Letters From a Ghost

       An unopened, wrinkled envelope was placed in John's worn hands. "Read," the old man's voice was commanding, and John was too tired to argue. Had it been any other day, he would have run from the old man, seeking refuge in the empty apartment of Baker Street.  
       
       But it wasn't any other day. It was the third anniversary of Sherlock's suicide, and John just didn't have to strength to argue with this bent, haggard, and shriveled old man.
       
       John,
       John Watson. Dr. John H. Watson…John.
       
       (the writing looked familiar; familiar to the point that tears formed in John's eyes)
       
       I read it. The letter you wrote me. You said I would call it weak, but I can't.
       
       (a tear fell.
       It…it can't be)
       
       I saw your face when I fell, John. I saw the look on your face, the horror, the shock…the pain. You were right, John, all the signs were there, and I missed them. I fucking missed them! I should have known, I should have realized you loved me. But I didn't.
       
       I didn't because I was too busy trying to convince myself that I didn't love you.
       
       Ever since that day at the pool, when Moriarty had you strapped to the bombs, I knew I loved you,
       
       (Why didn't the bastard tell me then?! )
       
       and I also knew I couldn't. I couldn't bear to see you hurt.
       
       But I caused you the most pain. I was foolish enough to try to protect you from all the hurt, and I caused you the most pain. I've watched you every day for three years,
       
       (John's heart couldn't take anymore. The tears were flowing freely down his cheeks, but he found he wasn't able to tear his eyes away from the paper.)
       
       I've seen the pain I caused you. You said I wouldn't' feel anything (and then I believe you called me a prick), but I did, I do. John…I felt two hearts break. I watched you, I saw you at my grave, I followed you to Lestrade's, and I saw your heart shatter.
       
       John couldn't take anymore.
       
       "What kind of-?!" he looked up at the old man, fury in his eyes.
       
       "I'm so sorry, John." The old man had transformed.
       
       He stood two feet taller, his wrinkles had faded, his voice had gone to one that John would recognize anywhere.
       
       "Sherlock."
       
       John's voice was a breath. A whisper. The voice of a man who has finally received everything he's wished for, but is still afraid he will wake up and realize it was his subconscious, and he is just as empty as before.
       
       "It's me, John."
       
       Three words spun John's world back into equilibrium, just as two had spun it out. The voice that had haunted his dreams was no longer a nightmare, it was everything he had ever wanted. The eyes that had stared at him even as he slept, eyes that he had missed, were now on him, looking over his every feature.
       
       The heart that he thought had stopped was safe, beating a steady rhythm inside a chest that he never thought he would be able to see again.
       "Sherlock." John breathed again, this time during an embrace, when their bodies melted against each other, fitting into place like puzzle pieces.
       
       John didn't read the rest of the letter, but Greg did.
       
       Mine shattered with it, John. And I'm going to fix it. I will pick up the broken pieces, and put them back together. You are the most precious thing in my life, John, and I will guard your heart with mine from now until the day I die.
       
       I love you, John.
       I always have.
       
       Sherlock Holmes.
       
       "Looks like he's a good man after all," Greg said to no one in particular, unable to hold back the smile as he watched John and Sherlock walk hand in hand back into their flat.