Work Text:
When John Watson went to war there was a folder saved on his desktop named ‘Just In Case.’ There were half a dozen Word files, each with the name of a loved one. For Harry, for Mum, for Bill. Each file was a letter that said he didn’t have any regrets. He was glad to be a part of something bigger, to take part in something that would make the world better and safer. That whatever happened to him he was glad to help in whatever way he could.
The letters thanked his mum for helping to put him through school. They told Harry that he was proud of her for living on her terms, and he was glad that she’d found true happiness with Clara. He thanked Bill for being the best mate a man could have.
He didn’t want to die, of course, but there was always a chance. But if he had to go, this wasn’t a bad way.
***
When John Watson came home from war he had a new laptop, with a new folder. This one was called ‘Sorry,’ and buried eight subfolders down where no one could find it by chance.
These letters said he was sorry. He didn’t mean to hurt them, but he just couldn’t do this anymore, and how he hoped they’d forgive him.
The new letters told Dr. Thompson not to take it as a personal failure. They told Harry that he couldn’t stand to watch her living their father’s life over again, flitting from infidelity to infidelity, from one pretty thing to another. They told his mother that he thought she might understand how awful it is to be useless and unwanted. He hoped she’d understand this.
He wanted to die. But he’d had to fight so hard just to make it back out of the desert. And so many people had had a hand in getting him home. To end it now felt like a bad return on taxpayer investment. He desperately wanted to die, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to do the job himself.
***
When John Watson came back to 221B from hospital he could still smell the chlorine from the pool even though it had been an entire week. Sherlock was standing in front of his wall of clippings and notes, busy trying to plot out the extent of Moriarty’s network. In the few months they’d lived together John had been kidnapped, beaten up, arrested, shot at and covered in semtex. And as long as he stayed there would be more of the same.
John opened a new document and paused.
He didn’t know what kind of letter he was writing now.