Believe in Me || Sherlock

Believe in Me- Letters (Deleted Chapter)

Hi! As you may have noticed, this isn't a proper chapter. It's a sort of deleted scenes. I also may have said that I would be writing a couple of chapters that would be at the time of Sherlock's visits to Baker Street, but I sacked that idea. Sorry. So, as promised, this is when Sherlock discovers some letters that Flora wrote as a method to help her let go. All together, there's about 3 or 4 letters, so they will be crammed into this one post. Otherwise I'll get confused 😅 apologies for any inconvenience.

Enjoy!

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The snow clung to Sherlock's clothes as he weaved undetectably through the crowd of shoppers on Baker Street. Christmas was only around the corner. He thought it was the only time of year when everyone threw money away on worthless bits and bats, but there was no stopping ordinary people. Flora and John were working, while Mrs Hudson was at the café. Just like Sherlock's first and thoughtful visit. He opened the front door and went inside, brushing the snowflakes off his coat as he stepped in and quietly closed the door. He then went upstairs and into the living room. Everything was preserved and exactly the same. Just the way Sherlock liked it, except its cleanliness. He decided to avoid the mirror as he would stand and look at his sorry self. He scanned the room and agreed to himself that there was nothing left to do there, so he then turned around and made his way upstairs to Flora's flat. She always left the spare key under a small plant pot that stood next to the door. Sherlock took it from under the pot and twisted it into the lock until the door clicked open. The smell of coffee instantly hot him as he entered the room. Something he hadn't inhaled in nearly two years. Sherlock wasn't exactly sure why he had come up here. Maybe it was to reminisce about his friend or he was just curious. But he had thought looking for documents of sorts would be closer to the real reason; something on Moriarty maybe? Probably not. Even if he found something distantly related to the subject, it would be a breakthrough. Sherlock went over to the cabinet that was next to the fireplace and scanned his eyes over its contents. Books and ornaments. Nothing of importance, but there was a little notebook that seemed the stick out. It was ordinary at first glance, yet it contained something not so ordinary. Sherlock flicked open its dark blue cover to the first page where the word 'LETTERS' was written and underlined. He opened to second page which was crammed full of writing. He knew it was Flora's writing. Her style was beautiful and clear. The writing was like Victorian, where the words joined perfectly together and flowed wonderfully. It was similar to his own, but with more care. The first letter written was dated at the end of 2012; just after Sherlock 'died.' He leaned against the wall and began to read:

Sherlock has been dead for a year now. His death anniversary was yesterday and the whole of building was deathly silent. John refused to talk for the whole day and he's in a bad state of depression. As am I.

The job with Lestrade is going well, although it's not the same solving a case without the worlds only Consulting Detective. Some cases that have been opened for months still haven't been cracked. Hardly any developments have followed. Sherlock would have probably solved it instantly, saying it was Mr Jones with the knife or Mrs Lewis with the gun. That's sounds awfully like Cluedo, which reminds me of my first day at Baker Street. According to Sherlock, the victim committed the murder- as a suicide. That makes me think that Sherlock, as the victim, killed himself and maybe Moriarty had nothing to do with it.

We could all do with that miracle right now...

"If only you knew what really happened," Sherlock muttered to himself. He found it hard to read the part where they were depressed. It hadn't been that long and John had taken himself into silence. He turned over to where another letter was waiting. Fated only a couple of weeks later:

The atmosphere of this years Christmas party was lifeless. It was barely a party. It just seems so odd that Sherlock isn't here to play carols on his violin or make insults to everyone's choice of outfit. It was like a gathering of dead people, but saying that doesn't help.

John's coming and going with girlfriends. One week it's Anne and the next it was Joanne. He's just trying to occupy himself and take his mind off things. He seems to be moving on slightly, though he's still depressed. But who wouldn't be? I'm happy that John is trying hard, unlike myself. Maybe one day I'll be happy again, yet that doesn't seem like an option right now...

Now Sherlock felt depressed. He didn't think that the loss of his life would be so bad, but it had really taken it's toll. Flora's words had hit him hard like a ten tonne rock. Yet he didn't understand how someone could miss him so much. Sherlock would eventually see her again, but things wouldn't be the same. He skipped most letters until the most recently written one, but wasn't dated. It seemed to have been scrawled down a few weeks ago and with a heavy heart, he began to read the final letter:

I'm almost starting to feel like Sherlock never existed; it's been that long. All his stuff has been collecting dust. It looks like things are newly bought, but have been used.

Despite the racket he made, I miss hearing gunshots at three in the morning and Sherlock's beautiful violin playing- lulling us all to sleep. Yes, he was an arrogant arsehole, but that doesn't matter to me or John or Lestrade. No matter if he was called a freak, we still love him. Especially for who he is. No matter if his deductions were scarily accurate, it was something we learnt to cherish as a unique gift. We all miss him, but I think I miss Sherlock most, though I've haven't know him as long as anybody else. John, mainly. Talking of John, I think it's about time I followed him down his path and give up hope. But I will never stop believing.

Goodbye Sherlock Holmes...

Sherlock had to stop many times throughout reading that last letter and was now sat on the floor with his head in his hands and the notebook fallen by his side. That was the one think that had truly broke his heart. The wonderful things said about him were unbelievable to read. It was like something his mother would say to reassure him when the other children would bully him. He never expected those sort of words to come from Flora. He breathed in deeply, processing what passionate things where on that notebook. An unusual thing happened that very moment. A tear ran down Sherlock's pale coloured face and then soaking into his scarf that was looped around his neck. Sherlock hadn't had such an experience since he was a child and since then, he had learned to cover his emotions. Not today.

One day he was return, one day John and Flora would be happy again and one day, she would find out how much he really did care...