Letters To Sherlock

by jessisnotdeadyet

These are the letters that John wrote to Sherlock during the time when he was 'dead'. He left the letters on his grave every week on a Wednesday, starting from one month after the Fall. Includes Johnlock, and these letters lead on to a fanfiction in story form rather than letters which I am currently working on. Mystrade included in such fanfiction. Rated M for later chapters.

52. 06 02 2013

Dear Sherlock,

I've met someone. She's called Mary Morstan, and she's fantastic. And I know and you know that my heart belongs to you truly, but I'm afraid that if I don't start living my life in the present day then I'll be alone forever. And I assumed you would never want that for me. So we've got a date on Friday night. I know you think the cinema is dull (there's no good films on anyway), so I want to take her out for dinner and drinks afterwards.

She's a lot like me, is this woman. Maybe a little like you, too. Has a good sense of humour, a smile that lights up the room. I reckon you'd like her, even if she'd annoy you at first. You were never really too keen on any of my previous girlfriends. Not that she and I are that close yet - we only met once. But if I have any justification for choosing her, it's that she's have probably been one of those rare individuals who you could actually grow to care about.

I wouldn't have told you this if I wasn't sure. I tell you just about everything, but my love life's a little different than everything else. Not that if you were still here, greeting me when I returned to Baker Street after a long day's work, you wouldn't be able to deduce all of my romantic endeavours from just one glance.

I want you to be happy for me. Just for once. And I want to be happy. And maybe this woman is the light at the end of the darkest tunnel in which I have set foot in all of my life. I'd say "you know how it is" but truth is, I think you never did understand love as the rest of the world does. But then you understood the world better than anyone else so what would I know? You know the chemistry, at least. I wonder, though, if you ever did experience the effects for yourself. With Irene Adler, perhaps? I still don't understand what you saw in her. Intelligence? Wit? A loathing of all things lawful definitely (including your brother - who still hasn't spoken to me).

So this shall be the last you'll hear from me. I promise. It hurts me as much as it might hurt your rotting skeleton, but I have to move on. I have to let go. And that means I have to stop writing letters to your worn and weary corpse. Even though we both know I'll never get over you. You're in my mind every day, invading every thought and action and smile that touches my lips. You are, and forever will be, my love.

I won't forget you, Sherlock Holmes.

My Sherlock.

So here are my last words.

I am yours.

John.