A/N: This is not a prequel to my other post-Reichenbach story "The Return." It is meant to be a separate scenario and it will have its own sequel in which Sherlock returns to John.
One Week: John
One week and you're not here…
You would probably make fun of me for writing this letter. I can just hear you saying how ridiculous it is to write a letter to a dead person. You wouldn't understand why someone would do such a thing. It wouldn't make any more sense than the fact that I write this while sitting in your chair. It's because of sentiment, you know, your favorite thing. Because it's been one week and you're not here. And I write because I need to talk to you and I sit here because I want to be close to you.
Right after it happened they took me in the hospital. They said I had a concussion and shock and I'm pretty sure they were right. I was in a daze for a moment until it all came back rushing at me with intensity. I kept demanding that they let me see you. I was screaming at them and you'd probably say that that I was losing it. They wouldn't let me see you. They said you…were too badly damaged. I don't even know why I wanted to see you again. I had already seen it for myself but it just felt weird, like something was off. I think they sedated me after that.
I don't really remember the days following that. I could blame it on the concussion but I don't think it's that. I was just so numb, so much in shock, that I don't remember the days between your…death and your funeral. Thinking about those days, I only remember two things. I remember when Mrs. Hudson came to get clothes to burry you in. When she asked me I was so dumbfounded that I couldn't speak, couldn't move. I didn't understand what she saying. I am thankful that she understood and that she didn't need my help. She just walked past me and did what she had to do.
I also remember when Molly came and returned your things. She gave me a bag of your clothes and she said she didn't know if I would want them or not and warned me that they were bloody. I never opened that bag. She also handed me your coat and scarf even though, they too were bloody. I was surprised that she was so calm and that she left so quickly, but I was glad because I just barely got the door closed in time. That coat still smelled like you; I didn't realize how powerful that would be. I breathed deeply from it but I couldn't ignore the stains. I sobbed that day.
Other than those two events, I remember almost nothing. I think Mrs. Hudson came every day. I think she convinced me to eat and drink (how do you like that? Someone telling me to eat). She's probably the only reason I'm alive. You owe her a lot because I'm sure she did a lot of things in those days that I didn't even know needed doing and wouldn't have been able to do. Though I think you had most of the arrangements taken care of ahead of time. I find that strange considering how young you were but then again it is you and strange is your middle name.
The day of your funeral was the hardest day of my life and that's saying a lot, all things considered. I had been numb for days but that day I felt and remember with painful intensity. I have never felt so incredibly heavy as I did that morning as I tried to get dressed. I'm not even sure how long it took me. And when Mrs. Hudson came to get me to leave I felt panic. I wasn't sure I could go, that I could do this. But she murmured something reassuring to me and somehow I started to walk.
It was me, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, Mycroft, and a few people that you've helped over the years. I was glad to see that not everyone believed the lies. But I was sad to see the number of people who knew you and weren't there and know that so many of them must have believed them. I was selfishly glad that there weren't that many people there. I just feel like a bag of contradictions these days. Its not that I didn't want people there to say goodbye to you, I just don't know how many people I could have tolerated and still keep it together.
It was hard enough as it was. Mrs. Hudson held on to my arm and cried the whole time. She did it softly but I still heard every sob and it made it hard for me not to cry. I already felt so sad and her cries reminded me of all the ones that were bottled up inside of me. But I determined not to cry. Not there, in front of everyone. You wouldn't have wanted that.
The others weren't any better. Lestrade just looked guilty and was deliberately trying not to look at me. Molly cried and wouldn't look up from the ground the whole time. Mycroft came as soon as it started and left as soon as it was over. He stayed on the edge of the small crowd and I'm glad; I didn't want him there anyway. But it was the others that made me nervous. They all felt the need to come and talk to me, to talk about you. Everything they said was good, about how you had helped them and how you were a good man. It was hard because I agreed with them and it reminded me of all the things that were special about you.
But the most difficult part of it all was watching them lower you into the ground. I almost lost it then. To my dismay, a couple of tears did slip out of my eyes and I wiped them away furiously. I wanted to scream; someone must have made a mistake because you can't be dead. I guess I always thought you were invincible. You were always so strong, so clever, that death could never claim you. But it didn't; you claimed it. I felt like they were burying me in that grave and I don't think it's an exaggeration; you had become so much of me that they did burry part of me that day.
They asked me if I wanted to say anything about you. I hope you won't think badly of me that I said no. It's not that I didn't have anything to say; I had so much to say but no words to say them. And I would never have made it through it without becoming emotional and I wasn't going to do that. I really just wanted it to be over as quickly as possible. And I would say that you would share the feelings if you were here. But of course you're not here.
When I finally got home I did lose it. All the tears and sobs that I had bottled up all day came spilling out as soon as I walked through that door. I cried because you're not here. You're not here, you're dead. You're dead and they put your body in the ground. I cried because this doesn't feel like life and I don't feel alive anymore. I cried because there were so many things I never told you, so many things I never got to do with you. I cried because of all the things I did get to do with you and how good they were and how they would never be that good again. I cried because this place isn't home anymore. It doesn't feel safe or comfortable without you here. It just feels empty. I just feel empty.
I cried so hard it scared me. It scared me because I wasn't sure I could ever stop. I'd been numb for days and now that I wasn't everything was hitting me full force and it was so much worse than I expected. It was loud and ugly and I know they could probably hear me all over the block but I couldn't stop it once it started. It kept going much longer than my tears did.
And then I got mad at you. Furiously mad at you. I hated you. I hated you for doing this to me, for being the cause of this. I hated you for being wonderful. I hated you for making me want you, for making me need you. I hated you for making my life so exciting. I hated you for making me trust you and then betraying that trust. I hated you for being my best friend. I hate you because you left me; you chose this.
But now I realize something. I realize that even now, knowing you would leave me, that you would betray me, if I had it to do over again, I wouldn't change anything. If there was a way for me to escape this pain by going back and never having met you, I wouldn't do it. I wouldn't trade the short time I spent with you for anything. Because you were everything I knew I wanted and everything I never knew I needed.
I couldn't say the things I wanted to the day of the funeral but I was able to say them today. I visited your grave for the first time since you were buried. And it's all true. Even through everything that's happened I still mean it all. You are the best man I've ever known and, I'm sure, will ever know. I know that for a fact more than anything else in this life and no one will convince me that you are all those terrible things they say you are, or even that you said you were. You'll never know how much you helped me or all you were to me. And I terribly wish there was some way that you were still alive.
I wouldn't take any of it back but I do admit I don't know what to do, where to go from here. I don't know how I am even going to begin to pick up the pieces. I needed you. I still need you.
Please follow and review. I know it's kind of different than my usual stuff and much heavier so let me know what you think! Next chapter is in Sherlock's perspective.