John left another note on his hollow grave, another note with words that were never spoken during the time he was still "alive", so to speak. John had written many notes over the past 3 years and Sherlock had read them all. Yes he should know better than to grab those heart-felt letters from the top of his grave, but he had to. He needed to know how John felt and what they left unsaid between them. Sherlock wasn't a man for emotions, he never was, they were a waste of time and completely pointless but when it came down to John his heart (well rather the nerve impulses in his brain and chemical reactions that occurred) broke and he welled up with feelings which he preferably pushed away.

Lying on the hard, cold sofa in his some-what tiny and cramped apartment he turned his head to the right to see the hundreds of letters John had left on his grave. All of them opened and wrinkled from being read over and over again, all piled up on his old, creaky coffee table, on the unkept dusty floor and on a rocking chair which he never used for the noise would disrupt his thinking processes. Sherlock sighed, and returned to his usual thinking position: fingers together held under his chin.

'Maybe by taking the letters' Sherlock thought, 'John might get the hint that I'm still very much alive.'

Judging by the content of John's letters, he had always been wondering where his letters went off too, but never went into any deep questions. He usually brushed it off. But throughout all that he hadn't put much stock into the idea that Sherlock was still alive, even though he wished it desperately. Sherlock had been lying on that couch for 2 days straight (as he always would do when thinking about a case) but this time he was thinking about John, and about all the letters. About a week before-hand John almost saw Sherlock buying milk in the near-by store, what a sight that could have been for John; Sherlock finally buying milk. It almost had been a pretty little sight for him. What was John even doing in his near-by store?! Sherlock had fumed over that for a couple of days, but he wasn't only mad at John for being there, he was also mad at himself for having been so careless about him being found out, exposed. He knew John had almost seen him because of the way that he glanced around the area after he had caught sight of him, and even tried pursuing him in the store. Luckily Sherlock was quick witted as always and managed to escape John. It was painful having to avoid John in such a manner but it had to be done. For the good of John. Sherlock remembered the way John had looked; he seemed happy yet sad at the same time, especially after having caught a glimpse of Sherlock. Sherlock knew that John wasn't as happy as he could be: his PTSD had returned shortly after the fall, the tremors took hold of him on occasion and his psychomatic limp had rendered its head to him again. Sherlock needn't spy nor observe John in order to know all of this. He hardly knew anything about John's life apart from what he wrote in his letters, Sherlock wanted to respect John's privacy as well as not be caught doing something like following him around on the streets. From all his letters he knew one important thing: John was to be married. All he knew of the woman was the fact that he loved her dearly, and that it was about time he was to be married to someone. He knew John was happy about the engagement but he seemed bothered by something that was holding back his potential happiness. He could tell this by the tone of his letters, the way his handwriting was somewhat sloppy and slightly unkept and how the letters were drooping rather than staying more upright like they normally do when he is a very happy man; Sherlock deducted (and deducted quite rightly) that even though John was in love with this woman, one thing held him back and there was only one way to help him but it meant risking himself. John was always important to Sherlock, even though he never admitted it. He wanted John to be happy, truly happy. And the only way he could be would be by doing the one thing he had been avoiding for 3 years; exposing himself. Part of Sherlock knew that he would also want to do this for himself, reunite him with someone he considered to be his best and closest friend and in all honesty, his only friend.

Sherlock pondered on the idea for several weeks before he came to a decision; he would expose himself. He needed to; it was driving him mad knowing the one person he cared most about was there without him, also feeling lost without him. Sherlock knew he needed it more than John, so it had to be done. But how on earth would he go about doing it?

Clutching his letter, John walked (well, rather limped than walked) to Sherlock's grave. He hadn't written a letter in weeks, and even though he knew Sherlock wouldn't read them, or rather couldn't read them, he still felt the need to "inform" Sherlock on his life and to find a way to tell him things he should have told him when Sherlock was alive. He felt like he was nuts sometimes, writing letters to a dead man, but his shrink said it could help release his bottled-up feelings and help release some stress and tension from his already stressed mind.

Even though no one read the letters (or so he thought so), every time he would leave his letter on the grave he would return to the grave to find it missing. At first he thought it might be the wind, so he placed rocks on top of his letters, even so, when he would return he would find the rock thrown off to the side and the letter gone. After this happened for the first few times, he became angry, and finally stomped off to the manager's office within the graveyard and confronted him about stealing letters and what not off graves. He was clearly told, after a quite serious row with several members of staff, that they have never, and shall never take anything off graves. John saw no deceit in what they told, and became one very confused man for some months. He eventually thought that some homeless person is stealing them in order to make a fire during the chilly nights. At one point he thought that maybe Sherlock was the on taking them, that he was still alive and walking around London solving cases and helping people (even though he couldn't care less about the people he helped, just about the curiosity of the cases) and not ceasing to amaze people with his deduction skills. For a small amount of time, he thought that maybe Sherlock was reading his letters, but he quickly dismissed the idea with a laugh; Sherlock reading heart-felt letters? Ha, Seemed more amusing to John rather than true. Soon enough he gave up wondering, after all he was no Sherlock Holmes who would be able to come up with an answer by looking at the shift of the dirt or where the rock was thrown or some bloody obvious yet completely hidden thing like that.

Breathing out heavily John approached the grave. No matter how many times he did it, it hurt just as much as it did the first time he approached it almost 3 years ago. He could never look straight at the gravestone without tearing up, the man who meant so much to him, now lying in the cold, icy ground of London with just a simple black, marble headstone to show who lay there.

"You deserved so much more." He says painfully, nearly choking while trying to hold back the wave of tears that wanted to flood his eyes.

Upon arriving at the grave, he sees something quite odd lying on top of the headstone; a yellow tinted letter. Odd, John thought. He was sure he didn't place his last letter there, and he was even surer that his letters don't even look like that. His letters were always a clean, white colour but this letter had a very obvious yellow tint to it, like it had been lying around in some dusty drawer for years before someone decided to finally use it. Wearily, John looks around the graveyard, but to him it appears to be completely still. All he hears is the wind rustling the leaves in the trees, and the sound of his heart pounding loudly in his chest.

'Ok' he thought, 'Just go look at it. I'm sure it's misplaced or something, or someone finally giving me a bloody explanation as to where all my bloody letters have gone off to.'

John reaches out over the grave, as not to step on it (because to him it felt as though he would be stepping on Sherlock) and carefully grabs the letter. Off the bat John could tell this wasn't ordinary letter paper; it was heavy, even though it wasn't thick meaning that what was inside clearly wasn't a 20 page essay, the paper was rough and thicker than your average writing paper and the yellow tint was so odd. It wasn't glued shut in the front but before opening it John decided to see if it was addressed to anyone in particular. He was hesitant in looking to see if it was addressed to anyone, he had an odd feeling about all this. He looks around one last time before turning it over,

"Still no one." he thought. "Might as well have a look then."

Turning it over, his heart stops, and he forgets to breath.

"John"

The letter was addressed to him, in Sherlock's handwriting. John knew it was Sherlock's handwriting, he had seen it too many times to mistaken it for someone else's. The way the J curved around, the way his name was written in beautiful, cursive writing, the way the O slanted and how the pen went through it again curving upwards in order to form the H. It was all Sherlock, and John knew it. But HOW?! John was shaking, trembling as he clutched at the letter in his hands. How was it possible, Sherlock was dead! John saw him fall from the roof of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital, he saw Sherlock lying on the pavement with his brains splattered all over the pavement along with Sherlock, he felt for Sherlock's pulse and he didn't have one. He didn't have a pulse, HE DIDN'T HAVE A PULSE. John had to take deep, relaxing breaths in order to stop himself from hyperventilating. What the hell was going on? John knew the only way to really see what this was all about was to open the damn thing and get it over with. Clearly some idiot thought this was a very funny joke.

"Right, open the damn letter John and get to the bottom of this."

Angrily he flips over the letter, opens the letter and pulls out a yellow card. John gasps.