off a building. Sherlock, normal people don't love other people who did the things you did to me. So insanity has to be the only explanation.

I will continue loving you. I don't think I could stop, even if it meant the closest I'll ever come are horrible hand-knitted scarves and marble grave stones. Sherlock, I don't want to stop.

I stood by your grave once and asked you to stop being dead. I stood in your bedroom afterwards pleading with your memory to take me with you. I know it's all impossible Sherlock, honestly, I do. I can't stop wanting though. You saved me from the brink of nothingness just by being yourself. You might not care about much, but when you do care, you do it deeply.

I love you Sherlock and I always will, but maybe it's time I stop this huh? I just wanted to let you know, for all that you are inside my own head, that today I wrote my last blog post. This will be the last entry here as well. Tomorrow I am going to open the door to your room. I'm going to get rid of all the dust. I'm going to move my things in. My bloody shoulder can't take it anymore anyway.

Sherlock, I might cry. 99% chance of it in fact. I'll probably sit at the end of your bed for half the day knowing I'll always recognize it as Sherlock's bed. But I can't . . .

Sherlock. No more specters. No more ghosts.

I believe in Sherlock Holmes.

But I think I need to start believing in John Watson again too if I'm ever going to survive this.

John

(5 November 2014)

SHERLOCK HOLMES YOU GREAT UTTER FUCKING PILLOCK!

If I didn't love you so fucking much, I would hate you. Jesus Christ. Fucking Hell!

You dick. I suppose now that you are "newly back from the grave" I'll have to burn all of these letters. Well fuck you! I'm keeping them. AND I'M KEEPING YOUR ROOM. You can sleep in the dusty, drafty room in the fucking attic. Better yet, go sleep in 221C.

Damnit Sherlock. I'm glad you are alive, but sometimes I just want to kill you myself!

John

-AN: Thanks for reading! To new people, I hope you enjoyed this. I hope you also realize I have some other fiction for other fandoms as well. Feel free to read those if you want. To returning readers: Thanks for sticking around, even if I have a dozen other things that need updating rather than writing this piece. I just couldn't help myself!

This was my first foray into the Sherlock fandom, so I hope it was successful. As always, feedback is appreciated!

**Extra Notice! This has not been beta'd or britpicked. I did my best, but if there are any discrepancies, please let me know!**

**Extra Extra Notice! For those of you who are wondering, the title is a quote from the The Little Prince, a classic children's book by Antoine de Saint-Exupery.**