Hi everyone! Thank you for all of your follows and favorites. It warms my heart. It really does. That being said... Sorry for the little delay in the next update. I had three essays assigned and due all in the same week, and now I have another one, and then there was this lab with a roller coaster... Anyway, I was busy.

Mind where you tread. There is some serious Johnlock in this chapter, and the emotions that I received watching the last episode of Legend of Korra have been channeled into this as well. It has been subsequently shorter because of this, my workload, and because I wanted to give all those who enjoy this story a chapter before New Years.

I do not own BBC Sherlock.

Shout out to all my friends, ghastly beasts, you lot...

Comealongpond221: Why thank you. *slides a bunch of virtual fezzes across the table*

Enjoy. And happy holidays.

-A Random Person With a Pen


The freshly cleaned wood shone brightly beneath the sun's rays. A thousand thoughts were racing through Sherlock's already overactive mind as a thousand particles of dust floated in the light coming from the windows. This was the first time in what was certainly a long time that Sherlock had opened the curtains. He liked to absorb as much of his surroundings as he could whenever he was composing, which he was at the time, or simply trying to clear his head of all the information he subconsciously stored, or whether he was in the act of wishing he was someone else. It was quite possible that he was doing the latter as well.

He had composed many songs since John had left his world. All of them were slow and heart-breaking, as per Sherlock's style. But these had to have been some of the most well-written and the most emotional pieces of music Sherlock Holmes had ever composed. And now, he had set about to do it again. However, he was not out to produce another composition to force the listener into a state of melancholy. He was trying to make something that would reflect John- that would reflect the very power he needed to drag himself from the low position he had found himself in. He felt the need to make anyone who would ever hear that piece of music understand how he felt about John. He wanted the world to listen to his violin and feel the same way about John and give him the respect he deserved. He wanted the universe to feel the emotion behind every note. But most importantly, Sherlock wished he could make his music reach all the way up to heaven and reach John's ears, and he wanted the selfish, murdering bastard that was rotting in hell to know the extent of Sherlock's hatred.

But now matter how many horrifyingly sentimental thoughts he summoned, Sherlock could not make the music flow, and that angered him even more. His knuckles turned white as he gripped his bow, and it took even more strength to let go, lest he risk breaking his bow or even worse, his violin. The wall was not that far away from where he was standing, and he figured it would not be difficult to smash his beautiful instrument against the plaster...

He shook his head. He knew it would not change anything. He know knew that time was not the healer it was reported to be; he felt that every second that passed was deepening his wounds, and that was quite unfortunate since the only person who Sherlock would willfully allow to tend his his wounds was-

"NO!" Sherlock's heart was pounding in his ears. He glanced over at the clock to see if that dreadful day was going to end sometime soon, and to his dismay, the day was still very much young. As Sherlock stared at the digital, red numbers, the philosophical contrast between night and day to which the pathetic humans liked to agree with became so obliviously truthful that Sherlock nearly lost his breakfast tea. More rather, it rose to his throat.

Of course! How could he have been so daft?! Those who relished in the night did so because their deeds were evil, and the darkness served as a veil to whatever atrocities their hearts were set on. They loathed the daylight because the light revealed all that they had done to the eyes of all who wanted to see. And now, as the daylight came through the windows onto his violin, he understood that philosophy completely. Moreover, he understood himself, even though he normally felt that he had himself very well mapped-out.

You asshole, an annoying, random voice of subconscious said in the back of his mind. Well, he already knew that, but it was amplified by what that voice said next. You dragged him out there on that night. And why? For your own selfish ambitions. Why do you feel such need for excitement when you know what sort of implications it could have? Look at what you've done! You're worse off than before John came into your life. Do you even know why John came into your life? I think you do. You're not that stupid. You had a comfortable, rare flat at a reasonable price. Who wouldn't swallow their pride and summon all of their humbleness to put up with you if it meant living in this place?

"John," he muttered to himself, drowning out the voice in his head, which was still rambling on. He hoped that John could hear him in heaven, or wherever those who made good in their lives resided after death, since there was no way in hell that John had been sentenced to hell, in Sherlock's opinion."I'm sorry. I really am."

A solemn tear fell from his left eye and left a salt streak on his cheekbones and on his beak-like nose, for his head had bowed subconsciously to help him consciously sobbing. The voice in his head rambled about his mistakes.


Sherlock had written many letters to John during his two year "vacation." John never knew about them during his lifetime, and to that day, Sherlock did not know whether that was a good thing or not. Perhaps he should have showed them to him after that night at the French restaurant. It would have been proper to do so after he had been there for a few weeks, after John had cooled off, but Sherlock never did. Maybe the tear marks and the running ink would have mended the bridges that were still torn between them, and maybe John and Mary's engagement could have been called off even if she was pregnant, and maybe Sherlock would have had the pleasure of having the man he cared about care about him the same way, impossible as he figured that would have been.

Those letters were the only things that gave him hope through those two years of hardship, tracking, and killing, aside from his memories of 221B. Had John not been his flatmate before he was forced to dismantle Moriarty's web, well, Sherlock figured the loss of some of the incentive would have resulted in more failures and even his death. Now, with all of the sentiment that had consumed his mind, he wondered if the universe had used John to teach him lesson, and that his emotions were his punishment for rejecting his emotions.

Nonetheless, as the voice faded away, Sherlock picked up a stray piece of paper and a fountain pen and started writing a letter to John. He knew it was foolish, there was no way John would ever see it.

Dear John,

There are so many things I wish I could have said to you during our time together, our time apart, in your final moments, and especially now. You were far too caring for your own good, you humble git. You really should have left this flat after the first week. I am the reason you are dead, John, despite my best efforts to prevent that.

He took a deep breath before he continued writing.

Contrary to what I would have most people believe, I do express some sort of emotion every once in a while, and you were among the few who actually comprehended that. I miss the way you would always make two cups of tea every morning. I miss the way you would simply drop everything at the surgery and run towards my calls. I miss coming home to crap television and to take-out. I miss watching you write your blog posts. I miss the way you would always come home to me and call out my name to make sure I had not gotten myself killed. I miss the way you would always sniff out my cigarettes and throw them away, even though I would gripe and complain when you did. I've actually kicked the habit since you've been gone. It's what you always wanted me to do.

Sherlock heard shuffling outside of his flat and hid the letter from the view of anyone bursting in the door. There was no need for anyone to see what his pathetic, weak mind was making him produce. When the noises passed, and he was positive he was safe, he wiped a tear from his left eye that was threatening to fall and brought the letter back out.

I really did care about you. There was no real evidence of that, but I did. I still do. I haven't taken a case, partially because Lestrade's new requirements show how blind the DI can be sometimes, but also because my partner-in-solving-crime isn't here beside me. The Yard would give me some lousy, incompetent partner who could not see half of the things you could after hanging around me for so long. I never deserved you, John. You can talk as long as you wish about how I saved you, about how you felt purpose again after living with me. But you must understand this, you did more beneficial things to me than I did to you.

But you do not have to worry anymore, my dear Watson. If heaven really does exist, you must have been placed there when you died. You can enjoy all of the splendors of living righteously. Do not fear. I will not be joining you. I will be condemned. I will join the other self-righteous assholes. You can enjoy paradise, for I will not be there to ruin it, as I did your life. Even though they were a part of your last words, I am not a good person. A good person does not take advantage of you as I did. A good person would have found a way to drop a message by their friends that they were still alive after they were dead. Even though it was for your safety, I put you through hell, and I can never forgive myself for that. How you managed to be civil with me after I came back, I will never know.

Sobs threatened to rack his body- his severely human body. He kept going.

Mrs. Hudson asked if I wanted to visit your grave today. I know you visited my grave many times during those two years. Well, guess what? It's actually been two years you have died as well, and I haven't dared to go near that grave marker since your funeral. Tell me, what kind of good person doesn't go to their friend's grave after they have died? You did because out of the two of us, you were the one who was the angel. Yes, you were the angel that caused me to be on the side of the angels, if you did not know that already.

But I have gathered my courage. It takes courage to have sentiment, and that would also make you the bravest and most noble out of the two of us. I am going to your grave today with Mrs. Hudson. I know you said you have forgiven me for all the terrible things I did to you, how I used you, and how I got you killed. I see you in that alley every time I close my eyes. I will bring this letter.

Yours Eternally,

Sherlock