Work Text:
One morning, John found a sticky note on the kettle. This in itself was not unusual; Sherlock knew that was the kettle was one of the first places John looked, of a morning, and often left notes in this fashion when he wanted to be sure that John saw something. (A note left on the bathroom mirror sometimes got wet and fell off, while a text sent to John's phone sometimes went unseen because John did not check his phone first thing in the morning.) Sherlock's notes were usually crisp and concise: Buy milk. Or, do not touch eggs. Or, 550 Cephas Road. Could be dangerous.
In this case, however, the note was nearly more ink than paper. John thought it might be some prank at first, or perhaps an accident--some leftover detritus from one of Sherlock's experiments?--but, well, better safe than sorry. And so he set himself to deciphering it whilst the water boiled. Once he found his name, it actually wasn't too difficult.
Dear John,
As I may be gone for the majority of the day, I thought I would write you a little note, so that you wouldn't miss me. So, here are all the things I would likely have said today, in no particular order: No. Yes. You're an idiot. It's for an experiment. Pay attention. I need you. You know my methods; now apply them. Don't insult me. Don't insult yourself. Observe. Come here. I don't see what that has to do with it. Don't touch that. You're brilliant. Problem? Ah, yes; your blog. I deleted it. Boring. John.
It took John some time to realise that the water was boiling, and probably had been for a while. He clicked it off and poured it, nearly missing the cup, and then realised that he'd forgotten the tea. He cursed, banged the kettle back on the counter, and fetched down a teabag from the cupboard, poking it gingerly into the hot water with a fingertip. Then he went back to the note. There was only one line left, squished onto the bottom:
Don't forget the teabag.
John sighed. He supposed it was romantic, in a bizarre, insulting way. And wasn't that Sherlock all over?
-----
A few days later, John found a page ripped from one of his notebooks taped to the bathroom door, covered in blue biro:
Dear John,
It has come to my attention that I should let you know that I think you're lovely. You are of a height where, when we embrace, I can put my head on top of yours, which is very nice. And also, though you are short, you are very dangerous, which makes you easily underestimated. And that's very nice, too.
I underestimated you too, you know, when I first saw you. I knew that you'd been in Afghanistan and that you were attracted to danger, but I didn't know, then, how dangerous you really were. I found out later, of course, because I find out everything. But there's nothing more dangerous than a moral man who's willing to kill for moral reasons. And that realisation, that was when I knew that I had to keep you, for as long as I could.
No signature, but it wasn't as if one was necessary. John stared at it for a good long while, feeling a stone settle heavy in the bottom of his stomach and tightness take up residence in his throat. He swallowed, crumpled the note in his hand, and deposited it in the bin by the toilet.
-----
John reached into his pocket for his Oyster card and felt the rasp of paper there. Not a receipt; it felt it'd been folded, ragged on one edge where Sherlock had probably torn it out of John's notebook (again). He swallowed.
He knew he ought to wait until he got to the surgery to read it, Sherlock being what he was and his notes being what they were, but he was too curious. There were no seats, so he grasped a pole and fished the piece of paper out of his pocket to read it.
Dear John,
I'm going to have a wank today, whilst you're at work.
John felt his face flame. He nearly shoved it back into his pocket--he knew he ought to shove it back into his pocket--but instead he kept reading.
I've no cases on, so it's allowed, and I'll have all day to go about it. I'll probably start on the sofa, thinking of your mouth on me, how warm and wet it is, and the way you use your tongue to tease my fraenulum. It'll be luxurious and slow. I'll use lotion, probably, or maybe just lick my hand. Saliva is probably best, for verisimilitude. I'll lie down, take off all my clothes, and spread my legs wide whilst I do it. I'll think about how I like it a little rough, and how it feels when you use your teeth. And just when I won't be able to go on any longer without climaxing, I'll stop. My body will be flushed and I'll be breathing hard, but I'll stop anyhow. After I've softened a bit, I'll move to our bedroom and finish there. I'll come all over the sheets, and then I won't wash them, so you'll be able to smell it.
By the time John finished reading, his mouth was dry and he was certain he was breathing far too heavily for a man on his morning commute. Also, the woman across from him was looking at him strangely. Oh God, had she seen? John fisted the note in his hand and crammed it back into his pocket. He spent the rest of his commute leaning against the pole, buried in the deepest mortification. And arousal.
He texted Sherlock once he got off the train: Wash the sheets. That's disgusting.
It is not. It's perfectly natural. SH
Wanking is natural. Not washing the sheets afterwards is disgusting.
It's proof of my devotion to you. SH
John squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb. He loved Sherlock, he really did, and that included Sherlock's tendency to run headlong into dangerous situations, his brazen disregard for social norms and mores, and the curious way he looked at the world. That didn't mean he necessarily loved what happened when Sherlock got a bee in his bonnet about what constituted romantic behaviour. That's very sweet. But please wash the sheets. After a moment's reflection, he sent a second text: And put something down on the sofa before you wank naked on it.
Sherlock hadn't yet replied by the time he reached the surgery, so he sent another message. And what's with these notes you've been leaving me lately?
I hear it is customary to write love letters to the one you love. SH
Oh God. Where had Sherlock gotten this from? A website? A women's magazine? Sherlock's research was meticulous, but when it came to pop culture or society he could process it in the most bizarre ways. Well that's very sweet but please save the sexual ones for private.
But then what will you have to look forward to? SH
-----
What are your plans for after your demise? Because I think that I would very much like to have you cremated, so that I can carry your ashes with me. Some native cultures practice this as a form of mourning, you know. And I would know that they were you, don't think that I wouldn't. If I can discern 243 types of tobacco from one another, surely I would be able to tell John Watson's ashes apart from the common man.
But this is all hypothetical, because if you die before me I can't imagine I'd last very long after that. But in the event that I perish before you and you for some reason do not perish in the same incident, please have me sent to a body farm. It is very important to me that my corpse further science in some way. If you wish, you can preserve some small part of me as a memento. I recommend my skull. They make good conversation pieces and last a long time if treated and preserved.
Sherlock Holmes 02 July 04:46
You know, the character limit on these comment forms is ludicrous.
Sherlock Holmes 02 July 4:50
EEEEEWWWW WHAT???
Harry Watson 02 July 07:31
Steady on, no need for that kind of thinking yet, is there?
Mike Stamford 02 July 07:59
I'm sure a body farm would love to have you.
Molly Hooper 02 July 08:44
Oh Sherlock, that's so morbid.
Marie Turner 02 July 09:51
It's Mrs. Hudson by the way.
Marie Turner 02 July 09:53
Sherlock, maybe you should keep these notes private. And within the flat.
John Watson 02 July 10:04
I'm not ashamed of my feelings.
Sherlock Holmes 02 July 10:06
And neither am I, but I think you might be scaring the others.
John Watson 02 July 10:11
What's going on???
Jacob Sowersby 02 July 10:48
-----
Five days after that, John came home to discover that Sherlock had implanted an electrode in his arse so that John could have a remote control for his penis. John was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to process that for at least two weeks.
He went downstairs the next morning to find Sherlock hunched over the desk, frowning and tapping a pen against his lower lip. "Good morning," he said. Sherlock jumped, and John made a detour on his way to the kitchen in order to ruffle Sherlock's hair. Sherlock made a discontented sound. John smiled. "Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you. What're you doing?"
Sherlock made to cover his work with his hand, but John could see plainly enough that it was a sheet of creamy cardstock, folded in half, and that Sherlock had written John at the top. "I forgot your birthday card," he muttered.
"You already got me a gift." John tried not to think about the nature of that gift. "You don't need to give me a card, too."
Sherlock frowned. "But I want to."
John leaned against the back of Sherlock's chair. "Is there some reason you've been writing me all these, ah, love letters? Should I be writing some back?"
"No. I know you love me." Sherlock drummed his fingers against the desk. His eyes were distant.
John had to tread very carefully, here; Sherlock had promised to answer his questions honestly, but that meant John had to be cautious about what questions he asked. "Then what spurred this?"
Sherlock's gaze shifted sideways, in the direction of John's abdomen. Ah. So that was what this was about, then. He should have known.
"But what do letters have to do with it?" John wanted to know.
"I googled how to tell someone I love you without hurting them," Sherlock said. John felt his heart twist a little. "But all I got was results on how to end a relationship without hurting them, which wasn't what I wanted at all. So I had to settle for how to tell someone I love you. A lot of the suggestions were nonsense, but I thought the letters were something you'd appreciate." He turned his body sideways in the chair so that he was closer to facing John, but he seemed suddenly unable to make eye contact. "And you have, haven't you?"
John swallowed. Impulsively, he dropped a kiss against Sherlock's forehead, which caused him to snort and toss his head like a horse. "Yes," he said. "Very much."
-----
Later that day, Sherlock found a sticky note on the outside of his violin case.
Dear Sherlock,
Love you too, you mad wanker.
John
---end---