#molly hooper

THERE IS SOMETHING UBER SKETCHY ABOUT MOLLY’S BOYFRIEND.

HE DIDN’T WANT TO BE THERE

HE DIDN’T LOOK HAPPY WITH HER 

HE LOOKED LIKE HE WAS BEING FORCED TO ACT

WHO ARE YOU, TOM

@strangelock221b had a rough day and so I offered to write her a pick-me-up fic in the “Sway” AU, and this is what came out. It’s sweet married domestic fluff between Khan and Molly, so I hope you all enjoy it.

Solace - Molly calls Khan after getting sacked illegally from Barts, but it might turn out all right in the end.

READ @ AO3|SERIES PAGE

Khan had not expected a phone call from Molly so late in the workday, but as she was nearing the time to deliver their son, and she was worried about the delivery, he should have expected it. Mycroft had had some of the top doctors in the United Kingdom run diagnostic tests of amniotic fluid and blood samples from his son under the strictest confidentiality, so both of their minds were at ease that their son was as normal as Molly was, but the actual delivery had been on Molly’s mind since she’d had to deal with a postmortem on a woman who died in secret childbirth.

“Molly?” he asked, answering his mobile on the second ring. What he got instead of a verbal response was a choked sob, and his hackles went up. “Molly, what’s wrong?”

“I got sacked,” she said, following it up with another sob. “All so the bloody hospital doesn’t have to give me maternity leave.”

He relaxed. He’d worried for a moment that it had to do with Jalen, or even that the sobber hadn’t been Molly and perhaps had been Mary on her mobile, delivering news that Molly was gone. To hear she had been sacked was bad, but not nearly as bad as what he had let filter through his mind.

“Mycroft owes you a favour still, right?” he asked.

There was a soft hiccup. “He does, yes.”

“Let him yell at hospital administrators. Get on the phone with Lestrade and have him yell on Scotland Yard’s behalf. Have Sherlock find blackmail. You have options. You can get your post back, if you really want it.”

“I do, but…I don’t. It was just so sudden and I wasn’t prepared at all.”

“Head home. I’ll meet you there and we’ll spend tonight plotting.”

“No head-bashing.”

“No head-bashing.” He paused. “Can I break a kneecap or two at least?”

She giggled this time, and the last knot of fear in the pit of his stomach evaporated. She was going to be fine. “No, Khan. No violence.”

“Then what else am I good for?” he asked, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

“Kisses. And shagging. And foot massages.”

“Head home and I’ll prepare a bath for you with your favorite things, and I’ll give you a foot massage and a back rub. And we can have a takeaway and watch those rubbish romantic comedies you’re so fond of.”

“I don’t deserve you, you know.”

“Don’t ever say that,” he said quietly. “It is I that doesn’t deserve you. But I strive every day to be a better man for you.”

“I love you, I do.”

“I love you too, Molly. I’ll leave now and meet you at home.”

“Okay.” She hung up and so did he, and after checking on the schematics he’d drawn up one last time he gave them to his assistant and gave him instructions on how to proceed before going into the office he used when consulting and got his coat. He slipped it on and went to the car to drive home. He’d picked up driving reasonably easily, with some defensive driving skills imparted on him by Mary during their lessons, and now it was one of the times he took to unwind from his day.

He was angry underneath it all, but not angry at Molly. He was angry on her behalf for being sacked. She was a brilliant pathologist, and an excellent researcher and Barts should have just given her the damn maternity leave and welcomed her back in a year and a half with open arms. She could go anywhere, but he knew she loved the work she did on behalf of Scotland Yard, and she loved working on Sherlock’s cases, and it was a blow to be unceremoniously sacked from a job she loved so much.

If she wouldn’t let him in on bringing the hospital board to their senses, at least he could give her something to ease the hurt.

He called in their Indian takeaway order to pick up on the way home, the phone situated in its holder. He could easily concentrate while driving and chatting, but even he had trouble handling the phone and the wheel at the same time. The gift had been from Molly and he appreciated it quite a bit. Before he got to the restaurant he went to Tesco and picked up some ice cream to take the heat of the Indian food away, and also picked up a bouquet of flowers while he was at it.

Once he got the food and had a chat with the owners about their business and their day he headed home to find Molly curled up on the sofa. She seemed to perk up when he stepped into the sitting room. “Flowers? How lovely!”

“I thought you deserved something pretty for the kitchen table,” he said, setting the lilies down on the coffee table and then setting their dinner down after that. “Ben wanted to know how much longer until the baby would come. He suggested the spicy dishes if you want the baby delivered earlier than later.”

Molly smiled, picking up the lilies and getting off the sofa slowly to go get a vase. “I’ve had his special dish and Jalen still won’t make an appearance,” she said.

“Jalen is stubborn, like his father,” Khan said. “I got you Speculoos ice cream to take away some of the heat of your dish. Ben made it extra hot for you.”

“The heartburn is worth it,” she said, pulling down a vase and filling it with water. “I’m so glad Mary took you there. It really hits the spot for my spice cravings.”

“I’ve noticed.” He set the ice cream next to her takeaway and then went to go get them forks and a spoon for the ice cream. “Have you called in your favour?”

“Mycroft said this was a freebie. I help keep Sherlock in line, therefore he wants me at Barts. I know Sherlock promised to behave with my replacement while I was on maternity leave, but that was when I’d be a phone call away to…well, give guidance or approval or whatever. Being sacked, I have no authority.”

“All that to avoid maternity leave, though?” he asked.

“I’m not the only one it’s happened to. Just the highest level staff. Meena said two nurses in caridology were sacked while on maternity leave. They’re planning on filing suit against Barts. I might join them, even if I get my position back.” She put the lilies into the vase and then brought it back to the coffee table. “Even if I decide it’s not worth going back, that’s a lawsuit I may be willing to join. I’ve been thinking.”

“Oh?”

“What if I am a stay-at-home mum? I have plenty in savings, we own this place outright, you get a significant sum from the government for the work you do…you’re only a consultant now, we could be hands-on parents if I don’t go back to Barts.”

“What about your research?” he asked, sitting down and watching her lower herself onto the sofa. She sat with her head against the armrest and stretched out, and he took one of her feet in his hands and began to massage it gently. Her ankles weren’t quite swollen but it was obvious if she hadn’t been sacked she’d have to have started maternity leave soon; she needed to be off her feet sooner rather than later.

“I can do that for any hospital, or any university. And before you ask about Sherlock, he was going to have to get used to a replacement. Now he can without dragging me back in when I want to be with my son. Or…well, John and Mary have two children under the age of five now. And they both work at the surgery rather hard. I was thinking…I could volunteer to…help him?” She sounded almost hopeful as she said that.

Khan was quiet, continuing to massage her feet. Sherlock was, by far, one of his least favorite people to deal with, but they were at least on cordial terms these days. If Molly wanted to be his assistant, take John’s place sometimes, he could rearrange parenting and work schedules around it. If going on cases would make her happy, why would he stop her? “I can just see Jalen in one of those back strapped baby carriers at a crime scene,” he said, giving her a grin.

“So you don’t object?” she asked.

“Not really, no. If that’s what you want to do, we can make it work. But…don’t give up your research completely. You’re more than a brilliant pathologist, you’re a tremendously good researcher as well.”

“I won’t.” She took her takeaway and set the carton on her chest, just above her pregnant belly. “You know, it was such a shock, but maybe it’s a good thing.”

“Well, eat your supper and then I’ll run you a bath and sit with you and we can plot and plan,” he said. “And maybe we’ll be lucky and this will have been the hardest thing we deal with tonight.” Molly beamed at him and then took one of the forks and began to dig into her food while he switched feet for her. For what had started off as an emergency, it seemed all right now. If she was happy, that was the important thing, wasn’t it? It was to him, at least. And he’d do whatever it took to make her and their future son as happy as he possibly could.

Me: I don’t think Sherlock Season 4 Episode 2 could ever shake me up as much as Sherlock Season 4 Episode 1

Moffat, descending into hell:

helloliriels:

Do I love Moriarty:Yes.

Do I hate Moriarty:Yes.

Do I love Mary:Yes.

Do I hate Mary:Yes.

Do I love Mycroft:Yes.

Do I hate Mycroft:Yes.

Do I love Molly:Yes.

Do I hate Molly: WHat KiNd Of mONsTeR Do yOu ThInK I aM??

helloliriels:

Do I love Moriarty:Yes.

Do I hate Moriarty:Yes.

Do I love Mary:Yes.

Do I hate Mary:Yes.

Do I love Mycroft:Yes.

Do I hate Mycroft:Yes.

Do I love Molly:Yes.

Do I hate Molly: WHat KiNd Of mONsTeR Do yOu ThInK I aM??

Main Masterlist

My Discord

(Please feel free to make requests!) 

(Sherlock Requests are currently closed)

Fluff Dialogue Prompt List 
Angst Dialogue Prompt List 
Smut Dialogue Prompt list

Sherlock Holmes:

Requested:

More Than A Lovers Quarrel

Summary:When Sherlocks case seems to be more then he can chew he takes it out on (Y/N). Things have been said that may not ever be forgiven and Sherlock doesn’t seem the least bit remorseful.

A Fathers Guilty Conscience

Summary-You and your father Sherlock have never been on good terms. He wanted you to thrive in academics while you wished to bless paper with your ideas and art. When one day an argument goes to far Sherlock must sit and face the consequences

Kittens and Cuddles

Summary:Ever since Sherlock met you he has always needed your undivided love and affection. When suddenly that affection is given to something else he begins to reminisce his first time meeting with you, but now enough is enough and he is determined to keep you all to himself. Even if it is a few short hours.

I Tolerate you…

Summary - Ever since meeting Sherlock everything seemed to be to be going great. Your life was spiraling upwards but so is your feelings for the great detective. When Molly’s jealous words get the better of you. Your insecurity seems to push Sherlock more in your direction causing another stepping stone to some thing greater and something more then just a friendship.

The Artist and the Intellect

Summary:(Y/N) has just returned from her latest art venture to live with her grand-mother Mrs. Hudson. In doing so she occupies the apartment downstairs and becomes fast friend with the tenant upstairs. Over the months her feelings and their chemistry grow. In an effort to convey to Sherlock her feelings she gives him a gift.

Unadulterated Desires
A/N: Contains Smut

Summary:You notice a difference in Sherlock’s behavior and it becomes more apparent when he begins to feel you up in front of John. Sherlock expresses his insecurity and how he is ready to take the relationship to the next level, but who knew that your first time together would be on the table you eat on.

Sherlock: I still can’t believe that officer pulled you over just to tell you that you were driving perfectly.

Molly: Why not? I was.

Eurus: remember that bank job? 

Mycroft:bank job?

Molly: it’s not how it sounds

Eurus: uh, its exactly how it sounds

Eurus: I was the only person at Sherlock’s side when he fell off that ladder. I will never forget his haunting last words

Molly: What were they?

Eurus:“stop shaking the ladder”

*Molly being interrogated cause Jim is a suspect*

Officer: Did your boyfriend commit the crime?

Molly:He can’t even commit to a relationship 

Molly: A party is a celebration of a life, bringing people together to let the guest of honour know how much they’re loved. Sherlock has done so much for us. This is our chance to do something for him.

John: By forcing him to have fun at a party that he doesn’t want to be at?

Irene: I knew you’d understand.

Sherlock: Oh, great, so she gets an A- and I get a broken eye and a black nose

John: I think you meant–

Sherlock: I know what I meant.

Molly: My dog has a black nose. It’s so cute, like a baby meatball!

Sherlock: Meatballs are brown.

Molly: YOU’RE SO MEAN TO ME! 

Sherlock spends exactly nineteen seconds zoned out after John asks him to be best man. He retreats to his mind palace in the desperate hope of figuring out what he wants, unfortunately for him his mind palace is full of people who keep trying to give him advice.

I haven’t read fanfic in a very long time (as our lack of updates suggests) but a link to this was on my dash and I thought ‘what the hell’, expecting to close out of it right away (no offense, that’s just my relationship with fanfic these days) and it’s honestly really good. Like because of this I might actually start to read fic again, I know I’ll check out this author’s other works. The characterization, pacing, and expressions are spot on. It’s engaging and humorous, but pulls on your heart strings as well. This story exists only in Sherlock’s mind palace, and it’s amazing how the different elements from the show and the author combined. This is exactly how I want Sherlock’s mind palace to be, especially with the memories. Honestly well done, this is a great fic for people who love unrequited love fics and pining Sherlock!

My Rating: A
Word Count: 3727

Read it here, fic by EmmyAngua

John Watson’s Chatbox

As some of you may have noticed, I have recently set up a chatbox on my blog. Being recently discharged from the hospital (I got confined for my stupidity according to my dear sister) and being on leave from the surgery (forced leave thanks to Greg) I have a lot of time on my hands. Molly said I should use my newfound free time to do something productive and this came to mind. 

You see, to my surprise, my blog has seen quite a bit of traffic. I do keep wondering what people find interesting, for I am simply a retired army doctor with a more peculiar past than others. (Perhaps some of you can enlighten me) I set this up, to get to know the people who spend the time reading my entries and more importantly get to know those who send their well wishes and support. 

I thank everyone who has extended their support during these hard times. Your sentiments are much appreciated. 

A good night to everyone. 

- JW 

The End and The Beginning

It was the End. 

It was often said that regret came at the end.

The end of one’s career.

The end of one’s journey

The end of one’s life. 

And it seemed that John Watson had come to his.

The Final Chapter of John Watson’s life.

John Watson was a man filled with regret. Many of which involved Sherlock Holmes.

He was sitting on the cold wooden floors of 221b with his back against the wall. He was right under the window. The same window that Sherlock Holmes had once frequented. Enough moonlight came through the panes to illuminate the emptiness of the flat. No matter where John Watson looked, he saw nothing but Sherlock’s absence from his life. John looked down at his right hand, the pills seemingly placing a heavy weight there. His left hand held the phone that once belonged to Sherlock, the screen displaying Sherlock’s final note. It was a recording of Sherlock’s final moments, as he was forced to take his own life in exchange for John’s, Lestrade’s and Mrs. Hudson’s. It was Sherlock’s final moments. The truth had finally come out.

The guilt that had been compounding for months had now come crashing down at him, tearing at his very being. For months, his own sanity slowly ebbed away like footprints on the sand being washed away by the tides. It was finding out the truth that finally pushed him over the edge. 

It would be so easy. John Watson thought. To end everything. To escape the pain.

He was a doctor, he knew what was going to happen as soon he ingested the sleeping pills, he knew exactly what dosage could kill him. He would fall asleep, the lethal dose shutting his body down. If his comatose state remained unremedied, his brain would shut down and he would eventually stop breathing all together. Simple steps to his escape.  

It wasn’t an escape. John considered.

This was my atonement. It was all my fault.

He had arranged for Lestrade to meet him here at the flat in the morning. John did it to spare Mrs. Hudson from discovering his body by accident. By that time, it would be too late to do anything and John would finally be at peace. 

“I’m about to join you soon.”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.” John said weakly. “I’m not as strong as you thought I was.”

One regret surfaced above all the rest as he held the pills in front of him.

“I never got to tell you I loved you…”

This single thought consumed his mind as he downed the pills that were sure to end his life.

The sleeping pills began to take effect, a numbness descending over him that seemed to dull even the pain of his own heart.

Soon, it would be over.

The pains that plagued his heart wouldn’t trouble him any more and for once, he would have a peaceful sleep no longer afflicted with nightmares of the past he once had. Some would call John a coward but to John this wasn’t cowardice at all. A good solider knew when to stand down and call it quits. When the odds were severely against his favor, the rational thing to do would be to retreat. Anything else would be sheer stupidity. This was what John was doing, retreating from the battle of his life. He was finally laying down his weapons and retiring to a place where he couldn’t be of harm to anyone.

He kept his gaze on Sherlock’s empty chair, willing his imagination to at least give him a sense of comfort in these last few moments. But even his own mind couldn’t conjure up a Sherlock Holmes to hold him in his final breath. Until the end, he was all alone.

Sherlock’s phone slipped from his grasp as his muscles began to slacken. His eyes began to droop and soon, it took much effort  to keep his eyes open so he kept them closed.

Waiting at 221B.

That had been John Watson’s life ever since Sherlock’s death. For months, John Watson did nothing but wait for an impossible miracle, for an absolution that he was sure would never come. But he continued to hope, for Sherlock Holmes was capable of great miracles. It was this small hope that lingered which allowed John to wake up each day.

And now, all he had to do was wait a little longer. Wait to die and wait for that resolution that would finally come.

The End.

A final thought, latched unto John’s consciousness. 

Sherlock.

The last thing John remembered before he slipped into unconsciousness was his own heartbeat, ringing loudly in his ears. 

His heart beat for Sherlock, and Sherlock alone.

Then, there was nothingness. No Sherlock. No John. There was simply a darkness that held no light, no joy and no despair.

***

One often wondered if the dead dreamt during their last moments. John didn’t know whether it was simply vestiges of unconscious desires or if he really did go the world beyond but at one point in his unconscious state he found himself in the living room of 221B. From the darkness, Sherlock’s chair sprouted out of nowhere followed by his own. Other familiar articles of furniture came into being around him: the couch, the fridge, the telly. Soon a familiar world was constructed around him. Things were the same, yet completely different at the same time. It wasn’t the lonely flat he had come to know. It felt like home. A lone figure was standing before the window, silhouetted in the morning sun.

“Sherlock?” John called out to figure staring out the window. His voice echoed unusually in the small flat.

The mysterious man turned around to reveal not Sherlock, but someone else entirely. Still, it was a man John thought he would never see again.

“Dad.”

Instead of the anger that he had expected to feel, there was simply a calm acceptance there. It seemed that without realizing it, he had come to terms with the role his father had played in his childhood, or lack thereof. Hamish Watson looked over his eldest child with a look of sadness.

“What have you done, John?” There was no accusation in his tone.

John tried to remember what exactly he had done. Images of Sherlock’s phone and sleeping pills flashed before his eyes.

“It was for Sherlock…” John said softly.

Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes  

“Is he here? Have you seen him around?” John asked. The desperation was evident in his voice as he looked around the flat, trying to see a hint of a trench coat or scarf that alluded to the fact that Sherlock was indeed here and that they would finally be reunited.

“No, John. It’s only us.”

John slumped into the couch. The couch that he and Sherlock often occupied together. The disappointment spread  through him like wildfire. John placed his head in his hands, looking up when he felt the opposite side of the couch slump. His father sat beside him, looking at him with a familiar penetrating gaze. John felt like his seven year old self, under the scrutiny of his old man.

“I didn’t turn out like the son you wanted… I  joined the army.. hashed that up… I became a doctor too but screwed that up as well. Now I got myself all bent and broken. You wouldn’t want a son like me.” John said bitterly.

“None of that matters, John.” Hamish paused and looked at his son squarely in the eyes. “Were you happy with him?“ 

John blinked, taken aback by his father’s response. John grew up under the strenuous demands and expectations of his father wanting the perfect son. John constantly sought for his father’s approval but nothing he ever did was good enough. And now despite telling his father he was in love with a bloke, all of it seemed fine.

“Yeah… I don’t know if he felt the same way but… “ John looked around the flat. “For the first time in years, I felt all was right in the world.”

John sighed, his eyes lingering on Sherlock’s empty chair, wishing so desperately he could talk to Sherlock Holmes.

“Where’s Sherlock?” John asked. His father simply smiled a knowing smile before placing a hand on his son’s shoulders.

“Do take care of Harry.” Hamish said softly, a silent plea in his eyes

“I always have.” John said defiantly. “I tried… better than you ever did.”

“I know.”

“I made a lot of mistakes son. You know that. Don’t follow your old man.” There was a vulnerability in Hamish’s eyes that John didn’t even know could reside there. His father wasn’t one for emotional proclamations but he guessed the afterlife changed the man. Death had a way of placing things into perspective, as John himself had come to realize.

“It’s too late to change any of that now.” John said regretfully, thinking of the many things he had left behind. Thinking of Harry, whom he never apologized to, thinking of Molly, Lestrade Mrs. Hudson whom he never said goodbye to.

“It’s not yet your time, son.”

“Wait! Dad!” John got up and called out to his father, as the world began to be consumed by darkness once again.

***

A kind of pain and numbness descended upon his body. Noises assaulted his senses and  groan escaped his lips. The smell of disinfectant and alcohol flooded his nostrils.

If heaven felt like this… then I got ripped off John thought, gasping and opening his eyes. From the emptiness the figure of Lestrade standing over him came into focus and it was easy enough to come to the conclusion that his suicide attempt had failed.  Relief flooded the detective inspector’s face.

“He’s awake! John’s awake.”

John heard a scuffle around him, he squinted to get his bearings and see who else was in the room. Harry’s face came into view, along with Molly’s and Mrs. Hudson. It was a stark contrast from the solitude of his attempted suicide. Harry shoved Lestrade aside and took her brother into her arms.

“H-harry.” John said weakly, still heavily sedated from the drugs injected into his system to get him out of the coma.

“You idiot." 

John blinked as he felt white hot tears fall upon his face. He raised his free hand (for his other hand was inserted with various intravenous medicines keeping him alive) and placed it in the small of Harry’s back, rubbing it like he used to when they were younger. Harry was the more headstrong sibling between the both of them, and seeing her breakdown like this pushed any thoughts of his failed suicide from his mind at the moment.

“Sorry, Harry. I’m sorry.” John said quietly. He vaguely recalled a promise made about Harry and he held his younger sister closer to him. “I’m sorry.” He said again.

Mrs. Hudson was sobbing in the corner, blowing her nose into her embroidered handkerchief. Molly was more composed than Mrs. Hudson but tears were quietly rolling down her face. Everyone except John himself was rejoicing from his return from death’s grasp. Once everyone finally calmed down and said their well wishes John was finally left alone save for Lestrade. John lay back down and closed his eyes in exhaustion.

“What happened, Greg?”

“Mycroft. He found you just in time.” Lestrade’s voice was even but it was evident he was trying to control his temper, the anger he felt at John was bubbling close to the surface.

“Why?” Lestrade asked, after a moment’s silence.

John looked at Lestrade with sad eyes. “Sherlock.” John said simply.

“Why?” Lestrade insisted. “You think this is what he would’ve wanted? For his sacrifice to be wasted? For your to throw your life away like this.”

John looked away from the detective inspector.

John stayed quiet for the remainder of his stay at St. Bart’s, only speaking to others when necessary. Sometimes, he simply employed a nod or shake of the head but most of the time he would simply stare into space. No matter how much Lestrade, Molly or Harry coaxed him into talking, he never did. Half of John’s time was attributed to trying to remember the most peculiar dream he had before waking up in the hospital bed. The other half of his time was for wallowing in his failed suicide.

Losing Sherlock had reduced him to this. It was like some sick tragedy in one of his shows on the telly: taking his own life to be reunited with the love of his life. If he had enough common sense in him, he would come to the conclusion that taking his life wasn’t really the best thing to do but common sense went out the window when Sherlock Holmes and love was concerned. Both were a volatile combination that didn’t really lead to anything rational. Coming into contact with Sherlock Holmes had turned John Watson’s world upside down. In John’s eyes, without the consulting detective, the world seemed to stop, stand still and lose its worth. There were no happy endings in real life, and John couldn’t even have his tragic ending. He could never win. 

Soon enough, after the 72 hour mandatory observation period and a few tests to determine that John was physically healthy (for let’s face it, a man who just tried to commit suicide could never be considered mentally and emotionally healthy after just 72 hours of said suicide attempt) he was discharged.

“What are you going to do now?” Lestrade had asked him, before handing John his phone. Lestrade had obviously been going through John’s more recent Sherlock text messages. The detective inspector had brought John home, stopping over to take soldier’s gun under his care. No form of medication in lethal amounts was left in the flat either. John didn’t put up much of a fuss. A sort of passive acceptance descended over him as Lestrade cleaned out John’s flat of potential suicide paraphernalia. Fighting the pain and willing it to go away was a battle already lost, and so John allowed the hurt to wash over him like the pouring rain outside the London Streets.

“I don’t know Greg.” John said, softly. And that was the truth of the matter. John didn’t know where to go from here. He was like a traveler lost in the woods, compass-less and map-less. He was alone, without a guide to lead the way. He was a John Watson without a Sherlock Holmes. John took the phone in his hand before closing the door on Lestrade. He leaned against the door of the flat, feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Love was a powerful thing, capable of tearing great men and great cities down.

Love was a hurtful thing, capable of bringing pain that no medicine can cure.

Love was a beautiful thing, capable of causing hope

Love was a spiteful thing, capable of sparking anger and despair.

What chance did John Watson have against it?

“Dying would be too merciful I guess. This is my punishment. Living the rest of my life with this pain. Living the rest of my life without you. I deserve it. It’s all my fault.” John said, to the emptiness of the flat as he slumped to the floor in defeat.

John didn’t know how long he stayed in that position. It may have been minutes, hours or even days but he was roused from his stupor by impatient knocking on the door. His limbs had numbed from prolonged idleness. He opened the door, surprised to find Mycroft Holmes on the other side.

“Good Evening, Mr. Watson, may I come in?”

John didn’t have enough strength in him to have a witty retort against the older of the Holmes’s brothers. So he simply ushered the man inside, directing him to the couch. John collapsed unto his own chair, it’s comfort not even easing John’s mind for a bit.

“Why didn’t you let me die…?” John asked Mycroft weakly. It was a thought constantly on John’s mind ever since he found out who had foiled his suicide.  

“It’s something else I can’t forgive you for.” John said, his voice full of spite. “Why don’t you just sod off and mind your own business, Mycroft?” His anger for Mycroft Holmes was the first burst of emotion that John had felt in days.

“I’ve always considered my brother’s business to be my own by default.” Mycroft said matter of factly, as if John wasn’t entitled to such explanations at all but he was simply entertaining the doctor by answering his question. This sparked further anger in John.

“And since my brother considered you to be his business, then I have taken it upon myself to ensure that you, John, are taken care of.”

John glared at the older man.

Mycroft sighed, his shoulders visibly drooping, his supercilious manner replaced by something more human. Now when John looked, he didn’t see the man who held the British Government in his hands, but a man who had lost a brother and a man ridden by guilt for having a hand in his brother’s death.  Rarely did he see this side of Mycroft and it was enough for John to put his anger aside for the moment. Mycroft fished out a letter from his coat pocket. Without saying anything, John realized who the letter was from. His name was scrawled on the envelope in Sherlock’s writing.

Mycroft brandished the letter. “Sherlock gave me this letter after your near death experience at the hands of Moriarty at the local pool.”

Mycroft let that information sink in before continuing “He said that it should be given to you only if something substantialhappened.”

John felt the anger spark within him again. “Substantial? Substantial?!” John got up from his chair and pointed an accusing finger at Mycroft. “Wasn’t causing your brother’s death substantial enough for you?”

Mycroft, as if expecting the outburst, simply continued on with his explanation. “My brother wished that this letter be given if and only if your life was in danger or if you, John Watson, have reached a point after my brother’s death wherein you needed something like this.”

Mycroft paused once again, letting his words linger in the air.

“Examining recent events it seems that both conditions have been fulfilled. You are a danger to your own life and no amount of advice from your peers would be enough to convince you that killing yourself isn’t the most advisable route.”

“After… his… death…?”  John enunciated each word. “He knew he was going to die?”

“My brother was neither infallible nor immortal. He knew he had limits and he knew those limits well. He simply weighed the probability of such an event occurring and deemed it appropriate to have such a letter in hand, if such events were to occur… And in accordance with his predictions.. such an event did occur, albeit in a way he didn’t expect.” John saw the regret in the older man’s eyes, as if the guilt had been eating at him in the past few months and have taken a heavy toll on his resolve. 

Mycroft Holmes was human after all.

John crossed the distance between himself and Mycroft and took the letter that was meant for him. It was a final piece of Sherlock that John was allowed to have. He held the envelope reverently in his hand.  He traced his own name written in Sherlock’s messy scrawl, recognizing the way in always he made his J’s.

John opened the envelope and began to read. He could hear Sherlock’s mesmerizing voice in his head as he read through each line.

John,

This letter may come as a shock to you, but in all honesty, I hope it never comes. I have let Mycroft know to only offer it to you should the situation arise where he felt that you could use me as a conductor of light for once. I may not shine as brightly as you, John, but I hope this comes to some use for you.

It is a cloudy Sunday afternoon and the incident at the pool with Moriarty was just four short days ago. Things have been adjusting around the flat. Things change when a friend offers his or her life for another. No one has ever thrown their life out on the line for me in such a manner and I am still trying to figure out how to react. But I wanted you to know such a thing was an eye-opening experience for me.

John clutched the letter in his hand and held it close to his chest, imagining Sherlock penning the letter in this very room, envisioning the movement of his slender hands on these two pieces of paper. John didn’t even bother hiding the tears that fell. It didn’t matter that Mycroft could see. His mind was transported back to that night in the pool. It was the moment he realized he was in love with Sherlock.

The moment I realized you were more than my friend was when I decided to die for you, Sherlock. My biggest regret at that moment was the fact I wouldn’t be able to spend the rest of my life with you. – JW

I do not know why this letter has been handed to you, but these words I offer you are for you alone, John. Only you John. Only ever you and no one else. You may scoff at the end of it and ask yourself, was he always hiding such sentiment behind his heart, but I can only reply that you were the one to have given me such a heart in the first place and in essence, the ability to pen such a letter.

You are the most amazing person I have ever met. You may be the picturesque description of what is defined as ordinary but you draw the line between extraordinary and the norm, and you soar above it. I have never said this to another human being, John. I have never allotted such words of fascination and admiration and truth for another so please do not short change it. I do not know what has taken me away from this world, though I hope it was in efforts to save your life at the very least, but I want you to know that you have made my life worth living. If there is anything you have done with your time in the world, though I think you have done much, you have had the ability to turn a freak into a person and make them feel like they were good enough to exist in a world where he never felt like he belonged. I do not know when this exactly happened but it is something that has dawned upon me over the course of the weeks and months we have shared together.

Tears had fallen on Sherlock’s letter, making ink run on some parts. Here in this letter were words he would never think Sherlock would say, but here they were in abundance, going against Sherlock’s common notion that sentiment was both boring and unnecessary. All of this. Because of him. John Watson. Sherlock Holmes saw him in such high regard. In the same way that John Watson had seen a side to Sherlock Holmes that people rarely saw, Sherlock Holmes had seen something in John that no one else had been privy to, even John himself.

John thought of how ridiculously ordinary he was, but it seemed for Sherlock Holmes, ordinary was enough. John Watson was enough. His whole life, John Watson tried to meet the demands of everyone around him but here was the most brilliant man he ever knew, content with what John was. 

“You did… you saved my life you bastard.. Me.. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson.” John said softly. Shaking his head and clutching the paper tightly. John still blamed himself for Sherlock’s death but it brought great warmth to his heart to know that because of him Sherlock wasn’t only willing to die, he was willing to live.

“You were no freak Sherlock. You were perfect the way you were. The world was just to blind to see how amazing you were.”  John whispered, hoping his words reached Sherlock wherever he was now.

Sherlock and John were two individuals so lost and so alone. They found each other and made the other feel they were worth something. They were complete opposites, the genius and the ordinary man who complimented each other so well. Living didn’t simply become a bothersome chore, it became an adventure that both of them could share. One couldn’t be without the other. 

But now John Watson was all alone. Without his other half of sorts.

I do not know when, or if, this letter will ever be handed to you, John, but if it were in the future, I want to tell you what I see for you. I am not a man who holds much regards to emotions or hopes or aspirations for what one’s life may have if they dream or pray, but I do think you have wonderful things set ahead of you. I may be selfish in my mind to wish to keep you at my side until we retire of old age. To keep you to such an old age where I do experiments that you tidy up after when I’m too old to bend over and you rub your hands from arthritis while you pen the rest of our tales. I should not be selfish in my wishes to keep you at my side forever and take care of you, but I am. But should that not be the case, and I expect it shan’t, I see you in a wonderful life, John. If I am to have one wish given to me - one fortune cookie come to light - it would be for you to live a happy life. It’s not that I want it for you, but instead, you are a man who simply deserves it. You can define it as you like - beautiful wife with children, practicing doctor to an esteemed clinic under your name, author of all our tales - whatever you like, John. Whatever makes you happy.

It will be beautiful, John, if you let it. I can appreciate beauty in nature, and I can appreciate it even more in your life.

If there is a heaven or afterlife, I hope that after my downfall, I am allowed to spend the rest of my days watching your life from up above. It would be my greatest honor and privilege to see you flourish in life with all that you are due, all that you create, and all that you live.

One of the hardest things that John had to do was move on with his life after Sherlock’s death. For the past months John had been living a lie, living in the past and ‘what if’s’ of the future. John felt a tightening in his chest as Sherlock described the future that John himself had wanted for the both of them.

Growing old together.

It was something simple that both of them wished for yet, both were denied of it. It pained him to know that the dream in his mind could have easily become a reality if Sherlock was still here with them. Images of a house in the country and a content Sherlock Holmes and John Watson flooded his mind. John willed the images away, for it was too painful to think that it was a dream that both of them shared.

One thing became apparent to John Watson though, that Sherlock Holmes wanted him to be happy. Even without him by John’s side.

“Is that even possible?” John asked. John had lived in grief and despair for months on end. It seemed impossible to him than any other life existed for a man such as himself.

“But.. it’s you that makes me happy. And I can’t have you.” John said, with hopelessness in his voice.

I do not know why this letter was given to you John, but I want you to know how much you were cherished by me. Even at my grave, as I tend to have all the words in the conversation, I can extend that line out to say that you are still cherished by me. There is little room in the world for men like me and even less for them to have friends yet here you are, at my side, day in and day out. They may not always be the prettiest of days, but they are ones that I look at in the darkest of times to remind myself that if there was anyone in the world that I would risk everything for - that I would do anything for, John, it would be you.

You are not just the conductor of light in my life, John; you are the love of my life. Love to me has always been something composed of chemicals and a feeling that dwindles down over the first few months of a relationship and, if the consistency stays the same, it will manage through a marriage. However, I see a different spectrum of love that I have for you. It is one that dives past the labels of flatmate or friendship that we have titled our relationship as. It may not be one that I wholeheartedly understand, but it is something that is clear and concise and existent in this heart that you have crafted for me. There may be reasons as to why my mind and body were designed the way they were. Many people consider them flawless, but I know of the flaws that exist in them. In that same manner, I think, despite the sentimental value behind it, that there is a reason that I feel such a love for you.

This love may not offer you kisses or the romance that you seek out through your strings of dates, but it is the kind that is pieced together by a careful friendship based on trust, devotion, care, concern, and eternal gratefulness. I am grateful for you John, and for everything you have ever done for me. I trust you; am devoted to you, and I care about you more than I have ever cared for another soul. If this is not the epitome of what love is defined as, I will just title it Sherlock and John and let the rest of the world be envious of what we have and what they do not.

For days John had wondered if Sherlock Holmes had loved him, he had mourned for he would never know the answer.  And here it was, the answer to the question haunting John’s mind. Sherlock Holmes loved him, in the way that John loved him too. It was the greatest gift anyone could have ever given John. If he couldn’t have Sherlock alive, at least he knew that while Sherlock walked the earth he had loved.

He had loved John.

I do not know why this letter was handed to you nor do I know why I have left the face of the Earth, but I want you to know that whatever is going on in your world where I no longer exist, that there is someone out there watching you from afar and only wishing you nothing but the best. I will not fill this letter with words such as it gets better or all struggles end, as I do not know the facts of the situation and I do not cross lines into things that are not evident, but I will tell you that you are loved, John. That much is truth. That much is evident. And to someone, to some freak you met by chance, you have changed his life and made it the greatest life he’s sure anyone has ever had. There is not one thing I can point out that made it so worthwhile, but a compilation of it all.

You have given me the perfect life.

You have changed me, John. You have allowed me to have a great life and to have things that I have found nonexistent before. You have given me a heart and let me see yours and the greatest thing of it all is that you have shared a portion of your life with me and it is the most wonderful thing I have ever had the chance to experience. There are no cases or murders or suicides that could ever compare to the moments that I have been allowed to have in your life, John.

Sherlock Holmes had given John his heart without John knowing. Theirs was a love beyond classification. It wasn’t something the world would consider as normal. But norms didn’t matter when it came to love and Sherlock. What mattered to John is that he loved and cared for a man named Sherlock Holmes and that Sherlock had loved him in return. He felt the outpouring of emotion with each word stringed together by the web of ink. Emotions he never knew Sherlock had. Emotions that he knew came from Sherlock’s heart.

Sherlock’s heart that beat for John.

John placed a hand above his chest, feeling his own heart that beat there. The heart that beat for Sherlock and Sherlock alone.

“Sherlock.” John called out. And then he felt it. A warmth in his chest that could only be described as love for any other word wouldn’t suffice.

“Sherlock.” John said again.

I do not know why you were given this letter, John Watson, and again, I hope you never have to read its contents. I hope we both live a long and great set of lives where, whatever the case, you live the happiest life of them all - but if this ever comes in your hands, if these words ever come to life, I hope you remember the most prominent fact of it all:

To me, John, you are the greatest person I have ever met, and you are cherished, cared for, and loved with the entirety of my heart.

Thank you for what you have shared with me, John, and I only hope that you have great things for the remainder of your life. I will never leave you, not really, and I will be by your side in even the darkest of times. My life may be dedicated to solving crimes and figuring out mysteries but my heart is dedicated to you and I thank you for that.

Very sincerely yours,
Sherlock Holmes

The flat, which had been empty for months, now felt like home once again. He felt Sherlock’s embrace around him. Sherlock Holmes had reached from the beyond and was able to accomplish what no one else could. John Watson felt loved. He stood up and placed a hand on Sherlock’s empty chair, positioning his fingers right where Sherlock would have placed his own hand. 

He turned around to face Mycroft Holmes, who was watching him closely. John closed his eyes and said the words that brought him such joy. 

“Sherlock Holmes loved me.” John said but then he amended it.

He opened his eyes.

“Sherlock Holmes loves me.”

These were four words that allowed John to see the world in a better light. The flat was still empty and the flat was still Sherlock-less but the flat was still home. A home he had shared with Sherlock.

Sherlock said John could be happy, and John believed him. John believed every word Sherlock had penned.

Sherlock Holmes loves John Watson and John Watson loves Sherlock Holmes.

This was something the harsh world could never take away from John Watson and it was something John would carry with him always.

It was the beginning. The beginning of the rest of John Watson’s life.