A\N: So, chapter two. How are you doing today? Wonderful? Yes yes, that's absolutely amazing to here. I am quite fine myself. No, but anyway, I feel like I'm over-exaggerating this story SO much, but y'know what, that's perfectly fine because I'll probably end up editing it as soon as the story is complete anyway. Well, hope you like! x3 R & R, please!


Dear John

Chapter Two: Breakdowns

~oOo~

Third Person POV

After his presumed breakdown, Sherlock went to take a shower. He sat in there for god knows how long – long past the warmth of the water, of course – curled in a ball and thinking about John's face. Missing John's face. Missing John's lips and his comments and his love and his bickering words and his smarts.

While as he was in the shower, he heard a knock on the door, but he chose to ignore it. It wasn't his brother – his brother never knocked, but it was probably Lestrade. And he didn't want to talk to Lestrade. He didn't want to talk to anyone for that matter.

In any case, the knocked had ceased and Sherlock was overall happy for that; it was beginning to hurt his ears.

So he crawled out of the shower. His skin was wrinkly and his eyes were bloodshot, but he didn't mind too much as he ditched the most likely three week old towel for his nakedness and walk out of his bathroom, soggy and looking like a kicked dog sitting out in the middle of the rain. He didn't mind, though. It was cold and that was keeping him away of his surroundings.

"S-Sherlock?" A voice suddenly awakened his brain just enough to glance forth.

Oh. Sherlock thought he had left.

Holmes sighed and trudged towards the couch and towards the sheet that sat on the couch. "What do you need, Lestrade? I thought I told you I don't want to be disturbed anymore." Sherlock countered with a sour stare towards his friend. The investigator cleared his throat and tried to contain the blush that was overwhelming his features.

Sherlock didn't really notice this, but he proceeded to get wrapped up modestly for more of his own sake than the others. "S-Sherlock, I think it's about time you moved on." The man boldly stated, leaving Sherlock to do nothing but stare blankly at him.

"Is that all?" Sherlock said instead. "It's not that simple, Lestrade. When you lose someone like John you'll understand."

"He was our friend, too, y'know."

"He was my lover. He was my only. He was only your friendly acquaintance." Sherlock shot back with a sudden glare, feeling his anger begin to boil up. What was Lestrade trying to say? Lestrade didn't know John like he did. Only his mother or father could feel something like he was feeling – even Harry, which Sherlock was sure she was still, even though he never contacted the woman.

"Sherlock, just…try to forget, alright? It'll make things easier." Lestrade sighed and made to sit next to the detective. Sherlock snorted but made room for him anyway out of courtesy mainly for John. Sherlock would hate to see John's face if he saw Lestrade treating him in some way that wasn't friendly….Or, by his terms, friendly anyway. "And….And he doesn't have to be your only, if you don't want him to be."

At that comment, Sherlock's face seared up to look at the man in something akin to shock. He replayed those words once, twice, thrice over in his brain, but each and every time he analyzed those words they meant the same thing. Was Lestrade…was Lestrade making a move on him? Was Lestrade trying to say that he…that he would….

Oh god no.

"Lestrade, are you suggesting what I believe that you are suggesting?" Sherlock questioned with a sullen brow raised in question.

It seemed like Lestrade abruptly got extremely close. Ah, he moved.

Lestrade' s eyes were boring into the depressed man's. "Sherlock, I can help you get over him." Lestrade murmured quietly, his lips barely moving and his gaze tired and half-lidded. Sherlock tried to lean back some, but with each and every time he tried to jolt back, the man – now on top of him – followed.

"Lestrade, stop. This isn't amusing by any means –."

"No, it's not. You're unhealthy and need someone to take care of you. I can do that. John's gone, Sherlock. He's gone."

Sherlock let those words seep into his brain again. And again. Just like he had the past three months. "Stop it. Get off of me –."

"No, Sherlock. Let me take care of you." Lestrade murmured, right before he crushed his lips onto the once-consulting-detective. Shocked into stillness, Sherlock's eyes refused to close even with the man on top of him moving his lips on his own with closed eyes and a furrowed brow. The blue-eyed man didn't move. He couldn't, for a few moments. It was impossible. Lestrade was holding him down with his hips and Sherlock could faintly feel the beginnings of an arousal. From Lestrade obviously, not him.

It went on for a few more moments before Lestrade tried to flick his tongue against the other's un-moving lips. There, Sherlock snarled and he bucked his hips upwards furiously, causing the forceful man to break the lip-lock to gasp in undeniable pain. The dark-haired man snarled again and maneuvered his hands out of the blankets, leaving Sherlock to do nothing but shove the man on top of him off.

Sherlock hissed and wiped his lips clean from the feeling of someone's other than his lover's lips on his, which led him to feel vile and disgusting and cheated. Lestrade groaned from the floor, but Sherlock only took a few steps away from the couch and furthermore tumbled to the floor in horror.

"Sherlock, I –." Lestrade tried to say as he struggled to sit up, but Sherlock cut him off.

"Get out." Sherlock stated stoically. Lestrade didn't move. "Get out, Lestrade. Get out, get out, GET OUT!" Sherlock all but whispered as he struggled to get as far away from his friend as possible. Along the way, he bumped into his violin, but he didn't do anything about it when it fell sideways, leaving Sherlock pressed against a wall.

"Alright! Okay, I'm leaving. I-I'm sorry, Sherlock. I shouldn't have –."

"No, you shouldn't have. Now get out, and stay out." Sherlock hissed in revulsion, almost feeling as if he just betrayed his dead lover. He wouldn't look at the other form as he stumbled away, he wouldn't listen as they steps of the man's descent continued downwards, he wouldn't listen as the door opened and closed with a little too much force. No, of course he wouldn't listen.

When he was sure the man was gone, Sherlock stood up straight and ran his right hand throughout his hair. He had just….Sherlock had just been kissed by someone who wasn't his lover. He would never be able to feel his lovers lips again on him – instead, he would have to live with Lestrade's – now, he noticed, everything felt empty. Tainted. Wrong.

Sherlock spent an hour in the shower not long after rubbing his lips raw with a washcloth. He walked out bleeding and adorning cracked skin. He still felt Lestrade's lips on him, still felt how wrong that was, and Sherlock couldn't remember what John felt or tasted like anymore. It scared him. It scared him a lot more than it should have – but Sherlock kept telling himself that that was normal. He just lost someone and now he felt totally unattached to them because that detective thought it was alright to push himself on the other.

Not bothering to put on any clothes again, Sherlock decided to once again curl up in his sheet and stare outside at the dark sky. He was still shivering due to sitting in the shower twice without the proper temperature of the spray, but that didn't seem to matter because all he could think of was the absence of John. How he would be fretting over him, making him drink tea and telling him to put on some clothes and grab a couple of blankets along the way – how John would wrap his arms around him and tell him to stop thinking and that everything was alright.

Everything was not alright. Everything was not fine. He was just kissed by a man that was not John Watson. And he would never kiss another.

Sherlock fell asleep that night with the most deathly fear of all – losing more of John than he was willing to.

~oOo~

Days didn't pass by as well. Mycroft sent him the daily checks for his taxes and whatever else he was supposed to pay – however he never did so so Mycroft now stopped over once in a while to file out everything. Sherlock didn't even pay attention to him. He stared out the window most of the time with the telly going off in the background, and he didn't really think about anything other than the absence of John, and how emotions were the downfall of humanity.

Emotions destroyed him. However Sherlock also found that he, if he had to do it again, wouldn't have it any other way. He would still love John. That, he knew he wouldn't change. Although the mere thought of emotions began to scare him. Why didn't he manage himself well, like John would always when he got depressed? Was it because he was so new to the game? A game that he didn't want to play?

Was it even his choice?

Sherlock didn't feel like that. It wasn't his choice. It was just how it was. John was gone. Really, truly, gone. Sherlock could go back to his life before he met John as well, but he didn't want to. He didn't want to forget John. Ever. He would rather die first.

Not that he hadn't thought about it. John's three guns still rested in the most obvious parts of the house – under his bed, under the chair cushion and by the door on one of the hangers. Sherlock never touched them. But he wished to touch them. Every day. Stroke them, unlock them, take the safety off, and align the trigger to his forehead and pulled that trigger. It was that easy.

But what would John think? Would John be disappointed? All he wanted to do now was to meet John again, and that was his scapegoat to everything.

Sherlock was sure Mycroft had eyes for him, as well. Meaning it wouldn't be simple to take his time and take his life. Which, also, kind of caged him in more ways than he thought possible. Now, he didn't feel anything but alone and scared. Those two emotions which John would almost always cure.

So what in the world was he going to do?

~oOo~

"Dear, you really need to start getting out again. Oh, that's right! I heard from Lestrade –…."

"Don't you ever say his name around me again, Ms. Hudson." Sherlock growled as he stared absentmindedly at the smiley face on the wall, almost thinking that the damned piece of nothing was laughing at him. It was annoying. He should take that down. Briefly, his gaze shifted over to the elderly woman who had jumped slightly at his tone of words. Enhanced breathing. Sweaty palms. Throat constriction. Swallowing. She was nervous and scared.

To be honest, Sherlock didn't care just then.

"D-Did he do something wrong, Sherlock dear? It could possibly just be –."

"Him, Ms. Hudson. Him in general. He did things he shouldn't have. Please do stop this nonsense and leave me alone, then. I do not need your pity."

~oOo~

"Brother dearest, I know how much you must still be hurting –."

"No, you don't, brother."

"Well, it seems to me –."

" – That I'm on the verge of death? Purely amazing deduction, brother. Anyone would notice how I've been looking over the past five months. As I had already though, you wouldn't let me die easily, meaning I have no choice how to continue living. However, I am content with living like this. It's perfectly fine to die in agony and sleep deprivation. At least I would get to see John once more."

"Sherlock that is not a thought you can entertain – do you know how many people you will leave behind that still care about you? I know Lestrade may have –."

" – Ruined the bittersweet taste of my only lover's lips on mine? To where I scraped his utterly preposterous ideas and taste down my bathroom drain? Oh, I noticed he cares, but the thing is, I don't."

"Well, I do, Brother. You are still my bloodline and despite everything, the measures I go through are because I love you. Mother and Father would not support these methods of my protection, but it helps me sleep at night knowing the only family member I care about is still alive. So do think before you act, Sherlock."

When Mycroft left that made him feel even more alone than he was willing to admit.

~oOo~

"Look, Freak, I don't know what you did to Lestrade, but you need to suck it up and apologize before you end up killing him. He's a wreck."

"I wish I had killed him. Now Donovan, please get your dirty nose out of my business before you dare follow Mycroft back to my home."

"Just fix it."

"I can't fix that dirty bloody bastard kissing me and leaving me with the horrid feeling of his lips on mine instead of John's. That's his fault, not mine. Leave, Donovan."

Donovan had left with the most shocked look on her face – a more shocking look than Sherlock had ever seen her."

~oOo~

"Get out, Anderson."

"Now, I don't know what you said to Donovan and Lestrade to make them –."

"Lestrade kissed me and ruined the mere feeling of my only lovers dead lips being the last on mine. It's his fault. Now, get out."

Anderson was the same. Except a little more shocked, Sherlock had to admit.

~oOo~

No one talked to him after that.

~oOo~

Time continued on and soon it had become six months. Sherlock had lost about thirty pounds of his small frame soon enough he would be considered to anorexic to live properly. He didn't mind. His violin had been crushed due to the fact that his anger wasn't as easy to manage as it had used to be. To be honest he didn't miss it as much as he missed John's gaze on his when he played that. His soft, humming tune that led him to almost always fall in love with the soldier even more than he already was.

The Woman had called, but Sherlock refused to pick up. He remembered John telling him – well, him deducing that John was jealous of the other, and he didn't want to do anything that John wouldn't like. Apart from the physical hurt, that is. That was just him. Only bringing John back would stop that.

Perhaps he had done something to fate to make it turn around and bite him in the ass. Was he getting too many experiments correct or something? Because he had stopped that, and the world still seemed to hate him. He was finally out of the papers, thank god, due to the fact he wasn't doing anything good for society or whatnot, leaving him glad for that fact.

People on John's blog had been haywire since then. After they realized John was dead, they haven't stopped commenting. Sherlock had looked last week, just slightly curious, and they were just as beat up about his death as he imagined Harry was. Some were worried for Sherlock. As touching as it was, Sherlock didn't feel any different.

He still felt the same.

Empty.

Alone.

Missing.

A puzzle.

Broken.

He wasn't sure what was best yet.

All Sherlock knew was that he wanted his life to end quickly. Very quickly.

~oOo~

The first time he had tried to end his life obviously was a colossal failure.

He had merely reached for John's gun and three people were already in the flat holding him back. He was tied to the reclining chair for a day after that – force fed and given medicine to help his immune system fight off any common colds that would most likely kill him now. Those three men that Sherlock could honestly say bloody pissed him off had stayed with him.

They were silent and wouldn't stop watching him. Sherlock always avoided his gaze when he had caught their eye. They looked way too pitying. He had told one of the men that before they left, to stop 'pitying' him, but they had simply looked at him and jumped out of the window, probably to watch him once more. Maybe they had lost someone as well. Sherlock didn't know. He wasn't as sharp as he used to be.

The second time he was sharpening a butter knife. Mycroft had walked in silently and took it from him. He ordered Ms. Hudson to look after him after that.

The third time Sherlock tried to jump off his building. Just when he thought he was about to fall one of those same guys pulled him back and dragged him inside. He was furious and screamed all the way back into his flat.

He stopped after that.

Still, though, he could feel their eyes one him, always.

Even when he was showering. But it wasn't that creepy stare – it was that pitying stare again. He hated it.

Sherlock had ordered Mycroft to get someone else to look after him. For once, Mycroft did as he was told. However the pity didn't leave with them. Damned emotions. John would have already beaten the living words out of him if he had seen the other, but since he can't Sherlock couldn't help but damn emotions to the darkest pits of hell. Even if they were the best thing that ever happened in his life.

Bloody hell, did he miss John. So, on whim, he had begun to write letters again. Little, tiny, short letters on ripped pieces of paper. Whenever he wrote them, his grip continued to get considerably looser, until he couldn't hold a pencil anymore. He had made a total of six letters over three weeks.

Dear John,

I miss you. Come back to me.

Dear John,

when will I see you again?

Dear John,

This helps me, I think. Writing to you.

Dear John,

I wish I could send these to someone.

Dear John,

I wish I could send these to you.

Dear John,

I want to die.

Sherlock knew he couldn't stop writing them once he started.

Now, he made Mycroft write them. Only him, though.

He missed John.