It was a dark day in the Watson-Holmes house. Sherlock was in his room not knowing what to do with himself. His John, was dead. Blown to bits by explosives, and he hadn't been there. Sherlock had made his promise to be there for his husband, always. And he had let John down.
There was a knock at his bedroom door.
It was locked, as much as Sherlock had tried to be there for Andrew there was nothing he could do now. Sherlock understood that he had to do his own mourning before he helped Andrew through his own. It was just taking a very long time to get through all the emotional turmoil raging through his mind and his heart.
His John.
His John, who loved tea in the morning, toast and jam while reading the paper and stealing glances at a sleeping Sherlock when he thought that the curly haired man was asleep.
His John, who loved the city and the chases and as much as he pretended to hate the aftermath of the cases, Sherlock knew he loved that too, he patching up of all the scratches, scrapes, and bruises. Forcing food down Sherlock's throat and then later forcing him to sleep.
His John, who always slept on the left side of the bed to make sure that Sherlock didn't sneak off in the middle of the night to do experiments. With John there there was no reason to not sleep. Sherlock would always drape his long limbs over John's sturdier frame and John would hold him close, chuckle, and complain that Sherlock was going to suffocate him. And that was where they would stay until morning's light woke John up, and then John forced them both out of bed.
There was another knock at the door.
"Father," Andrew said meekly from the other side of the door. Sherlock opened his eyes and dragged himself from the bed. The trek was not very far since he was occupying John's side, or what was John's side, it still had his sent, his essence.
He opened the door and let his red rimmed eyes fall onto his son in every way, but blood.
"I-I brought you some lasagna, Father," Andrew met his Father's eyes red matched red, slumped shoulders mirrored the other. Father smiled and gestured for Andrew to enter the room. They both climbed onto the bed, Sherlock on the left and Andrew on the right, and feasted on a warm plate of a delicious reminder what was waiting for him on the other side of the door.
Andrew handed over a fork and they both dug into food with a ferocity that surprised only one of them. There in the bed was where they stayed until the morning woke Andrew up, and Andrew forced his Father out of bed.
"Father, I have something to tell you," Andrew stood at the door looking over his shoulder at his Father now standing by the window looking, "Dad left you a letter under his side of the bed. He said to only tell you about it when I thought you really needed it. I think you could use it now." Andrew smiled at his Father bathed in the warming light of the sun and left.
As soon as the door was closed Sherlock pounced to John's side of the bed, what once was John's side, and sure enough there under mattress were three envelopes. One of the envelopes was labeled "Home Soon", a second labeled "Injured", and a third labeled "Neither".
Sherlock carefully picked up the envelope labeled "Neither" and carefully broke the seal.
Dear Sherlock,
I pray to God that this is not the letter you pick up from under the bed. I wrote three of these knowing you would need a little something to hang onto until I get back. This one was written last, it was the most difficult to pen since it had the unfathomable concept of never seeing you again. I couldn't think about it, to me there is nothing worse then never watching you sleep again or never again listening to your crazy mind as your brain speeds ahead of your mouth. I couldn't think of a world where we weren't together or that we weren't going to be reunited soon.
If you are reading this letter the worst I feared has happened and you live in a world I couldn't dream of, us being separated for the rest of your life. No more tea and toast in bed, no more running through the streets of London, and no more yelling at the television when you try to prove a sitcom wrong. But most of all no more us lying in bed mumbling a half-asleep conversation about crumpets and umbrellas, don't try to deny that this actually happened I know you remember it.
I suppose it only seems fitting that the war brought us together so now it is the war taking us apart again. It hardly seems fair, but who am I to question fate, though I know you would gladly run the debate. I don't know how long it has been since I have been home and I don't know how long it has been since you have seen me, I'm sure that I am what you remember as a husband, only with a gun, fine a larger gun than I had.
I just have one request of you if it does turn out that I am deceased. Please don't lose yourself in my death. My life may be over now, but yours is nowhere near the end. You still have a brilliant life to lead and cases to salve and people to prove wrong, especially Anderson and Donovan. Keep taking the cases and think of me fondly when you finish them with that flourish you always do.
I, John Hamish Watson-Holmes, have loved you, Sherlock Scott Watson-Holmes, until the very moment I died and I can promise you that the love I felt carried on into death and through into my next life.
Live the life you have left, Love, and remember me.
Yours in Eternity,
John Hamish Watson-Holmes