Dear John- Oneshots [REQUESTS OPEN]

Dear John- A oneshot.

I cannot look out my window anymore. Every time I do, all I see is the image of him falling. Falling to his death. It has been two years, seventy-three days, and two hours since I first heard of his passing. It has been fourteen years since I first met him. It has gotten difficult for me to exist. I quit my job as a doctor, lost contact with everyone. Now, I live off a mere veterans' salary. Every once in a while, I take a walk, looking for signs of his existence, hoping this is all but a dream. Today is one of those days. I grab his old pea coat and button it up. It still smells like you, Sherlock. After all this time. I head out of the flat I once shared with my only friend. It's been a ghost town since he died. The landlady, Mrs. Hudson, had tragically died of a heart attack, the poor soul. I open the door and notice a small envelope. I pick it up and flip it over. It's addressed to me. That handwriting. The way the J loops into the o, the way the n curves up, the way it feels smooth. It cannot be... I tear it open and my heartbeat quickens. I unfold the letter. It is worn and old. The ink has smeared, but it is still legible. I see myself shaking as I take a deep breath and dive in.

Dear John,

By the time you read this it will be exactly two years, seventy-three days, and a few hours since you have heard of my demise. In that time period you will have buried me, visited my grave hundreds of times, quit your job, and wasted away. It pains me to know that. I want you to know I never wanted this. I wanted to live out my life with you. I wanted to be happy. John, before you, I was stale. I had no feeling. I was just Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. And then for the twelve years you were in my life, I changed. I became Sherlock Holmes, John Watson's best friend. I developed morals. You gave me a point in my disconsolate life. John Watson, I can live without you, but without you I am miserable at best. These words were never easy for me to say, but dear John, you were all that I hoped to find in every single way. All I want for you to do while I am gone is to be happy. I want you to have the life you deserve. I may be on the side of the angels, but you are one of them. I need you to understand, you are not worthless. To a great mind, nothing is little, nothing is worthless. You and I both know I am one of the greatest minds that ever lived. I just want you to know my reasoning behind leaving you behind. What is the point in living if you never get the chance to do something remarkable? Please, John, do me one thing. Carry yourself on. Do not end like me. Be someone worth the world's time. And never forget us. Here is to all the places we went, and to all the places you will go. And here is to me whispering again and again and again: I love you, JW. Goodbye, my Change-Maker.

SH

His words become almost hieroglyphic due to my tears smearing the beautiful cursive lines more than they already were. I walk back into the place I have called home for fourteen years. I stand at the door, replaying old memories. The first day I moved in. All the crimes we solved. All the things he made me do. I realise, standing here today on a cold December afternoon, in 221 Baker Street, everything he did had reasons that would not be evident until right here, right now. You gave me a point. His words ring through my ears. I close my eyes and when I reopen them, I find myself in his old room. I have not opened this door since the jump. There is a small package on the bed. On the top reads, open at once if convenient. if inconvenient, open anyway. I grab the letter-opener besides the package and diligently open it. The contents shock me. I pull out an orange blanket. The note attached says, "just in case you are in shock". I stand in the room for a moment longer and I walk into the next room holding the blanket. The feelings are overwhelming. No day has hurt just as much as today. "You damned fool!" I scream, throwing the blanket. I grab my pen and a notebook. I set them on the table while I run to the bathroom to grab a glass of water and a single orange bottle. 

Dear Sherlock,

You crazy fool. I followed you fourteen years ago, and I have had enough. I guess my last choice is to follow you again. Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side, and I guess we have both lost. I love you, you high-functioning sociopath. You say goodbye, while I say hello.

JW

I empty the contents of the bottle into my hand and do exactly what my Sherlock told me not to do. On the other hand, he told me to be happy, and I will never  be happy without him. The last thing I remember ever doing is smiling, and drinking a glass of water.

And now I am in Paradise. Right next to him.