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The letters starting coming at the very beginning, when everything was still raw, cold shock, and acceptance hadn't begun to settle in yet. The first one was simple, slipped through the mail slot in the door. It was only one word: "Sorry."' It left almost no impression on John. It was probably just another damn condolence note, and he threw it away as soon as he got it. He didn't need apologies. Apologies wouldn't bring him back.
Nothing would bring him back. John told himself that on a regular basis. He also told himself, very frequently, that that was alright.
"I'm fine."
"I'm okay, really."
"Yeah, I'm doing much better."
"It's fine, really. I mean, I was upset, but I'm okay now."
It was what he told everyone: Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, even random strangers at the surgery who had heard of the detective's death, and knew of his connection to John.
Obviously, he wasn't fine. But it was easier than facing the truth. So he didn't. He ran from it in every way, changing the subject every time it came around to the suicide, directing his thoughts elsewhere when an image of him floated through his mind, getting rid of every item that had ever been so much as touched by his former flatmate.
Sometime after the Fall, John realized that he had stopped saying his name. It wasn't so much a conscious decision as a survival instinct, and he didn't fight it. He never said his friends name. John always referred to the dead man as "him." or "the detective." or "my friend." But John never let the aching feeling in his chest have a name. That name, he told himself, would only give the pain license to grow.
It hadn't worked, of course. Nothing can dull loss, and nothing could ever make him forget. But if he told himself it was working, he might eventually begin to believe it.
It was easier this way, and if it wasn't, he could pretend.
--
Mrs. Hudson was a constant presence in the flat. John supposed it had been a comfort at first, but soon it became stifling. She was always bursting in and offering to make him a cup of tea, to clean up the flat for him, or cook him dinner. There were constant questions of "How are you, dear?" and "Do you need anything?" Worst of all she always wanted to talk about him. She'd bring up a case and start to go off on how brilliant he had been, going for what seemed like an age, until John would finally excuse himself on the grounds of headache or not enough sleep the night before, and retreat to his room.
It was during one such visit that the second note arrived.
Mrs. Hudson was fussing around with John's tea, adding too much sugar, as she always did. John never drank the damn tea. Letting her make it was largely a formality. It seemed to make her feel better, possibly fulfilled some motherly instinct, and who was he to stand in the way of it? She had just brought the tea over and set it down on the table in front of John when the doorbell rang, Making them both start. "No, I'll get it." John rose from his chair, and started for the door.
It looked very unassuming. A small piece of white printer paper, nothing special. There were only five words on it, typed, and the note was unsigned. "Who's there, John?" Mrs. Hudson called from the kitchen, stepping into the room to see who the mystery caller was. "No one. Someone's left a note. It's nothing important." He reentered the kitchen, tucking the note into his pocket. "You know, I've been feeling a bit under the weather. I think I might go to bed, actually. Thanks for the tea." Mrs. Hudson nodded and said goodbye, adding on her way out that she hoped he felt better soon, and John smiled and thanked her, counting down the seconds until he could be alone.
The door closed, and his hand went instantly to his pocket to retrieve the note. He ran his thumb absentmindedly over the letters of the message as he examined it closer, trying to understand.
"I believe in John Watson."
And no signature. It was definitely meant for him. It has his name on it, for heaven's sake.
"I believe in John Watson."
And even if he could decipher a meaning, he would still be left with the question of where this note had come from. He had a few friends, but none of the type who would send mysterious messages. Well, none of that type anymore....
It was too much to fathom. Maybe he really would go to bed early. He was feeling frustrated and confused and, strangely, a little hurt by everything happening in his life at the moment, and this note didn't help at all.
--
For the first few days, John had allowed himself to remember him. He had gone over everything in his head to the greatest possible extent, to the point where it became incessant. Every word he had said, every action, every event of those last few days had come under John's scrutiny. He had analyzed every scrap of information to no avail, and once he realized that he would never get his answers, he had let himself forget.
But there was one thing that had stuck with him; the detective hadn't been hadn't been suicidal. John was sure of it. Frustrated, sad, a bit scared, maybe, but never depressed. And even if he had been, the idea of taking his own life would never have appealed to him. It must have been a last minute decision then, completely spur of the moment, impulsive and rushed and stupid. So why the hell did he jump? In moments of vulnerability the question would come back to him.
As he lay in bed on the night of the second note, exhausted but unable to find sleep, the mystery continued to float through his mind.
He had been many things: Pompous, rude, brash, even downright cruel at times. But there was one thing he had never seemed, and that was selfish. The detective had cared, even if it didn't seem like it at times. Whenever John was on the edge of loosing faith in his friend, he would pull out some brilliant bit of consideration: Making him a cup of tea, helping him make dinner, and of course, stealing him an ashtray from Buckingham palace. So why would he do this to John? Why would he make that jump when he knew that how much it would hurt his only friend? This was a question that John rolled over and over in his mind, trying to get a glimpse at a different side of the puzzle. The only answer he could ever find was that he hadn't known. The detective had been a genius, but he had never been very good with emotions. Had he deluded himself into thinking that John didn't care enough about him to be effected by his death? It was a possibility, albeit an unlikely one.
--
The next day was a Sunday. Or maybe a Monday. John didn't really care. He had awoken at four in the morning from a dissatisfying half-sleep, and dragged himself to the kitchen to make a cup of tea that he knew he wouldn't drink, giving up on the possibility of rest.
Now the sun was rising outside the flat, and John sat with his half full teacup, having lost interest in it. He had lost interest in almost everything. These were the days when he had to search for a reason to keep going. Everything was grey and flat, and try as he might, he couldn't find the point of it all. He continued to live, more out of habit than anything else.
The last bit of heat was leaching out of the tea cup, but pouring it down the sink would require effort. He stared blankly across the room, not focusing on anything in particular, his eyes flitting over the armchair, the telly, the sofa. There was nothing in this flat for him, not now that he was alone and lost, pretending that everything was fine. Pretending the memories he suppressed weren't there, didn't even exist. Pretending he had any desire to still be alive.
His gaze landed on a small box sticking out from under the sofa, and a chill went through him. It wasn't the first time the thought had crossed his mind, but it had always been just that: a thought. Nothing more. Today felt different, somehow heavy, shoving him to the bottom of the world to sulk, maudlin and confused, trying to find an answer he wasn't willing to hear. But he could stop it. He knew he could stop it.
The box was unreasonably heavy in his hand as he extricated it from beneath the sofa. Perhaps the connotations it carried were weighing it down. He didn't want to think on that too much. He ran a finger along the top of the box, collecting the dust that had gathered there in the two long years since it had been opened, hidden away when it was no longer needed. It still opened smoothly, however. And there it was. His old revolver.
He reached into the box and lifted the gun, his teeth clenching at feel of cold metal. This should be easy, just lift the gun, pull the trigger, the end, Nothing else. This was what he had wanted, wasn't it? Wasn't it?
He squeezed his eyes shut.. Just breathe, John. Breathe, damn you. Slowly, he sank to his knees, eyes still shut, and slid his index finger over the grip and onto the trigger. Right. Now lift the gun. Come on, idiot. Can't you even do this properly? He had fallen apart, couldn't keep living, but couldn't stop. Just this one thing. Then it's done. Then you don't have to be the one who remembers him. His hand was shaking. Just lift the fucking gun.
The revolver fell to the floor with a thud. The hand that had been holding the gun was clenched into a fist at his side, the memory of the metal poisoning his skin. His breathing was shallow, but he couldn't cry. He didn't cry.
He couldn't stand up quite yet, so he didn't try, and simply sat on the sitting room floor, his arms wrapped around himself, until his breathing became steady once more.
He couldn't do it, but maybe that was for the best.
He sat on the floor for at least an hour, trying to calm himself down, taking deep breaths, telling himself, without any real conviction, that he would be alright.
He was interrupted by the doorbell. Who in the world could that be? He only knew a handful of people, and none of them bothered with the bell. Molly and Lestrade knocked, and Mrs. Hudson preferred to burst in unannounced. The last time he could remember the doorbell ringing was when the second note was delivered...Oh god, Not another one. But it was. A third note, just like the two before it.
"He wouldn't have wanted you to go through with it."
John's first reflex was to glance frantically around out the windows of the flat. The other two could be coincidences, but this was getting a bit to personal. How could whoever was sending the notes know what he had just tried to do? Was he being watched? hidden cameras, maybe. He ran to the bookshelf and started pulling down volumes, remembering the small camera that had once been hidden there, but found nothing. He searched the rest of the sitting room, then the kitchen, the bathroom, anywhere that had a view of the sofa. Something about dust, right? That you could put back anything but dust? But no speck of dust seemed to be out of place. So how did his mysterious tormenter know?
After three very thorough searches of the flat, he had to give up. If the building was bugged, it had been done well, as he was finding nothing. He sank back onto the sofa, the note clutched in his slightly shaking hand.
He wondered if the mysterious sender had some kind of good intentions, or if they were just trying to tease him. Whatever this mystery correspondent intended, John was hurt nonetheless. "He wouldn't have wanted you to go through with it." Now what the fuck was the supposed to mean? "He" was dead. it wasn't about what he would have wanted anymore. But deep down, John knew the message had a point. The detective probably wouldn't have wanted John dead. Despite what people might say, he had cared. That was the one thing John knew for certain.
--
"Are you alright?" Lestrade's tone was tentative, careful, and John knew that he didn't really want to know the truth. He didn't want to hear about how broken John was, about the day to day monotony that comes with sorrow, or the effort it takes to drag yourself through life when your world has been crushed. He didn't want to know the reality of the situation, no. He just wanted to hear that John was alright, so that he wouldn't have to feel guilty. So John nodded, taking a sip of his tea. "Yes, fine. Perfectly fine, in fact." John was hanging on by a thread.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
Every muscle in John's body tensed. He knew what the doorbell meant. There was only one thing it could mean.
He wasn't surprised when he opened to the door and found a small slip of paper on the mat.
"Who's it from?" John didn't respond. He was too busy staring down at the piece of paper in his hands. It was the same as the others, plain and typed, with no signature. But this one was much shorter: "Please remember."
The paper felt as though it was burning his fingers. A wave of inexplicable anger rolled over him and he crumpled the note into a ball, dropping it to the floor like it was a bomb that was about to go off. His breathing was becoming shallower, on the edge of panic. "John? What's going on?" Lestrade bent to pick up the note, but John shook his head furiously. "Don't." He stammered. "Please, don't read it." He had no idea why he was acting like this, it was just two words, after all, almost completely meaningless.
Except they weren't. He didn't know who had sent the letter, or how they had know to choose those words, but he knew exactly what they meant. Remember. Remember him.
Lestrade was looking at him with an expression of concern, and the attitude of one who finds himself completely out of his depth. "Are you quite sure everything's alright?" He muttered, his eyes sweeping over John, taking in the white face and clenched fists. "If someone’s sent you a threat..." He glanced towards the note again. John shook his head, trying desperately to control his breathing. "No. Nothing like that. In fact, it's completely alright. I just need to be alone. I'm sorry."
Lestrade nodded reluctantly and stood up. "If you need anything, anything at all, you can always call." He added on his way out the door. John nodded his assent. God, his head was pounding.
It was cruel to send the note, whoever had done it. He didn't know how they had known enough to write it, but it was downright sadistic, and it was affecting him more than he understood. He made his way to the bathroom cabinet, searching for the paracetamol, his headache worsening.
"Remember."
But he couldn't. It was too painful. It was just easier this way.
"Please remember."
No. He had told himself he wouldn't. He couldn't, because remembering was accepting, remembering was hurting, remembering was letting him in. It was easier to forget.
He bit his lip, his teeth nearly breaking the skin. Things were surfacing again, things he hadn't allowed to leave his subconscious for very long time, memories, bits of emotion and recollection. He gripped the sink, tears beginning to sting his eyes. He had done this before, right? He just had to push it all back, think about something else, take a deep breath, do whatever it was that might distract him. He was dimly aware that he was crying now, and he had to stop. Don't remember, John. You can't.
It was too late.
Forgetting was no longer an option, not when he had finally reached the breaking point. It was as if he'd been pushing every memory and soundbite and emotional response into a shallow reservoir, and the damn had finally burst, and he would surely drown in the onslaught of water.
His legs gave way. He was on the bathroom floor, fighting against reality, collapsed into the past. Each second contained a deeper level of the realization that he was gone. That he would never say John's name again, never break a dish, or store a dead body in the fridge, or do any of the infuriating and idiotic thing's he had always done. And John knew that, at the moment, he would sell his soul just to hear the detectives sarcastic, insulting remarks, just
one.
More.
Time.
No stopping now. He gasped for air as sob after sob ripped through him. He couldn't stop shaking, and it felt as though he might devolve into an unfeeling mess of atoms if he couldn't control himself soon.
But it was no use. He tucked his knees up to his chest, burying his face in the fabric of his trousers, letting everything take him over. He was faintly aware of the ugly, dying sounds coming from somewhere deep in his chest. But he was beyond caring. Or thinking, or feeling anything but the pain of loss that seemed suddenly intensified tenfold. And he couldn't stop feeling it now. He had allowed the pain entrance and it was was taring him apart, destroying any semblance of sanity he may have had left.
He couldn't get the images out of his head now: Him, his face, his eyes, oh god, his perfect eyes, and John realized nothing on earth could hurt quite as much as the fact that those eyes would never look at him again, never gather the information they would need to accurately deduce every detail of John's now shattered life.
--
It was several hours before John could lift his head again.
There were wet spots on the knees of his trousers, where his tear stained face had been resting. He raised himself form the bathroom floor and slowly made his way to room, feeling tired and defeated.
He burrowed under the covered like a small child in a thunderstorm, letting the warm fabric lull him into a false sense of semi-contentment. Might as well sleep, as there was nothing else he was currently capable of. He had no more tears. Couldn't have cried anymore if he'd wanted to.
--
Morning came eventually, bringing with it a strange new reality. John lay in his bed and stared at the ceiling as the gray light of dawn trickled into room. The memories, it seemed, where here to stay. He fiddled absentmindedly with the edge of his blanket, carefully reviewing the new emotions he was allowing himself to feel.
As painful as his meltdown had been, he'd needed it. Yes, it had been awful. It had hurt like hell. It made him feel as if he would break into a million fragments and cease to be. But now, it was helping him cope. There was still pain there when he remembered his friend, and there always would be, but it was a bit more manageable now.
To John's surprise, he felt a slight smile playing across his lips as he lay there thinking about the detective. His pompous, sarcastic, brilliant, and surprisingly caring best friend. "There you go." He whispered, as if he was in the room with him "I'm remembering you."
--
The rather neglected computer sat in front of John on the kitchen table. The blog had been completely forgotten in the aftermath of the detective's death, and as a result, so had the laptop. But now that he had decided to remember, he knew what he had to do.
He stared blankly at the screen for a moment before flexing his fingers, and gingerly testing a key. It felt strange to hit the letters of the dusty keyboard again, almost as if pressing on them hard enough might accidentally release the detectives ghost into the room.
He steadied himself, then clicked onto the old blog. It looked exactly as it had for nearly three years, completely untouched since the day his friend had died. He had considered writing, but every time he thought of opening the laptop and seeing the cases burned into the screen, each one seeming to taunt him, letting him know he would never blog about The World's Only Consulting Detective again, he had given up. Forgotten the laptop and retreated to his room.
But now, it was different. He scrolled down the page, pausing to examine each entry, Hound of the Baskervilles, The Geek Interpreter, The Speckled Blond (God, that really was a terrible name), all the way back to the very beginning: A Study in Pink.
He felt a slight twinge somewhere in the pit of his stomach, but fought past it and clicked open the entry.
He read the case thoroughly, hungrily, desperately gathering each detail like a starving man eating his first meal in an age. He read through it quickly, trying to remember everything he had described, then went back to the beginning, this time reading each sentence slowly and deliberately, remembering the meaning behind each word. A smile crept across his face as he remembered how his friend had pieced together the whole case so easily, depending on evidence that was invisible to John, flipping through the murderer's mind as though it were an encyclopedia that only the detective could read.
When he got to the end, he read it a third time. Than a fourth.
Then he scrolled to the top of the page and read every other entry, again and again. He read until the sun sank low in the sky, and the stars came.
Finally, around two in the morning, John closed the computer with a deep sigh, and went to bed. He was finally starting to heal.
--
John had started actually drinking his tea. He'd started eating properly two, and sleeping, and even leaving the flat once in a while. Not often, just once in a while.
John filled a tea kettle and set it on the stove. It was snowing, and John had just gotten back having lunch with Molly at a small cafe a few blocks away from Baker Street. It had been nice get out for a little, and to have someone to talk to. They'd talked about him, mostly. Molly kept looking away, and John wondered if she was trying not to cry.
He was healing. But he still couldn't bring himself to say the detective’s name.
He sat down in his armchair with a newspaper as he waited for the kettle to boil. None of the articles interested him much, but it was something to pass the time. The kettle started to whistle. And at the same time, the doorbell went off.
Ring. Ring.
It had been months since the last note. John didn't want any more, and he didn't want to know what it said. But he found himself rising from the chair and walking over to the door, where a piece of paper was protruding from the letter slot.
John stared down at the note in his hand. Inked onto the paper, in neat, black cursive, was a simple message.
"Have a miracle, on me."
The tea kettle screeched out steam behind him, but John couldn't be bothered to turn it off.
"Miracle."
At first, he didn't know why the word felt so significant, and then a memory came rushing back, swallowing him like a tidal wave. He heard a voice, his own voice, muffled by time and sorrow.
"Just, one more thing. One more miracle, for me. Don't. Be. Dead."
The note fell to the floor.
John's breathing was coming in unsteady bursts, his mind frantically trying to focus on the meaning of the words he had just read. "Miracle. Have a Miracle." He had a sudden impulse to look outside, and ran to the window, staring out through the swirling snow. The street looked deserted, but...yes! There, on the other side of the street, his back to 221B, silhouetted in the last bits of light.
Someone was standing on the sidewalk. A tall, dark-haired someone. In long black coat.
It was impossible. Beyond impossible. This was some strange coincidence, the universe playing tricks on him. There were plenty of people out there who might look like him under the right circumstances. Still...
John pressed his hand against the cold glass of the window, watching the tall figure with bated breath. He hated himself for even hoping, but....a miracle. What else could that mean, really?
Finally, after a nearly palpable eternity, the figure turned to look up at the window. A ragged breath burst from John, and he pressed closer to the glass, not understanding, not caring, but knowing, without a single doubt, who he was looking at.
"Sherlock."