Letter One.
John stared at the paper rather than begin reading it. He was afraid that the scribbles would turn out to be something he wished to forget. John shook his head, now he was afraid of letters? Eyes skimming the page again, John wasn't taking anything in. Worrying at his bottom lip, John folded the paper closed and stuck it in the box. Staring at the container, John stood up and backed out of the room.
He tried everything to keep his mind off the letter. Making tea, reading, watching telly, making lunch, making another cup of tea. Literally everything. But nothing kept his thoughts from wandering to the grey box filled with white paper.
John's iron will broke a lengthy three hours later, leaving him staring down the box like it had personally offended him. In this instance, it may as well have. He ran his hand over the smooth lid again, thumbing over the latch in contemplation.
"Fine. You win." He relented after another minute, opening the box. He the first letter out with a haste that he would latter deny. Smoothing his hand over the written on page, John braced himself.
John,
Today we met, and subsequently I began writing letters again. I didn't want to, I've always thought this was a childish way to deal with things, but I was thinking about you too much. The invalided army doctor that wandered in with Stamford and found me fascinating. Perhaps that is a bit vain, but I have little regard for propriety. As you shall find out soon. So now here I am, scribbling on a piece of paper in lousy attempt to cope with someone I fail to understand.
It's always been like this, writing letters, but you wouldn't care, John. You would pretend to, but that has little matter now. Besides, why I do this isn't the focus, you are. One Dr. John Watson.
After a brief—and by brief I meanly nonexistent—introduction via cell phone sharing, I asked you, or rather told you, to come live with me. And even though I had been adamant about my deductions, I'm unsure as to whether you will actually show up.
Sometimes I wish I was better at things like this. Then, maybe I wouldn't be so clueless. When you walked in, offered a stranger your phone, what were you doing? I still don't understand your actions. You frustrate me, John. Why didn't you yell at me when I laid your life, your invalidation in front of you? Everyone does. Everyone always does.
I don't think you will last; however, the violin playing isn't the worst of it. It's nothing personal, John. You are bound to realize I'm not worth the hassle, or the cheap rent.
Regards,
Sherlock
P.S. You showed up. Congratulations, John, you managed to surprise me.
John was a mess once he finished, his hands shaking to a degree that even if he wanted to read Sherlock's letter again, he couldn't. A part of him was saying it was ridiculous to act like this, that it was just a letter. It was hardly anything to nearly cry over.
He had no idea that Sherlock had felt so uncertain about, well, anything. The letters showed an entirely different side of Sherlock, one that made John miss him all over again.
Folding the letter, John put it back in the box. His hand lingered over the other letters. John wasn't sure if he could manage to go through them... But then again, he'd never get another chance to see through Sherlock's eyes.
"Later." John decided, informing the box as he shut it again. This time though, John picked it up and took it with him into the living room.