Sherlock & John (A Teenlock Fanfiction)

Chapter Fifty Eight - Letters

Sherlock

Sherlock couldn't help but feel disappointed when John called him only once.

He didn't even leave a voicemail message.

He called once. And that was it.

There were packages. Letters. Postcards, all pretty and decorated with vanilla smells and salty sweat. All unopened. All unread.

Sherlock took out a set of clean stationery paper, trying to write out something worth writing. Trying to tell John something worth telling.

He wrote, "Dear John," in cool blue ink (he didn't have a calligraphy set with black ink, unfortunately). "Dear John," he tried to explain.

Dear John,

I have rather expected this to be our last correspondence, and as such, I had to give you something that would make up for your trouble.

Sherlock scratched out the words as soon as he wrote them, hissing through his teeth and trying not to stare at the gun pressed under his toes.

Dear John,

I'm not sorry about you anymore, and I think that's the most important thing I have to say, truly.

Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed.

Dear John,

How the hell do you write so many letters?

"I'm sorry," he wrote, but then, he wasn't, and then, "It's just that..."

But it wasn't coming out right, everything was all torn to shreds and it looked so meaningless against the rough cotton paper. It was too true to write - too much to lose. Too meaningful to just put down, without reason, without warrant.

Dear John,

I am so empty and you are so full. Our love is a vacuum, putting it mildly, and you are the one who is experiencing the repercussions for my mistakes.

Dear John,

Why can't you just stop loving me?

Dear John,

Why must you be so difficult?

Dear John,

Why can't you...

Sherlock threw all his to-be-last-correspondences away. He put all John's letters in his dresser drawer, trying to ignore the pill bottle hidden in a crevasse. "Dear John," Sherlock said, pressing his head against the bureau, "just stop."

John

That was it, then. Rory said John needed a summer job for gas.

They both didn't mention John didn't go anywhere. Or the fact that the only real friendship he had was with a girl that gave him blow jobs in exchange for emotional support. (Imagine how bad his other "friends" must have been.)

He was just wrecked enough to get a job at the local Hot Topic, which he really liked. He liked the welcoming environment and often recognized someone in himself, mindlessly walking up and down the aisles in the back. Once in a while, someone would buy a bisexual flag or pin. He got a few guys' numbers that way.

He had an insatiable desire for punk music and owned an endless supply of it. Rory had described it as an "insalubrious" amount, and his dad constantly was running up the stairs to turn the volume down, to no avail. As soon as John saved up enough money, he spent it all on CDs and brown work boots and skinny jeans and gel and leather jackets.

"Jesus, John," Rory said one morning, after John was super hammered the night before. "What is in your hair?"

He ran a hand through his hair, and some slimy white stuff was there when he took it out. "Come," John answered.

Rory grounded him.

Sherlock would've laughed at his misfortunes.

Sherlock didn't start school in autumn. Not with John, anyway.

He didn't say, "We are all incredibly surprised at this unholy union," when Mike from back at home told John that Anderson and Sally eloped over Labor Day. He didn't celebrate when John found out that at his new school, gym was optional.

John had written him a letter all about it.

(He stopped calling because he was afraid that he'd hear the dreaded, "The number you have dialed is not a working number. Please check the number and dial again.")

He wrote Sherlock a letter, telling him all the things that had happened, and that hadn't happened, since he left.

John kept writing letters months after he stopped sending them. In these letters, it was okay that he was in denial. He thought about seeing a therapist, but he didn't want them to take a psyche evaluation and ruin his chances at joining the army.

On Christmas Eve, he wrote that he wished Sherlock got all he'd ever asked for. He wrote that he was going to be dispatched soon. He wrote that he hoped that Sherlock was counting the seconds before they met again, because John was. Then he tossed the letter into a box under the bed.