Chapter Text
John,
It pains me greatly to write this. I know that my death has been more than painful for you to bear. I have contemplated day after day about returning to 221b Baker St, to tell you how much I care for you, but it seems you have already replaced me. All I have ever wished is for you to be happy, John. It seems that you are...happiest without me around. Mary is a lucky woman. I faked my death to protect you, John. I want you to know this. If I could have done anything, anything at all for this to be different, I would have. I am a fool and this is my fate. I wish you utmost happiness. I love you, John Watson.
-SH
John froze. The wrinkled envelope sat beside him on the table. Sherlock was alive. Sherlock...loves him? He set the folded papers down with a shaky hand, his outstretched fingers trembling, not with fear, not with anger, but with pure shock. Sherlock was alive. Sherlock Holmes was alive. Three years since his death...John had finally chosen to pick up the pieces and try to move on, although every fibre of his being wanted him to simply give up on the world. An army doctor once shattered, not by war, but by the sheer trauma of watching his best friend fall to his death in a crumpled heap of bones and bloodied skin. Sherlock's last words had been for John and only John. How could he not have noticed? Sherlock cared next to nothing for anyone else but John. Suddenly it all made sense...the way he kept John close by at all times, his frantic scrambling to peel the bomb vest off at the pool...Sherlock Holmes was not only capable of love, but had expressed it in the only way he knew how: through protection.