I'm really, extremely sorry for the delay. I had a very bad case of writer's block for the longest time, Real Life stuff happened, some of my other geek hobbies kept grabbing my attention, and so on. I have learned some valuable lessons here. Like I'll neverpost a story until it is completely done!
I have a section that goes on a sorta tangent from the main plot. Sorry, I really didn't want to break into a fourth chapter and I'm still figuring out structure and writing things like that as I go. I think I fixed it, or at least made it more presentable, but I'll remember to do better next time.
Also, I'll probably have to reiterate this in every Sherlock story, but John and Sherlock are platonic life-partners in my fanfics. Just want to make sure there's no misinterpretation. ;^P
MAIN GUEST CAST
Harriet "Harry" Watson: Samantha Bond
It was easy then to know what was fair
When to keep and when to share
How much to protect your heart
And how much to care
PT. 1
That same day
11:02 pm. Mycroft Holmes.
Aside from his main office "somewhere" on Richmond Terrace and the one he used when he spoke to John during that mess with the Bruce-Partington missile plans, he has a rotating number of offices in different parts of London for security purposes and to deal with different kinds of "situations". The one he's in now is in one of the topmost floors of the, soon to be officially complete in a few months, Shard with two of the walls being floor to ceiling windows.
After sending off more than a dozen important texts, emails, and phone calls, giving his people their instructions for the next five hours till he gets an update from one of his agents in Chile, Mycroft leans back in his chair while closing his eyes. He slowly exhales thru his nose, and mentally goes thru his usual meditative exercises to release the stress building up in his body. His right thumb slowly tapping each finger, pointer to pinkie and back in a soothing repetition.
Besides the usual imagery he utilizes during this practice, he also muses on what happened that morning.
Not the will reading, that went 98.4% exactly what he expected to happen.
But what Lestrade did before the reading and what Dr. Hooper did afterwards.
They both surprised him.
The last time anyone did the opposite of what he expected of goldfish behavior was that mess with Moriarty and before that, Irene Adler.
But he's accepted they were the exception to the usual rule of humanity. However irksome it was to concede that much.
Lestrade and Dr. Hooper, while slightly superior to most people, were not supposed to be any different than their fellow humans.
Just part of Sherlock's group. His "pets" alongside Mrs. Hudson, Angelo, and his Network. And John was a notch above all of them.
And yet, the Detective Inspector and the Doctor offered sympathy and compassion to him. When their own lives are considerably worse off and they're suffering from Sherlock's "death", or in Dr. Hooper's case, the stress of having to lie to her friends for the next several months or years, they still tried to give "The Iceman" of all people comfort.
It caused him to slowly understand why Sherlock places so much value in them, besides how they contributed to his Work.
He muses on this and other things of a more peaceful sort.
After forty minutes of this, which in itself is remarkable as he is usually interrupted after twenty minutes for whatever crisis, he opens his eyes and feels more relaxed than he has in quite a while.
Anthea must be running interference for him. He makes a mental note to give her a small reward for this.
Getting up and walking to the windows, he looks out and observes the stars. The height and the weather allow him to see a grand amount of them.
And he remembers.
Mycroft Holmes remembers everything. From the first five seconds out of his mother to now. As much as he wishes otherwise, he will always remember everything that has occurred in his life, barring Alzheimer's or any other debilitating condition that could arise.
Unlike Sherlock with his ability to "delete" things from his mental hard drive or Mind Palace as he's been calling it lately, Mycroft instead compresses and compartmentalizes everything into the mental equivalent of four Pentagons stacked on top of each other. In another three years, one month, and eight days, he'll have to create a fifth Pentagon.
But for now, he goes back and remembers one of the most important events of his life.
His seventh birthday was two weeks away when his parents told him that they were going to have a baby and that he was going to be a brother.
They had a long talk with him to see if he was going to be okay with this significant change. And to reassure him that it won't reduce the amount of love they have for him.
He knew that. If anything, he was already thinking of the positive aspects of this development. He would have more moments of privacy to read at the library, to meet with his fellow members of their recently created Diogenes Club, it's still up in the air whether girls can join or not, and to spend in his room as he plans for his future.
In the meantime, after his birthday celebrations, he spent the rest of his free time during the pregnancy period carefully, painstakingly hand painting every constellation and asterism in the Great British night sky on the nursery ceiling in special glow in the dark paint. The amount of detail would have made Carl Sagan and Neil deGrasse-Tyson weep with awe.
He wanted to impress, "show off" his father joked, the new arrival with his intelligence. Make it clear to the little urchin that he was the older brother, ergo he will be at the top of the "food chain" so to speak.
Then the fateful day arrived.
Little Sherlock Holmes was pudgy, drippy at nearly every orifice, smelly, and noisy.
No matter what their parents said, Mycroft was certain he was a superior infant in terms of hygiene at the very least.
The first night Sherlock saw the ceiling with the lights off, his eyes went as wide as possible for a baby. And to the tired parents' relief, he was quiet for a few hours.
Mycroft looked at his little brother who had a little baby smile as his hands reached up toward the lights, and he felt an overwhelming love and strong need to protect him.
That love and protectiveness never went away. It only increased as the years went by. Despite the bad times, he could never stop wanting to protect his brother. To love him.
Mycroft forcibly snaps himself out of his memories and with a sniff he goes back to work.
[][][][][]
1:10 pm. Angelo
The restaurant's closed for the day.
Ever since he got back from the solicitors, he's been straddling a chair and looking at the private window booth with the black ribbon draped across it.
That man was a saint.
And while Angelo isn't seeing thru rose colored glasses to think that Sherlock might be a literal saint now, he still prays for the man's soul every Sunday.
Because, dammit yes Sherlock Holmes had a soul!
One only needs to hear him playing his violin to know that. But there were other signs. No matter how much Holmes tried to hide them.
"Boss?" Laurie, his right-hand woman lingers by. She was also someone who Sherlock helped when he didn't have to. Someone else who knows he's not a fraud.
"Yeah." He wipes his eyes. "Have you got that paper with the owner's latest offer?"
"You gonna expand?" She asks, a small smile tries to show itself. "I thought you wanted to wait till they lowered the offer some more?
"I'm tired of waiting for them to waffle on price for a cheap office area. Life's too short."
"Yes, boss." Now the smile refuses to hide. "Shall I get the paint samples too?"
He nods. "And can you get my laptop from the office? I want to look at flooring."
Who would have thought that online shopping for ceramic tiles would make a grown man want to giggle like a kid?
He forgot to turn on the ceiling lights when he arrived and despite the afternoon sun, the restaurant is still a bit on the dim side.
One of the things he plans to improve on for the lunch crowd.
But for now, he moves to one of the bigger tables and sits down to plan.
He notices the table has a small candle.
With a fond smile, he lights it.
"God bless you, Sherlock Holmes."
[][][][][]
4:15 pm. Mike Stamford
Though his boss said he can take the whole day off under the circumstances, Mike still called in after he left the solicitor's. Better to focus on the latest homework assignments than to dwell on sad things.
Though he can't stop himself from remembering the first couple of times Sherlock started appearing at St Barts, using the lab and the morgue for his work. And those weird experiments/hobbies of his.
Mike somehow ended being a mediator during one really nasty argument between the head pathologist and Sherlock and managed to get them to find a resolution.
From now on, Sherlock would only communicate with Dr. Hooper when he was at the hospital and in return, he could have as much use of the morgue and the labs as the board of directors were comfortable giving him.
Mike still can't remember how he got involved, things happened so fast, and he was supposed to be teaching a class in a half-hour.
And he never learned the story of how Sherlock got carte blanche from the board in the first place.
That was something Mike was always planning to ask him over a pint someday. But he put it off since the one time they did go out for drinks, Sherlock was clearly too uncomfortable in trying to be "social".
But that was also when he mentioned needing a flat-mate, so Mike was glad some good came out of that awkward time.
Hard as it may be to believe now. But that sweet landlady of theirs was right in that he should not regret his actions that day.
He and John are, were, closer friends than when they were in school. And Sherlock…well, there was an improvement somewhere in that complex, rude yet amazing man.
He walks down the hall and notices the large whiteboard for the teachers in this office wing.
As per usual, the board is divided into two sections. The work schedule on one side, and little announcements and/or notes on the other for teachers to see first thing before getting to their offices.
This week, the notes side is largely blank. Just a few scribbles of the ongoing on-again, off-again drama between Evans and Zimmerman.
Mike stares for a moment before picking up the sharpie and writing in the largest block letters he can.
I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES
With a smile, he goes back to his office and makes a mental reminder to get a pint later as a farewell salute.
And to tell his wife about the new plans he's got for their kids' academic futures.
[][][][][]
11:10 am. Molly Hooper
Everyone's going their separate ways.
Mike and Angelo have already left after talking to Mrs. Hudson and John who barely acknowledged the conversation. Lestrade is still upstairs talking to McFarlane.
And Mr. Holmes is around in that strange way he has of making himself almost invisible when he wants to. Or maybe he left ages ago and no one noticed. For a man with a "Look upon me, ye mere mortals, and despair" presence, he's surprisingly good at that.
Molly, John and Mrs. Hudson are lingering on the curb, waiting for the cab Molly called for them.
"I'll see you day after tomorrow then." She says to John.
"… Sorry, what? I'm sorry, Molly, I uh…" Poor John has been having trouble focusing on anything since McFarlane gave him the pale cream envelope.
Molly gives one of her warm, but still nervous smiles. "It's okay, John. I'm going to see you and Mrs. Hudson for tea, day after tomorrow."
"Oh… Yeah. Okay. I'm sure she'll love your company. Mrs. Hudson lives for her teas."
"And I'll see you too."
He blinks a few times. "I don't…"
"Yes, you will. Mrs. Hudson and I already planned for it. I'm bringing some tiramisu from this bakery near where I live. Their goods are wonderful. You'll love them." She impulsively hugs him. "It's going to be okay, John. Maybe it won't be better, probably never that, but it will be okay." She must sound so stupid, like a badly written greeting card.
But then John gives a sort-of, barely there smile.
And that alone is enough to make her want to cry in vast relief.
"I don't think I've ever had tiramisu." John says after a moment.
Molly's smile grows. "It's wonderful stuff. The name actually translates to 'cheer me up' or 'pick me up'. The bakery puts blueberries on theirs, you'll love it!"
John's sort-of, barely there smile changes to an almost half-smile.
Mrs. Hudson approaches. "Our cab's here, John." She hugs Molly goodbye. "See you soon, dear."
Molly hugs back. And she hugs John again because she belongs to the group of people that believe there's no such thing as too many hugs.
He doesn't return the hug of course, but he doesn't grimace either so that's a small win.
After the cab drives off, Molly waits a second before trying to flag down a cab for herself.
"Dr. Hooper."
Slightly startled, Molly turns to face, "Mr. Holmes."
"It would not be out of my way to take you home." He moves to indicate she can walk pass him and towards his car.
A second or two passes before she decides to accept. "Thank you."
Several minutes pass as the car drives thru mid-day traffic.
Molly tries not to stare at the man sitting next to her, but she has to ask now since she probably won't get another chance. "Mr. Holmes?"
"Yes, Doctor?"
"Is…is what John said true? About…you and Sherlock?"
It just shows how intelligent Mycroft is, in figuring out that vague question. "In part. For my brother's sake, it's best for John to keep thinking that I betrayed Sherlock's trust."
…
"I'm sorry." She says.
He turns his head to look at her better. "I beg your pardon?"
"I, I'm sorry that you have to…endure that. To have John and others hate you when it's not really your fault. I understand it's for good reasons, but I am sorry you have to have that hanging over you all the time now."
He gave her the strangest, yet painfully familiar look.
~~Are you okay? Don't just say you are, because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you.
But, you can see me.~~
But if he was going to respond, it was prevented by a text alert beep from her phone.
She has a full body jolt before scrambling for the seemingly loud device. "Sorry!"
"Dr. Hooper, you don't have to apologize. As you didn't inform him you went to a will reading, the man can hardly be blamed for knowing it's a bit too soon to ask you out for another date."
…
"How!?" Her voice is as loud as a kitten.
Mycroft sighs. "Sherlock asked me to make certain that any stranger that enters your life has no connection to Moriarty's organization. He was concerned," He grimaces. "that someone might learn of your role in his 'death'. You can be assured that once security cleared him, we did not pry any further into his life. Nor are we prying into yours, despite my earlier comments. Whether you go out with this man again or not is none of my concern."
"…Thank you. I think." She has no idea if there was anything to say thank you for, but her parents raised her to remember her manners so she figured it couldn't hurt.
"Mm."
A few more minutes of quiet passes on.
Molly looks out the window to the blue sky. 'I'll keep my promise, Sherlock. And I'll pray for your safety. I know you'd probably sneer at that, but it's one of the few ways I believe I can still help you, so…I will. Be safe, Sherlock.'
[][][][][]
5:50 pm. Greg Lestrade.
He's been walking all this time. Adding to the amount he walked before he got to the solicitor's office, his feet are probably "screaming" in agony.
He doesn't care.
One of the first things he learned as a cop was to disassociate his mind from pain. At least when it's pain he can afford to ignore.
And when he has something much better to focus on.
He's still in a mental daze from the will reading. Partly from how much money he got, but mostly Sherlock's words.
Why couldn't the git have said something like this ages ago?!
Lestrade wasn't even sure they were friends, despite his and John's attempts to bring Sherlock out of his "sociopathic" shell. And after what happened at Baskerville, he wasn't sure if Sherlock really thought of him as a person. Just a tool for his Work.
But now, for the man to write such words…
He wipes his eyes from the cool wind blowing in his direction. Cause it is.
His pride is still stinging a bit after asking that solicitor if he could have an advance on his inheritance, but his common sense won by reminding his pride that even the "small" advance he got is enough to let him stay in his home and have food for the next couple of months.
And to last even longer in the battle of divorcing Abigail.
McFarlane said something about documents to give to Lestrade's solicitor, but Lestrade was having trouble concentrating on anything other than the amount of the advance. Good grief!
And from Sherlock's final words. Cause isn't it just like him to only give a sincere compliment after he died?
Lestrade sighs. He's really gonna miss, does miss, that brilliant, maddening, one of a kind man.
There's an empty bus bench close by, so Lestrade gives his feet a rest.
He'll probably walk a little more once the throbbing stops. He's in no hurry to get home. So much to think about first, and the fresh, for London, air always helps his brain run more efficiently.
"Cripes, I'm starting to sound like him in my head." He half-groans, half-laughs as he rubs his face then stretches his neck around and back to relive the tension in the muscles. "It's gonna be all 'Tell-Tale Heart' but with Sherlock's voice instead, I just know it." He just chuckles at how his mood's gone up and down so much in the past few hours.
He really needs a drink. And he knows, he really shouldn't.
A flash of bright color flashes across his lower vision and he straightens his position to observe better.
Across the street, a music store with a sign on the biggest window in bright, potentially seizure-inducing, neon colors, "ASK US ABOUT OUR GREAT, WEEKLY GUITAR LESSON PLAN! 30% OFF FOR THE FIRST MONTH! COME ON IN AND ASK US ALREADY!"
He grins.
[][][][][]
3:20 pm. Mrs. Hudson
John went back upstairs after lunch.
She glances toward the ceiling before loading her dishwasher.
John was able to finish two thirds of the meal. That's reassuring.
But she doesn't like how automatic his motions were. He wasn't even trying to taste the Lancashire hotpot, just put in enough bites to satisfy her.
Her hip twinges in protest after putting in the last glass. And it's too soon for the herbal soothers.
Well, her sister did mention a new type of washer that's supposed to be easier for senio…people in the wise, autumnal years of their lives, to operate. She should still have the ad cutting on her fridge. And it's not supposed to be outrageously expensive.
It was so kind of Sherlock to make certain she will be well provided for.
She sniffs as she grabs the nearest tissue box.
"That dear boy…" She murmurs to herself.
For all his yelling and shooting at walls, he was such a sweet lad.
The yelling she never minded. It was just his way of needing attention.
She had known all sorts of men in her "Primrose Days". Most were deceptively lovely like her late-husband. Nearly all of them were coarse but ironically honest. And many were like Sherlock who acted cruel because they just didn't know how to gain more thru kindness.
Dear Sherlock…
She grabs a fresh Kleenex.
After a few minutes of cleaning her eyes, Mrs. Hudson vows not to be so weepy for here on in.
She's British.
The British don't weep. Stiff upper lip, Carry On, and so forth.
She's done her crying, at the funeral and the will reading, it's time to move on now.
The important thing is to look after John.
Sherlock is in a better place, but he's probably worried over his friends.
John, Molly, and that nice, handsome Detective Inspector.
Mrs. Hudson allows herself a giggle. She may be of a certain age, but there's no law that says she can't enjoy looking.
A knock on the back door.
"Coeee?"
It's Mrs. Turner.
Mrs. Hudson smiles with relief.
It'll be good to have some tea with her best friend and having someone help her figure out what to do with her life now that it won't be as exciting as before.
PT. 2
8:49 pm. John
Keep thinking of other things.
Molly's coming over tomorrow. That'll be nice.
Greg promised he'll see him for a beer later this week. That'll be nice too. Mike also said he'd come.
Think of something else. Something more time consuming.
And don't look at the empty chair across from you.
Bill Murray called yesterday. Said he'd come visit day after tomorrow. That's nice. It's been a while since they last got together.
John forces himself to get up and move to the kitchen.
A cup of tea and a few ham sandwiches.
It's not much of a dinner, but he feels like that's all he can stomach right now.
John makes his way to the desk table to eat. Sitting there will let him watch telly as he eats.
It doesn't matter what's playing. Even if it's reruns of "The Sooty Show" or "Hollyoaks", it'll be good to have some background noise. Nice and distracting.
John moves aside a thick book left on the desk to make room for his tray.
After twenty minutes of silently chewing and sipping while "Doctor Who: Robots of Death" is playing on the telly, John finally looks at the book cover.
"Outlines of Vertebrate Evolution by Professor George Edward Challenger"
And he remembers…
~~Three weeks after the Pool~~
John's been both dreading and looking forward to this day.
His sister is going to visit for the first time since he moved in with Sherlock.
And she's been sober for more than a month, so it looks like she's finally getting better.
And she's going to meet Sherlock.
…
Still, John's been needing this.
Moriarty's really did a number on his nerves. One of those intense drum numbers that seem to go hours longer than it should.
He's barely gotten any sleep and it's been hard to keep food down, though John's certain he had been drinking twice his bodyweight in tea at this point. He's even looked up mediation techniques on YouTube to help keep his PTSD at bay, which helped a pinch.
But poor Sherlock was even worse off.
"Haggard" being too polite an adjective to describe how he'd been looking lately.
Immediately after Moriarty let them leave the Pool safely, Sherlock rushed back to Scotland Yard while talking to Mycroft on the phone.
For the rest of the night, Sherlock and John talked to Lestrade, Mycroft, and other people of authority.
Then John was allowed to go home with the assurance that Mycroft's people were going to increase security for the whole neighborhood.
More than a day later, Sherlock came home and just flopped onto his bed.
Ever since, people kept coming over to talk to Sherlock.
Mycroft, Lestrade once to say he's off the case as it's officially bigger than his department and to take John out for drinks anyway, and the directors for both Mi5 and Mi6.
Weeks later, John would chuckle to himself for actually seeing "M", but at the time he was too distracted to really make the connection.
Being a civilian who already gave as complete a statement as he could give, and with his locum jobs, John was out of the loop as to the bulk of these discussions.
Which was fine with him. When all's said and done, John's just a foot soldier.
He doesn't need to be there for the intensely heavy discussions. As soon as Sherlock reveals he has a plan to deal with Moriarty, John will be there with guns a-blazing. Hopefully more metaphorically than literally. Touch wood.
But in the meantime, he's going to reconnect with his sister and things will be warm-fuzzy-happy, even if it kills him.
John and Mrs. Hudson cleaned up the flat and Sherlock cleaned himself till he looked his usual immaculately skinny self.
As long as one didn't look too closely.
However, Sherlock refused to "visit". He had a great deal of work to do and didn't want to waste time pretending to be nice to a guest he didn't want in the first place.
After an hour arguing, John and Sherlock compromised that Sherlock doesn't have to "visit" the whole time but when he and Harry are in the same room, then be nice. Or be quiet.
Which now came to Zero Hour.
Wearing a clean, semi-formal, button-down blue shirt and black trousers, John double checked that everything is as tidy as an apartment shared by two bachelors can get and that Sherlock hadn't snuck in and hidden a body part somewhere.
Dressed in his usual tight white shirt and black pants, Sherlock just stayed in his chair and reading a rather thick book.
The doorbell rang.
John rushed down the stairs while Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"I got it, Mrs. Hudson!" John shouted over his shoulder just before he opened the door.
A late 30s, light-brown haired women in a casual green shirt and blue jeans beamed at him. "Hey, Johnny!"
He smiled back. "Hey!"
They hug and make their way up to the flat.
"So I wasn't sure what to get you as a housewarming gift, late as it is, so I used the most brilliant invention of the 21st century."
"Gift card?" He asked, remembering what she got him for the last couple of birthdays and Christmases.
She laughed as they entered the living room. "Of course!"
"Well, I guess iTunes, touchscreen technology, the Curiosity rover, and electric cars are all just narcissistic upstarts for daring to think they could supplant gift cards(!)" Sherlock snarked behind his book.
"And you're the guy Johnny talks about in his blog." Harry said.
John sighed. "Harry, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, my sister Harry."
"Gift cards came out in the 90s."
Harry tilted her head to read the title of Sherlock's book. " 'Outlines of Vertebrate Evolution'? Wow. Sounds like one of those 'coffee table' books." She chortled. "Right next to the one about the Grand Canyon or the life of Monet."
John chuckled, and things moved pleasantly from there.
Harry and John catching up on things, with John talking about the few cases that he can disclose in public, Harry talking about her job at this "posh hotel", and Sherlock mostly ignoring them but still giving a snarky reply here and there.
Then John went down to Speedy's to get sandwiches for everyone.
Luckily it wasn't one of their rush hours so in less than twenty minutes, John was entering the living room with takeout bags.
He looked around in concern. "Where's Harry?"
"Gone." Sherlock tersely replied, now standing by the desk table and holding his book up at his eye level.
John's shoulder's slump before he braced himself for the bad news. "What did you do?" He sighed.
Sherlock quickly glanced to him, his eyes having a flash of irritation, and then looked back at his book. "I told her that since she had to have known how important tonight was for you, she shouldn't have drunk so much before coming. And that it'd be best if she left now than have you come home to seeing her fail again."
"What?!" Starting to feel that familiar sense of frustration, John just placed the bags on his chair. "She wasn't drunk!"
"Was."
"Sherlock, I know my own sister and sadly, I know the signs. She wasn'tdrunk!"
"Technically she wasn't when you last saw her. The alcohol was just starting to affect her. She must have had quite a few about twenty to thirty minutes before coming here."
"Stop it! I didn't smell it on her, I didn't see it in her movements, I know when she's been drinking even before it starts to take!"
Sherlock finally looked up from his book. "Guess she's gotten better at hiding the symptoms. Didn't want to deal with your dispr-"
"It was you. wasn't it?" John ran his hand thru his hair. "You said something that pissed her off because you always do. You deduced something and just couldn't keep your mouth shut! Not this one time!"
Sherlock slammed his book down on the desk with a loud WHAM! "It's always my fault, isn't it? I'm always ruining everyone's lives! 'Stop that, Sherlock.', 'Why are you lying, Sherlock?', 'You're too young to know such things, Sherlock.', 'No one wants to hear you talk, Freak!', 'Do you want to make your mother cry, Sherlock?', "Why can't you be normal, Freak?!' " He all but stomped to his room. "AND YOU WONDER WHY I DON'T CARE ABOUT PEOPLE!" He yelled over his shoulder just before he slammed the door as hard as he could.
Grabbing his keys, John left the flat. Not wanting to go to Sarah's, he just walked from one end of the block to the other to cool off.
*ringring*
John looked at the caller ID and answered the call. "Harry? Look I'm sorry about Sherlock. He's a berk. He ca-"
"I don't think mush of him."
He stopped walking. "What?"
"That skinny posh with the voice had the nerve to say I'm was drink. HA! I HAVEN'T HAD A DRUNK IN WEEKS NOW!"
John winced from the volume and from what she's saying.
"You need nicer friends, Johnnyyy. Not so judgg…judgemenn…snobsy. Y'Know?"
"…I know. Call you tomorrow."
"OK! I'll hav-"
John hanged up before she could finish.
Sherlock was trying to protect John's feelings. In his own high-functioning sociopathic, but he's not really, way.
John walked back to 221B, mentally going over how he'll apologize.
~~Back to now~~
Having sat at the desk table, staring at the book for who knows how long, John finally moves.
Ignoring his dishes for now and the telly still playing, John heads upstairs to his bedroom where he left his nice clothes from the will reading on the bed and floor.
Luckily, his coat was one of those on the bed so the pale cream envelope inside the inner pocket is still intact.
His hand trembling to the point where he's convinced it hurts, John takes the pale cream envelope out.
He goes back downstairs, turns off the telly, gets as comfortable in his chair as he can…and after staring at the pale cream envelope for a while, finally opens it.
" 'John.
'I told you once that heroes don't exist. I was wrong. One does and I find my life rich beyond measure that he chose to be my friend when I have done nothing in my life to deserve such a blessing.
'Like all the others, you saw from the first what kind of person I am. Git, jerk, freak, high-functioning sociopath, asshole, etc, ad infinitum. Yet you accepted me.
'You can tolerate me when I'm going insane from boredom and you try to think of ways to distract me. You are more than helpful to me in my investigations by keeping me grounded when I'm in danger of overthinking the case and need to be reminded that the answer will usually be a simple one. I have a living, tea drinking, shooting, sweater-wearing, Occam's razor for a flatmate. You make me laugh and I can't remember the last time I laughed with someone. You stand by me when I'm at my worst, and when I inevitably take it out at you, you don't truly leave me alone even if you're not physically in the room.
'I am sorry, John. Sorry for all the times I hurt you. For the longest time before we met, it seemed that I hurt people no matter what I said or did. After a point, it just got' "
There is a small inkblot in-between the words. As if the writer hesitated for a moment before steeling himself to continue.
" 'easier to stop trying to care. You helped me care again and I got better at it thanks to you. I still don't understand it as much as you said I would someday, but I think I've grown to accept it more. Or at least sentiment's not as repugnant to me as it once was. Just mildly annoying.
'At the risk of being grossly misinterpreted because you know how people talk…
'I love you, John.
'I love you as my best friend and more than a brother. Granted being compared to Mycroft is not necessarily a compliment, but you're intelligent enough to understand what I mea-' "
The letter falls to the floor as his hands move to cover his face. His whole body shakes as he sobs his heart out.