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John had gotten out of 221B. He needed some air, apparently. Sherlock had pretended not to hear him, focused on the melody he was playing on his violin. But when he was certain John was out, he stopped playing to study a little piece of paper he had seen out of the corner of his eye.
John had been writing it while he was doing experiments. Sherlock never missed anything.
John had just left the paper on the desk, and left. Sherlock suspected it was for him, anyway. He could read it, John wouldn't be mad. He wouldn't even know it.
There wasn't any envelope, or anything to post it. It wasn't written on this purpose. John had just left it there, it obviously was for Sherlock. He unfolded it.
'I'm writing this letter to say goodbye. Quite an ultimate goodbye.
I'm sorry for what I failed, and I know that you're sorry too. There are no resentments.
I just don't love you anymore. I used to, really. But my heart belongs somewhere else, and I know you always knew that. You always accepted me like that, thank you. But I'm in love, desperately in love, and I need to leave you behind.
I won't see you anymore, you won't be the one always with me. I'll just keep a good memory of you.
Thank you for everything you gave me, and sorry again.'
Sherlock's hands began to shake.
John was leaving him.
John didn't love him anymore.
He had told him he loved him once, when he asked him to be best man. He couldn't believe it. But he would never have imagined how it'd hurt if John stopped loving him.
He read the letter again, twice.
Tears were beginning to rush out of his eyes, and he couldn't stop them.
John hadn't gone out a minute for some air. He had gone out forever. He would come back once to pack his few things, and before Sherlock would be able to persuade him to stay, with tears and love confessions, he would be gone.
John had found a new Mary, apparently. And he was willing to leave Sherlock behind, like that, all at once.
It wasn't ok. Sherlock would never pick himself up, ever. But if it was what John wanted, then it was ok.
Sherlock felt miserable. Of course John was leaving, what the hell was he expecting? Sherlock was Sherlock, and even though a few people had tried to love him, nobody had succeeded. John was the one who came the closest. But he had reached his limit, and he was now leaving Sherlock with nothing but his violin and his broken heart.
His body led him to his room without even thinking about it. And Sherlock felt even more miserable when he realised what he was doing.
Why make an effort? He didn't deserve John anyway, and John wouldn't say anything anymore. Because he was not here anymore.
He knew bloody well that what he was taking could actually kill him. That's what he did when he thought he'd never see him again. But, back then, John still loved him. And if John loved him, there was still hope.
There wasn't any hope then. He could die, nobody would care. And he wouldn't have to suffer more. He was already destroyed anyway.
Only later he could hear the door of the flat open and very familiar steps come in. Oh yes. John was coming one last time to take his things.
Sherlock hesitated. He could either stay still, or run to John and try to convince him to stay.
He stayed still.
John wouldn't know he's here, and just assume he left the flat.
"Sherlock?"
Sherlock didn't make a move. He didn't breathe. He wasn't even sure his heart was still beating.
"Sherlock are you here?"
His voice sounded worried. Why would John still be worried?
Did he have such a great heart to still worry about him, after everything?
John slowly opened the door of Sherlock's room, making sure he wasn't disturbing.
His eyes went wide, and he rushed to Sherlock.
"God, Sherlock, what the hell...?"
Sherlock was a wreck, he knew it. He could feel his dried tears on his cheeks. He could feel the sweat glueing his curls to his forehead. He could feel his eyes swollen, and his whole body shaking.
Sherlock had almost forgotten how handsome John was. Right then, his changing eyes were dark, and they penetrated Sherlock with such strength it killed his heart twice. He allowed himself to get lost in those eyes, one last time.
"Did you make a list?"
It had become a habit, he always did. Even when he thought he'd die before someone could read it.
He gave it to John and their hands touched. He couldn't do that, not then. He hadn't touched John a lot before, because they were just friends and friends don't touch each other. But it just reminded him how much he would miss it. John was worried, because he might still like Sherlock, or maybe just as a doctor. But he would leave nonetheless.
"Oh, f... Sherlock, you could have died from this! Sherlock, please, again!" John sighed. "Why would you do that, Sherlock?"
Sherlock couldn't stand John's gaze any longer. Why would he do that? Did John really not know how much Sherlock cared about him? How he would miss him?
Sherlock looked sadly at the floor. He didn't want to force John to help him. If John wanted to leave, then he wasn't his John anymore, and he must leave.
"You read the letter, didn't you?"
You know bloody well I did, John, Sherlock thought. I was meant to.
John took the mess that Sherlock was and sat him down on his bed. He stayed standing in front of him.
"God, Sherlock. Don't tell me you thought it was for you."
Sherlock looked again at John, narrowing his eyes, trying to analyse him. What was that supposed to mean?
"I didn't write this to you, Sherlock. That was an accident. I wrote this letter to Mary."
Sherlock frowned.
"Mary's dead, I know," John continued, "but I needed to right some wrongs with myself. The thing is, I don't want to be married with her anymore." John swallowed. "It's you I'm in love with."
Sherlock realized his heart must have been beating, and really hard, because it suddenly stopped. His lungs didn't allow air to come in. All his body stopped functioning.
"God, I really hope I didn't just messed it all up again", John said. It was barely a whisper.
Sherlock closed his eyes, burying himself in his mind palace.
He recalled the piece of paper, with John's messy yet beautiful writing, that he had buried deep into John's room of his mind palace, in order not to see it too much.
'I'm writing this letter to say goodbye. Quite an ultimate goodbye.'
Goodbye to his departed wife. He has mourned, he can finally let her go now.
'I'm sorry for what I failed, and I know that you're sorry too. There are no resentments.'
He forgives her for lying to him, so he can leave her, in peace with himself.
'I just don't love you anymore. I used to, really. But my heart belongs somewhere else, and I know you always knew that. You always accepted me like that, thank you. But I'm in love, desperately in love, and I need to leave you behind.'
It's me that he loves now. God, I can't believe it.
John Watson told me that he's in love with me. And apparently Mary already knew that.
'I won't see you anymore, you won't be the one always with me. I'll just keep a good memory of you.'
I knew John still saw a substitute of Mary after her death. He doesn't need her anymore.
Everything fitted. It actually might be true.
Sherlock opened his eyes, to deduce if John was lying to him. But there was only love and sincerity in his look.
He got up, without taking his eyes off John's.
He suddenly remembered John's last words.
"You haven't messed anything up, John."
They were only a few inches apart. Sherlock felt the urge to come closer. John attracted him like a magnet.
A magnet, yes. Interesting, isn't it? In French, they say "aimant", which means "loving". And Sherlock understood bloody well.
John was paralyzed, he looked frozen in the ice of Sherlock's eyes.
Sherlock slowly reached John's face with his hand, as you do with a wild animal not to scare him. He didn't want John to flee, that was for sure.
His knuckles brushed against John's cheek, and he felt like a child touching a fragile porcelain he didn't have the right to touch. John was more beautiful and more precious than any of the porcelains he had ever seen.
He stepped forward, closing the distance between them. They were practically chest-to-chest. John was still not moving. He licked his lips, and it made Sherlock want to taste that tongue.
Gently, he rested his hands on John's jaw, and placed a soft, sweet, loving kiss on his lips.
John looked down and chuckled. Sherlock was happy to be able to read people because he then knew that it was a chuckle of happiness.
John locked his eyes again in Sherlock's. He lifted a hand to brush Sherlock's curls from his face.
And his hand was so sweet, Sherlock swore he would put a ring on it.