Archive of Our Own ^beta

John,

First: please stop panicking. Breathe, John. I left you a glass of water; it should be to your left. Look further down. On the floor, next to your boot. Yes, I know that you’re still standing in the doorway. Drink it. No, I’m not trying to poison you. It is water, John.

To ease your worries: I am not writing this letter to tell you that I am leaving, because I am not leaving. I am not changing my mind, nor am I reacting poorly to anything you've said. I am not ill. There is no bad news to share. This letter is not a diversion so I can run off and do something reckless. I really am at St. Barts while you are reading this, and will return home at approximately 8:30 pm. And no, I’m not conveniently neglecting anything else you may be worried about. I just don’t have the patience to sit here and enumerate the endless list of things you are imagining. 

I promised you that I would never leave again, John. However, I do understand why being handed a letter that I’ve written for you would make you panic, even though it has been three years since I returned from death.

Here: check your email. Mycroft just sent you a link, granting you access to live footage (both video and audio) from the CCTV camera that is closest to me at any given moment today. I suspect you’ll be capable of conducting your own experiments to verify that it is indeed live footage and not a recording. You know my methods; use them. You may also contact Molly or Mycroft for verification. 

Nothing is changing. You have my word, John. I am simply writing to provide context on past (and current) events. Something I should have done long, long ago. Happy ending, I promise. At least I hope it is, or I have miscalculated on a truly devastating level. 

Good, you’ve settled in at the desk in the lounge now. Don’t forget to plug in your laptop.

I have left some Jammie Dodgers under that hideous deerstalker hat that everyone insists is my signature look. Hateful. Dreadful. Enjoy the biscuits, I know you love them. 

Honestly, I’m not quite sure where to begin. If you weren’t the recipient of this letter, I’d be asking you for advice on how to properly communicate what I’d like to say. Not that I’d write a letter to anyone else. I am not implying that. That was not the implication I was intending to make. I was not making any implication at all. I despise the very principle of implications. Why be secretive when you can say precisely what you mean? Why waste my time with poetry when I am perfectly capable of prose? If implication was a person, I’d murder them, John. Implication is worse than Anderson, and that’s saying a lot.

This is going to be a horribly written letter, John. Still, I will not write it more than once. Not because I don’t think it is worth my time – I’m not implying that either – but because I am going to allow myself to make mistakes. To sound like an idiot. Don’t tell anyone please, you’ll ruin my reputation of being eloquent. This can stay between us. A secret that you and I share. Above the surface, I continue to be absolute perfection. 

You always ask me what I am thinking about when I look distracted. This is an example of my thought process structure: rambly, mostly pointless, directionless until I eventually find the point, confused… A lot of it is me repeating words to myself, in fact. I have always done that, even though it is unproductive. It is not a compulsive behaviour, but for some reason it comforts me. I’ve always enjoyed routine. Consistency. 

I draw your attention back to the word confused.

I am constantly confused, John. Always. Nothing ever makes sense.

Stop laughing at me. I know you’re laughing. 

Not sure what to say now. Allow me to start, I suppose. I’ve procrastinated long enough. Well, not procrastinating, per se, but rather– no, I am certainly procrastinating out of fear. Here goes nothing, I suppose. 

ACTUAL BEGINNING OF LETTER (MAYBE)

I have always struggled with communication. I suppose I’ll be blunt: I am, as anyone can tell within 5 minutes of meeting me, autistic. I am well aware of this fact, even though I have never addressed it. I can certainly detect conversational patterns, and that has gotten me quite far, but it wasn’t until I met you that I realised just how much of the world I have been misunderstanding my entire life. I have learned a lot from you, John, studying your word choice and reactions to things around you. About a week after you moved in, I started carrying a small notebook in my coat pocket to record your social behaviours. I thought that everything you’d say was pointless (“Hey, mate, how’s the weather?” Look outside, John. Obvious.), but to my surprise you received such good results from those around you. It was fascinating. It made no sense. 

When I was younger, I despised the fact that I was autistic. I was given the diagnosis at 9 years old, but nothing else followed from it. I was handed a label that was simply meant to restrict me, rather than give me more information or benefit me in any way. It only made things worse, in fact. It allowed me to suddenly understand why no one liked me growing up, and why I could never manage to have a single conversation in school that didn’t end in me getting kicked in the stomach. It gave me verbal confirmation that the outside world noticed how different I was, just as much as I feared they might. Being autistic was apparently worse than being gay, in the eyes of those who mocked me in school.

(By the way, speaking of sexuality: I’ve been told that my sexuality has always been blatantly obvious. It’s hilarious, really, looking back at my behaviours growing up. We can look at old pictures and have a laugh sometime soon, if you wish. My parents possess a rather incriminating picture of me staring at the bulge in my year 6 teacher’s slacks. My sexuality is one of the only things that has never confused me.)

The reason I am telling you about my autism diagnosis: when I have something very important to say, something that means a lot to me, I cannot speak. Quite literally. My throat closes. I feel like I can’t breathe. You’ve mentioned that I tend to blink a lot as well. I suddenly can’t hear anything around me and my mind goes blank. It feels as though someone has trapped my head under a blanket. It only gets worse when I inevitably become frustrated with myself for being an idiot who talks way too much about meaningless things, yet goes mute when words are actually needed. 

It is an unfortunate physical and cognitive deficiency of mine, but I have forced myself to accept it, seeing as it is not something of which I can rid myself.

Perhaps Mycroft was correct in calling me a goldfish.

~~ I AM CHANGING THE TOPIC OF DISCUSSION NOW BUT CANNOT THINK OF A PROPER TRANSITION SO THIS MARKER WILL HAVE TO DO  ~~

I am sure that you wish to understand why I left. Why I jumped, that is. You are conflicted about asking, however, for many reasons. I figured I should write everything out in detailed form for you, so you can have a clearer picture of what my intentions and motivations were. If you decide you want to know, of course. Please decide before continuing if you feel comfortable reading about such a serious topic right now. 

We both know that you’re going to stubbornly read on regardless, but please take care of yourself, John. Sit in my chair. Remember that I am here now. With you. Alive and well. Happy. Happiest I've ever been, dare I say. Safe in the lab. Bring the laptop with you so you can see me out of your peripheral vision as you’re reading.

I’m not there with you right now because a) there’s no way I could have formed words on the spot, and b) I would’ve gotten so overwhelmed to the point that it would have made things worse and distracted you from the important content I’d have been attempting to provide. However, if you would really prefer my presence, I can come back home and simply try my best. Just text me.  

I have tried to write you a letter about this for years, actually, even since I first left and you thought I had actually died. But I could never find a way to describe it properly, and in a way that concealed my main motivation. My affection for you was so deeply ingrained in every letter I wrote, weaved through every character on the page, that it was impossible to say something without revealing how I felt about you. Seeing as you are now aware of my affection, it feels safe to tell you. You must remember that at the time, if I had revealed my feelings, there was a large chance (or so I thought) that you would never speak to me again. I couldn’t have risked that, John. I was selfish, and made the selfish decision to keep quiet out of self-preservation. I hope you understand my silence, given that reasoning.

I don’t believe that you’ve ever seen me cry, but even thinking about that time brings me to tears. In all honesty, I am already quite overwhelmed as I write. But I am letting you see that. It is okay. I am allowed to show you emotion. It is just between us. 

Forgive me for using a rather unfeeling format, but I need to write it in bullet points. I’m fairly certain that you would deem this communication method to be “a bit not good”, but seeing as this is rapidly becoming quite an overwhelming task for me, I figure that writing this as if it were a collection of experimental observations might calm me. If anything sounds disjointed, it is most likely because I needed to step away to compose myself, and struggled to keep the previous thread of thought upon returning. 

Day it happened:

• Made the fake diversion for you so that you’d be safer than if you were near me. Broke my heart to watch you leave, because I had guessed that it would be the last time I might see you. I just wanted to hug you. I wanted to remember how you smelled if I never saw you again. But I had to stay silent and watch you storm off according to plan. 
  
  
• I had anticipated exactly what he threatened. He had snipers trained on you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. If I didn’t jump, he would immediately give them the signal to kill all of you. 
  
  
• Mycroft and I had a plan – Project Lazarus was the code name — that we intended to be used only as a last resort. In the event that my only remaining option was to jump, we conducted kinematic calculations to find the optimal trajectory — determined by the angle and initial jump speed, of course (the speed being determined by the force I exerted into the ground with my feet (the balls of my feet, to be more accurate) in order to propel myself forward, due to Newton’s laws of motion and the gravitational pull of a human toward the Earth. There were a number of essentially irrelevant factors that Mycroft had attempted to account for, such as the energy dissipation in my joints as I initiated the jumping sequence as well as variations in air resistance due to several nonsensical influences, but I informed him that he was an idiot, because when we examine the long term behaviour of the motion and open our eyes to the blatant uncertainty of environmental conditions instead of simply stuffing our faces with cake for sport, we’d never be able to reach that level of precision for which he strived, nor would we even need to. For example, variations in initial velocity due to my own processing faculties being affected while under stressful conditions were a much larger factor that we simply couldn’t account for in great detail, inevitably influencing our predetermined mental calculus Apologies, I got carried away in the parentheticals. Disregard.) — that would cause the least amount of pain. We did not expect to actually utilise this plan. 
  
  
• I thought I had outwitted Moriarty. That I had the code to call off the snipers. That I was in control. I was so eager to finally call it all off and run home to you, John. I was so eager to tell you all about how I defeated him. I was so eager to hear you say you were proud of me.
  
  
• It turns out that the “code” I thought I possessed was a red herring. He informed me of this, gave me a handshake, and then took out a gun and shot himself. Right in front of me, John. Shoved the gun into his mouth and pulled the trigger while staring directly into my eyes. I still have nightmares about it. I couldn’t breathe in that moment, because his death made the implementation of Project Lazarus inevitable. It forced my hand.      
             
• I had to speak with you on the phone because you needed to believe I was actually dead after the jump. They would have come after you if they had suspected otherwise. However, let me clarify: this was not because I didn’t trust you; it was because I didn’t trust myself, John. I knew that if I had not fully committed myself to going no-contact, I would have reached out and fucked everything up and killed you because I am selfish and cannot live without you. You are accountable. I am not. I trust you. I do not trust myself. 
  
  
• I kept the others informed because I knew that I wouldn’t feel moved to contact them. I needed resources that were relatively dispensable. It’s a bit not good, but it’s true. They were low risk contacts. You were, are, and always will be the only thing that matters to me.
  
  
• I had also convinced myself that being in your life was only causing you pain (putting you in danger, making you unhappy, causing you stress, etc.). This was, in hindsight, a foolish, idiotic projection of my past and what everyone around me has always told me about myself. I was consistently told that I didn’t deserve companionship, that I served no purpose other than to annoy others, to ruin things, that even if I was given love by some sort of miracle, I would be incapable of properly returning the sentiment simply by virtue of existing as I am, and that I’d be robbing the man who loves me of a better life that didn’t include me. I am sorry, John, for thinking that I knew what was best for you. I am still not convinced that I deserve your love or attention, after all of the pain I have caused you, but I trust that you are deciding to keep me in your life for a reason that is important to you. I trust that when you tell me you love me, you are not mocking me. I am not misreading your tone. You genuinely believe that I am someone who is lovable, and capable of loving. Even though I do not understand why, and am always afraid that I am going to do something without realising that will drive you away for good, I trust that you are telling the truth and have your own best interests in mind. You’ve always been my guiding light when it comes to decision making, anyway. You always understand, and I am always confused. So I will trust. 

After that day:

• I sustained severe injuries from jumping and had to stay in a secret medical facility for months. I’d prefer not to discuss the severity of the injuries, as that would most likely be counterproductive and upsetting to you. Mycroft made sure that I recovered. I begged him to inform you, John, to let you come visit me, but he reminded me that letting you know I was alive would put you in danger. So I stopped speaking altogether. What was the point of talking at all if I couldn’t talk to you? Why waste my breath?
  
  
• My goal was to dismantle Moriarty’s network, and my motivation was to make sure I killed every single person who could possibly kill you. That was it. That was the only reason, John. I died for you, because you are my life. Without you, I am not alive.
  
  
• I travelled the world, taking down every component of the network.
  
  
• I’d think of you everywhere I went, John. There was not a single moment in which I did not think of you. I imagined you hiding with me, making me laugh, keeping me warm (when in reality I was dying of hypothermia), reminding me that I would see you again one day and that you’d be waiting for me.
• It was agony, John. I was captured several times, tortured, not given food or water. I only survived because the idea of sitting next to you on the sofa in our flat, eating takeaway and arguing over the telly, sustained me. Whenever I considered actually killing myself, to end the insurmountable physical and mental pain,  you — well, the Mind Palace version of you — would scold me, tell me to stay strong. I don’t think you realise that you were the only thing that saved me, John. You did everything, not nothing.

You know the rest. 

— 

When you told me that you loved me yesterday, John, I went mute.

I genuinely don’t think I can say those same words to you at the moment. In fact, the mere thought of saying those words makes me irrationally angry. 

That is because it is a disgusting understatement of how I feel for you. It feels disrespectful. Untrue. At least, if I do not provide context, the words are utterly worthless to me. 

That is why I am writing you this letter. To provide you with context. 

When I express any sort of sentiment toward you, please remember the context I’ve provided here. 

I do not wish to waste your time with meaningless rubbish. I refuse to automatically say things that I could find on a valentine’s day card: bought and sold in bulk by money-hungry slaves to the capitalist regime, addressed to no one in particular until someone (if they even remember) adds the recipient’s name in sloppy handwriting in the bottom corner, smudging the ink in their haste. I refuse to engage in performative acts of sentiment that frequently don’t extend past a verbalization and a smile.

The beautiful thing about words, though, is that I can make them mean whatever I want. Or maybe that’s just the beautiful thing about doing whatever I want. Unclear.

I will only say it when you have the full definition, which includes: who I am, how I communicate, information that I have failed to communicate with you, and some additional bits and bobs (…to steal the phrase you always use. What does that even mean, John? Bits and bobs… I wouldn’t be surprised if you just made some random sounds and told me it was a metaphor. I believe anything you tell me. I am a fool, John.). 

The bits and bobs: 

The words I refuse to say at the moment also mean…

• Running through the streets with you, because it rescues us from boredom and saves us from our own minds. Because we get off on it.

• Looking my best so that you feel proud of whom you walk alongside everyday.

• Staying sober so you can have a best friend who no longer overdoses in alleys (I was frequently in danger of overdosing, the last overdose being 7 months 3 days and 4ish hours before you handed me your phone in St. Barts lab).

• Tripping while walking next to you because it will make you laugh every time we pass by that same location in the future.

• Forcing you to punch me in the face with the false pretence of it being for a case, just because I know you’ll enjoy telling the story later on (and, selfishly, so that you look after me to make sure that the cheekbones you appreciate so much don’t permanently scar). 

• Pretending that I haven’t already solved the case 30 seconds into Lestrade’s briefing simply because you need time off from the clinic (managed to drag out a 2 for 3 entire weeks once. I was rather proud of that one).

• Wearing tight slacks to help you discover another component of your sexuality (you’re welcome).

• Wearing my purple shirt, for the same reason (you needed confirmation that the first tell wasn’t simply a false positive).

• Being particularly rude to others when you’ve had a bad day and really want to say those rude things yourself, thereby letting you relieve your tension vicariously through me without personally suffering any consequences.

• Letting you relieve your tension through me by other means which are ill-suited for discussion in a letter. If you do not remember the means to which I’m referring, let me know and I’d be happy to remind you. I am always amenable, no matter how many times I need to remind you. At your service, Captain.

• Pretending to be sick when I notice you doubting your value and becoming uncertain of whether or not I need you in the first place (foolish).

• Stealing ashtrays for you.

• Making a long string of false deductions just to see how much faith you have in me (an admittedly selfish component), and then unravelling the impressive lie I concocted, because if you’re unaware of the joke and can’t enjoy it with me, it is unfunny and a waste of my time.

• Sulking and acting out when you need someone to be mad at instead of yourself.

• Pushing myself to make particularly complex deductions so that I can receive your praise, and you can enjoy praising me (a brilliant trade off, in my opinion. Textbook definition of a symbiotic relationship.)
  
  
• Being dramatic and flamboyant (well, more than usual, anyway) whenever you wanted to present yourself as strictly heterosexual in the past, thereby encouraging the press to comment more strongly on my homosexuality and leave you alone.

• Ruining your dates when you didn’t like the women (but also because I needed you at home with me.) 

• Learning to stop ruining your dates, because that is what you said you wanted, and I didn’t want to take away your chance at happiness, even if it broke me every single time I saw you walk out the door.
  
  
• Playing your favourite songs on the violin when you’re around, because you always smile like an idiot and start singing/humming along. You're tone deaf, by the way. I find it rather endearing.

• Playing your favourite songs on the violin when you’re not around, because I miss you.

• Texting you stupid things while you’re at work, because you’d rather be here yelling at me. 

• Running ahead of you during cases when you’re not looking, because the pride you feel after being able to catch up to me — despite your rather short legs — makes you feel accomplished.

• Acting physically weak so you can be strong for me.

• Showing you my genuine mental weaknesses so you can be strong for me. 

• Giving you as many opportunities as possible to pull rank (alright, this one is completely self-interested in nature, never mind).

• Pretending not to know how to do basic things (i.e., sending mail), so that you can drag me to the post office and make an event out of teaching me.

• Asking you for advice, both because I desperately need you and because you desperately need to be needed.

• Showing you the battlefield that you miss so much. 

• Occasionally lying about my food intake so that you have an excuse to take a break during cases in the name of feeding me.

• Dying for you. 

• Fighting for you. 

• Surviving for you.

• Doing absolutely everything in my power to ensure that you are happy.

Remember this context. Please. Build a Mind Palace for it, if you can. Fill one room with our laughter. Paint that one yellow. Create another room for all the pain, too. Put it a good distance away from our main space, but not so far that we’ll forget where it is, since its contents led us to where we are now. Additionally, please try to remodel the space in your heart that housed all of the misunderstandings between us. If it still needs repairs, ask me and I shall do everything in my power to help you rebuild. I am an open book for you and will do my best to tell you everything, even though I struggle to communicate effectively and it takes a frustrating amount of time for the words to form.

I’d advise you to build a room for my sentiment toward you, but the possibility of it fitting into a single room is laughable. I am a selfish man who happens to be quite terrible at staying within defined boundaries. If you confined me to a room, I’d immediately break out of it.  

One of the biggest things that I have learned as a result of meeting you is the actual extent to which I am capable of feeling. At first, I worried that my initial fascination with you was developing into an obsession. It was rapidly growing at a pace I could not control, and to be quite honest, I was scared. Scared that I would lose everything I had worked so hard for. The work meant — and still means — the world to me. 

I tried to push you away, to remind myself that sentiment was the fly in the ointment. The grit in the lens.

But I couldn’t do it, John. Not only were my physical urges completely overtaking me, but every thought that crossed my mind became entangled with you in some way. I’m not good with metaphors, but something about you becoming the lens itself, I think. Metaphors are idiotic and make no sense. You get the point. 

Apologies — I’ve walked to the kitchen to grab a ginger nut, and don’t feel like picking up where I left off. So. Yada yada yada (another jumble of sounds you make), I feel things more deeply now. Wonderful. 

Anyways, You have all the context now. 

I love you, John Watson. I feel it in every bone in my body, every [insert sweet something here that I can’t come up with right now]. I love you, John. I love you. I want to scream right now. Maybe I will. I just did. Mrs. Hudson hit the ceiling just below me, with what appears to be a new broom, going by the sound of the thud. I must say, I’m a little peeved by the fact that she didn’t check to see if I was okay before deciding to yell at me. 

I love you, John. 

Thank you for loving me in return. It is an immense privilege, and I do not forget that, nor do I take advantage of it. 

No, that’s not right. What’s the word? Or phrase, perhaps. Consulting Google. 

Oh, “take it for granted”. There we are. 

I love you, my John. As I’m writing this, you’re at work. I miss you. 

Future-Sherlock is impatient. Text me when you’re done reading and processing this, and I’ll come straight home. 

I love you, John. Always remember the context that breathes life into those words.

Very sincerely yours,

William Sherlock Scott Holmes (The Consulting Idiot)