A/N Hey My Lovelies!!! I'm so sorry for this one....TRIGGER WARNING!!!! suicide referenced heavily in this one....That's all I'm gonna give you...good luck babies...Enjoy<3

Dear Sherlock:

Ella suggested I start this, writing letters to you. I don't know what to say to you. Everyone thinks you're fake, that you lied and manipulated me then left me broken. I know their wrong about you. You would never do this to me. I'll never stop believing in you.

John.

Dear Sherlock:

I buried you today. I watched your casket disappear into the ground, taking what was left of your body with it. I'm numb now. I haven't felt anything since you hit the pavement. I'm not in denial, I'm not angry, I'm just numb.

I still believe in you, that won't ever change.

John.

Dear Sherlock:

It's started hurting. The images of you falling from that roof keeping me awake and breaking off slivers of my heart every time I close my eyes. I can still see you, I can still smell you in the flat and it makes it so much worse. I can't do this, not without you.

I still believe in you, but I don't believe in me.

John.

Dear Sherlock:

You would probably kill me if you were alive, not that I would have done this if you were alive. I don't know how Greg knew to come, I know I didn't call him, but he was somehow there, stopping the gun from going off in my mouth. I hate him for stopping me, but I hate you more for making me do this.

I think I still believe in you.

John.

Dear Sherlock:

This is going to be my last letter. I can't do this anymore. I'm so sorry, but I just can't. Every breath hurts and I just want the pain to stop.

I've given up.

John.

John stood in front of Sherlock's grave, the letters he had written in one hand and a loaded gun in the other. Tears fell from his eyes as he fell to his knees, the cold dampness of the ground seeping through his trousers.

A small fluttering caught his eye and he reached for the grave.

It was a note, small and simple, in handwriting that made his heart leap.

My Dearest John:

Just hold on, I'll be home soon.

I love you

Sherlock Holmes

Dear Sherlock:

I got your note. I will try, I will try my hardest to hold on for you. Please come home soon. I can't live without you.

I love you too

John

Dear Sherlock:

I met someone. Her name is Mary, and I think she likes me. I haven't gotten any more notes from you, are you still alive? One word is all I need and I will wait for you. I will wait until the day I die if it means you may come home to me.

I love you

John

The next day, a homeless man came into the clinic, asking to see John.

"How can I help you today?"

"He says he loves you too."

"I'm sorry?"

"The man with the coat. He says he loves you too."

"You've talked to him?"

"Yessir, 'bout an hour ago."

"Is he waiting for you?"

"Yessir."

"Tell him I'm waiting for him."

John hadn't gone looking for danger, in fact, he had been actively avoiding it since Sherlock died. So one night, when he was walking home from the clinic and he felt the hair at the back of his neck stand on end, he found himself frozen.

He could see the man stalking towards him, knife drawn and hood pulled low. He knew he wasn't going to walk out of this alive if he didn't do something, but his body wouldn't respond.

"Vatican Cameos." The voice that haunted his dreams, the one he longed to hear whispering in his ear one last time filled his mind and drove him to his knees. He covered his head and watched as a vaguely familiar shape shot forward, dispatching John's would-be attacker with ease.

He never saw the man's face, but he knew who it was.

"I love you." He said, struggling to his feet as his saviour walked away. The man hesitated, not turning around but stopping and clenching his fists.

"I know."

"I swear it Greg, it was him-"

"John, it couldn't have been. Both you and Molly ID'd the body. Sherlock Holmes is dead."

"He's not, I know he isn't."

"John, when was the last time you slept?"

"That's besides the point. It was him Greg, there's no one else it could have been."

"I'm going to give you the number for the Suicide Hotline-"

"Damn it Greg, I'm not suicidal!"

"Just, take it. For me?"

"Fine."

"Hey Sherlock. Did you know it's been two years? Two years since you left me. Two years since I lost everything. It's been six months since I saw you. I know that was you, I don't care what Greg thinks, I know your voice. No one else knows that code, so how would someone have known to tell me that?

God I've missed you this week. I don't think I'll ever be able to get over seeing you fall. I see it every time I close my eyes.

I wish I could talk to you, actually talk to you. I hate talking to a gravestone. I swear to you, if you are listening, if you were to walk out from behind that tree right now, I would take you in my arms and never let you go.

Please come home."

On his way back to Baker Street, a figure collided with him, nearly knocking him off his feet. The man apologized, shaking his hand before walking away. John felt the gentle press of paper to his palm and spun, trying to call for the man again, but he was gone.

He unfolded the paper, shuffling closer to the street light to read it.

Saint Bart's Lab, Thursday, 2:00PM

Sherlock

Friday couldn't come fast enough.

When John walked into the lab, he fought the urge to drop to his knees.

"I need to borrow your phone."

"Here."

"Thank you." A pause, the brush of fingers that sent electricity through John's body. "Afghanistan-"

"Where the fuck have you been?" Pain and regret filling pale eyes.

"John-"

"Do you know what losing you did to me?"

"Yes, I lost you too."

"It was you, wasn't it? That saved me?"

"Which time? The time you put a gun in your mouth? Or the time you almost drank yourself to death and Mrs. Hudson stopped you?"

"The time I was almost attacked."

"Yes."

"I knew it. Everyone thinks I'm crazy."

"You love me, I'd say that counts as crazy." A moment of hesitation, neither man sure what to do.

"Dinner?"

"Starving." The hesitant brush of hands and more electricity sparking through his body.

John closed the space between them, and pulled the other man in for a soft kiss, the slightest brush of lips, filled with unspoken words, unshed tears, and the pain of broken hearts and promises.

"I love you John."

"I love you too Sherlock."