For Him,

Chapter One

Hello Beautiful people, Welcome to the beginning of what will be a looonnng story. The story takes place after Reinbach fall, Sherlock and John have never met, But their somewhat experiences will be explained further on, When they met and how they remained strangers after conversing.  I'm not the type to do long intros so, Without further rambling; Chapter One. 

William Sherlock Holmes: 6:00:36 E:T / 221B Baker St. LONDON 

Dear me, What am i doing? Quite honestly, This is completely dull, and ridiculous. But she said it would help. You don't know me, But i know you. I know everything of you, I know your favourite colour, I know your shoe size, I know your mother's maiden name, I know your complications, Your reimbursements, Your Protection and your regrets. Are you impressed yet? Or are you quite possibly terrified? Are you still reading? 

Of course you are, This is much too... fascinating for you, You've been bored. 

I will not tell you my identity. Because if you knew that.... Well, I don't wish to think of such a possibility as it is not one. My name is not exactly shining so to speak. 

But never mind that. You, Back to you. 

Ah yes, John Hamish Watson, Graduate of Med School, Retired Army Doctrine from Afghanistan, The sober son of Emma and Pickens, The successful brother of Harriet. 

I chose you Doctor Watson, Because you didn't lie to her when you most definitely could have, and you didn't make assumptions when Mycroft Holmes came in for a Medical Mediation. 

You; John Watson, Are exactly what everyone needs. 

You are Truth. 

        Sherlock Stares at the note before him. It is one of many alligned upon the table. Each are identical, despite a few words being changed, a few spaces added. Tedious, Really. Pathetic almost- How long it has taken Sherlock to find the right words. His hands are stained in ink and his eyes are heavy with his lack of sleep. He's been writing this particular letter for almost 48 hours.

        There's no reasoning behind it, he simply feels... obligated. 

        To John Watson, Sherlock is writing on a parchment. He is ink stains, He is sloppy yet perfectly aligned handwriting. He is penmanship, He is Pristine folds in paper and he is words. 

        To Sherlock Holmes, John Watson is Light. He is CO2 converted to Oxygen, He is Soft gazes, He is warm tea, He is foggy summer days. To Sherlock Holmes, John Watson is everything a Human could possibly be, In the most ordinary, and Magnificent way possible. 

John Hamish Watson: October 6/ 20:44:59 E:T / Secondary Flat, LONDON 

'You are Truth' 

It's late evening when the middle aged doctor arrives at his flat. And it's late evening with an additional .5 seconds that he finds a perfectly folded note under his door mat. With an addition to that, It is late evening and 5 minutes when he is finished reading it. And 10 minutes added to that for him to decipher what the actual fuck was going on. 

A penpal. As if he were some primary school girl, communicating anonymously with some foreign exchange student eons away. 

This was different though. This 'penpal' was not eons away, But mere seconds. It was as if his soul lingered and filled the spaces between his words, Each letter choose precisely, Like amino acids along the double helix of the Deoxyribonucliec strands. Forming a sentence structure, A gene. A story, Creating a man--As DNA usually does. And this man was standing before him, So exposed yet so covered, So hidden. Just in the shadows of his preferable vision. 

Hello there, Ever so Elegant stalker of mine. 

I'm not sure if this is a type of situation where you send and I am to write back, But in case that is how the system is to work, Then here I am. Writing to you.... Words. 

If it will reassure, I haven't the faintest idea who the hell you are. No, Really. I should be terrified but that little autobiography of... well... myself was just... Genius. Brilliant. 

If you weren't expecting a response then well... I feel ridiculous. 

Well, I bid you adieu... UH... Well i'm not quite sure what to call you at this point... so... 

Farewell, 

John Watson

It wasn't until after he'd finished writing he realized there was no return address. 

And that's the end of chapter one, I will be updating soon.