Hey guys!

So I hope you all had a great Christmas! Sorry about the last chapter, but a part of Voldemort/Moffat lives inside me. I can't promise that things will get better any time soon, but I am providing tissues for all of you, because you seem to need them. I'm also providing shock-blankets for you all for series 3.

Also, sorry for the late update. I got a new laptop for Christmas, and I'm still trying to get the hang of it! Thanks to Lusaida, greengirl16, lauraiscumberbatched, BritishSweden, and A Lotus Flower for all of your amazing reviews! It really does mean a lot.

Enjoy!

Megan

oxox

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July 15th 2012

John,

I hope that you had a good birthday, and I'm sorry that I couldn't be there. You have no idea how much I wish I could have been. I'm sorry that I didn't get you anything either, though I suppose it's a bit late to be thinking about that now. After you left - a few hours ago now - I called Harry. I was thinking about the year, and all of the things that I won't be there for. And your birthday was one of them.

I asked - well, told is probably a more accurate word - her to throw you a birthday party. I said that it didn't have to be big, just that she had to make sure that you went to it. And to make sure that you had fun. I asked her to do a couple of other things too, though I don't think she really understood what I was talking about. My mind is a mess, and I wasn't speaking very clearly.

Hopefully, she'll understand soon. When she sees the papers. I haven't got the time to call her and explain again. I know she'll have taken you out, though I don't think she'll have mentioned the phone call. I'm probably the last thing the two of you want to talk about on the one day that you could potentially be happy. I don't even know why I'm telling you, really. I think I just wanted you to know that I tried.

I've been up for a while now, thinking. The last few days have been a little extreme, even for me. I haven't really sat and thought in a long time, and now it seems like all my thoughts are catching up with me. They're invading my mind in rushes, and honestly, it's getting a little hard to keep up. All of the things that passed me by, all of the things that I never picked up on. Clues that I missed, cases I could have solved.

Molly.

I never really noticed her, did I? I was aware of her, but I never truly noticed her. Never appreciated her. I knew she had . . . feelings for me. Though I think even a fool would have noticed that. It was blindingly obvious. But I just never thought that it was worth mentioning. Even knowing that, though. Even then, I never paid her much attention. Not unless I wanted something.

You probably think that I used her. And maybe I did, sometimes. But I never saw it as such. I saw it as . . . appreciating her for her talents, and utilising them. Of course, I look back on it now, and I know what I did. I did use her, probably on more than one occasion. But she never said anything. Not once. She must've known I was only doing it for myself . . . but she never seemed to mind.

Four years.

Four years I've known her, and I'm only just thinking about all of this now. She said something to me . . . in the lab. Something that made me think. Not just about her, and . . . all of this. But about myself. It was when we were investigating the kidnappers footprints . . . in the very room that I'm sat in now, as I write to you. I don't suppose you heard the conversation, and I didn't really have the time to discuss it with you.

She turned to me, and she said; "You're a bit like my Dad.". Of course, I was completely absorbed in my work at the time, and you know what I'm like when people try and communicate with me. I told her that she shouldn't feel the need to make conversation, as it wasn't her area. But she was quite persistent, and it looked as though it were something she'd wanted to say for a while.

She told me that when her father was dying, he was always happy. She said that he was "lovely". Except when he thought that no one could see him. She said that she saw him once, and that he looked sad.

At this point, I had a vague idea where the conversation was going. My heart was beating so loudly I was sure you could hear it from across the room. Stupid idea, of course. I warned her again, but my voice sounded weaker. No point really. She wanted to say it, so she was clearly going to.

"You look sad. When you think he can't see you."

She was referring to you, obviously.

But the point is, it never really occurred to me. I'd always just assumed that as long as I was breathing - I was fine. However, I understand now that that's not necessarily true. There's a big difference between living and surviving. I'm sure that you, of all people understand that. But when Molly said that, that was when it finally hit me that maybe something was wrong.

But I don't want to talk about that right now. I'm not ready to talk about that.

Anyway, Molly told me that she understood what it meant. That I looked . . . sad when nobody else could see me. So I remarked simply that she could see me, thinking that I could prove her wrong. And that was when she said the words that have had me thinking for quite a while.

"I don't count."

At the time, I thought it was the most ridiculous thing I'd ever heard. It didn't make any sense. And I didn't understand how someone could be so blind to their own worth. After all, how many cases had she helped with? How many lives had she saved? How many family's minds had she put at ease? She was brilliant. And she thought she was worthless.

Do you want to know the worst part, though? The worst part is that I was most likely the reason she thought that in the first place.

Because all I could see was you.

I know this letter is becoming ridiculously long, but I just want to tell you one last thing. All of this thinking I've been doing about Molly, and how she never knew how much she meant . . . I don't think I ever told you how much you meant to me, either. I always told you that the work was the only thing that mattered . . . but you must've known that I included you in that too. You must've known . . . because I couldn't bear it if I made you feel that way as well.

- SH


"Hello?"

John heard Harry's voice on the other side of the line. He held the phone tightly to his ear as he sat on his bed. Light was coming in through a small gap in the curtains, hurting his eyes. Quickly, he got up and closed the gap. Ever since his breakdown a few months ago, he had barely left his flat. The only time he ever went out was for food, or when Harry forced him out. Apart from that, he just sat at home drinking.

And this morning had been no exception. Especially after reading Sherlock's letter.

They were getting worse. In each letter, Sherlock seemed to be getting more and more emotional. More human. It was like John was watching him break slowly. Not to mention the fact that his handwriting was getting scratchier and messier. John knew that that could just be down to tiredness. Sherlock hadn't slept for days when he was writing those letters, and it was very late in the night. But he knew better than that. Sherlock didn't get tired, not ever.

Putting it to the back of his mind, he thought about Harry.

"How could you?" he spat through gritted teeth. "How . . . could you?"

"John? What are you talking about? Is . . . is everything alright?" Harry asked, sounding confused. He didn't understand. He felt betrayed. Of course she knew what he was talking about. She had to. She wouldn't have forgotten it that easily. "John . . . have you been drinking again? I thought we talked about this! It's not the answer. It's not . . . it's not going to bring him ba-"

"Shut up! Don't talk about him! Don't you dare!" John cried, and he could already feel tears coming to his eyes. He cursed himself for being so weak. "How could you sit there . . . and not tell me? Why didn't you tell me, Harry? It's not like you didn't have the chance! And you knew. You must've known. It wasn't that difficult to work out. Why didn't you call me? I could've . . . I could've done something . . ."

"John? John, you're scaring me. Please . . . tell me what's wrong."

"You!" he yelled, no longer able to contain himself. He didn't care if his neighbours complained, didn't care who heard him. "He called you, before he jumped! He called you, and you spoke to him! You never told me! Never thought it was worth mentioning! He . . . he asked you to do something didn't he? Something for me? Why didn't you tell me?"

"I . . ." Harry began, and then sighed. "Yes, he called me. I was over at Clara's, and he woke me up. I remembered thinking that something was wrong as soon as I looked at the Caller ID. When I answered, he sounded . . . different. He sounded . . . as though he was in pain. He told me not to worry, and that everything was going to be fine. But he asked me to . . . throw you a birthday party. At that point I just assumed he was drunk, or crazy. Or both. I asked him why, and he said . . ."

"He said what?" John asked, his voice sounding choked.

"He said that he was going away, and that he was going to be gone a while. I asked him where he was going, but he just said 'Somewhere John can't come with me'. I think I knew then what he was asking, but I didn't want to admit it to myself. It just didn't seem right. Didn't seem real. I thought that I would put the phone down, and that it would all have been some crazy dream. But then . . . before he hung up, he asked me to do one last thing . . ."

"What?"

"He said 'Look after him.'"

"So that's it then? You knew? All these months I've been sat here, missing him, mourning him . . . and you never once thought to mention that phone call? Not even once? Or did it just never come up in conversation?" John asked, his voice laced with bitterness and sarcasm. "Lord knows, you made me talk about him enough times! Just . . . tell me why?"

"I didn't want . . . I didn't think that he wanted you to know."

"Well, obviously, you were wrong! He wrote about your little . . . conversation in a letter. If he didn't want me to know, then why would he have told me?" John pinched the bridge of his nose, a headache forming behind his eyes. "When you got that call, Harry . . . why didn't you just call me? Even if you were wrong, and everything was fine . . . why didn't you call, just to make sure?"

"John, I-"

"No, no more excuses." John sighed, "You knew. You knew something was wrong, and you didn't tell me. You knew he was dying, or that he was in trouble, and you did nothing. I don't want to talk to you. I don't want to hear from you ever again. At least not until I get things figured out. Don't call me, don't text me, don't e-mail me. Just . . . leave me alone. You as good as killed him."

John pulled the phone from his ear, and hung up.