A Photo Of John

Chapter 9

Sherlock's POV

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open as he felt a dull ache in the depth of his chest. As his vision cleared, he realized he was looking at a bright white ceiling, lit by blinding florescent lights. He noticed the purity and cleanliness and deduced that he was in the hospital. And he was alone. He cursed under his breath, for not writing the letter quick enough. Oh god. John. Why the hell wouldn't John leave him alone? Sherlock wanted to die, simple as that. Now he was looking forward to seeing John scream at him for being so foolish. He stared at a blank wall for about an hour, trying to sort out his jumbled thoughts. Sentiment is for the losing side. It was obvious now, it nearly drove Sherlock to suicide! Wait. If Sherlock was alive then... then John read the letter. Sherlock turned the knob for the morphine down and was looking forward to a painful distraction from the mess he made. He wished he could have told John himself. Maybe he will be so disgusted that he won't even show. That would hurt more than anything John could possibly say.

John's POV

John was waiting, nearby the room, in a blue hospital chair, drifting off again. He hadn't gotten a good night's sleep in days. He was just waiting, and waiting. They were able to bring back Sherlock's pulse and bring him back from the dead. Thank god. John was prepared to confront Sherlock about the letter, but he had no idea what to say, even with so much time to think. Surely Sherlock would want a reply. It probably wasn't wise to do that while he was still in the hospital, his brain all fuzzy. He turned the stained, crumpled letter over and over in his hands, John had read it hundreds of times. He cried.

John,

If you are reading this, then I am surely dead, which wouldn't take much deducing. Do not blame my suicide on yourself John, you could never deserve such a burden even if it wasn't a large one. I never really had much of a life to live for anyways, I pushed everyone away, so they never fought their way in, except you. You, John Watson, are probably the only human alive who can stand to be in my presence, and you actually enjoy it!

Everyday, you get out at 3:15, take a cab then get back here around 3:35. You would be back later, if there was traffic, also fitting with my owned planned death. I can't be late, I can't survive this. I wish you could see that. I wish you were here with me, I wish you could be the last thing I see. Unfortunately, you wouldn't let me follow through, so, it wasn't an option.

I admit , this decision was very last minute, but I planned it very carefully. I chose my death very carefully. I'm sorry you have to be the one to find my body. I'm sorry you are most likely going to be delivering my eulogy. I'm sorry John.

But there's a reason I'm giving you this explanation. I care for you John. I have classified these feelings as "love" and are extremely frightened by them. Sherlock Holmes, frightened. When we touch, I notice a faint buzz of electricity between our fingers. It feels so nice to be held, I never let anyone hold me but... it's rather nice. I was hoping that maybe my feelings would be returned but I was wrong. You gave me something to live for, and now you're just... gone.

I'm a fool, which is almost as disturbing as my realization. All I had was my brain and you destroyed my only use for society. So now, here I am, a broken man, who knows nothing of love and affection, with no reason to live. Sentiment is for the losing side John, and I lost.

I apologize for any damage I have caused you, through this act, but if I am correct, (which I find myself not most of the time after I discovered my feelings for you), you should get over my death in a few short months.

This is strange for me too. And no, I did not have a drug problem. Don't let my older brother tell you that you could have stopped me.

I am sorry dear Watson. The game is over.

Yours truly,

William Sherlock Scott Holmes

John awoke from another dreamless, uncomfortable slumber to the sound of someone wailing in pain down the hall. He sighed. He wasn't sure how he felt about Sherlock, why couldn't he have more time to think? To decide? He had been defending his heterosexuality his entire life, but something in this letter made him stir. It left him uncertain. Suddenly the doctor strolled out of his room with a faint smile on her face. She walked up to John.

" He is awake and conscious. He's doing very well, well enough to speak to him. Would you like to?"

John thought for a moment. If he went to talk to him, the conversation might result in awkward silence, crying or screaming. But John was confused, and he needed to figure out his feelings toward Sherlock. And he needed to make sure he was okay of course! He's a bloody doctor for Christ's sake! Plus if he walked away now, there was no going back.

John rose and followed the doctor.