The Perks of Being John Watson

Dear friend, This is the most important story of all. The story of how I met, fell in love with and lost my best friend. I hope one day you might see its value too. Love always, John. Johnlock.


1. Prologue


Dear friend,

My best friend Sherlock Holmes is dead. And the worst thing is that he can't come back to me this time.

I was there when he died. I saw him close his eyes. Heard that final word. Saw that final breath.

But, and I hope you'll understand, I cannot discuss that much more right now. Because the truth is I still need him and I still miss him so much and I don't think I'll ever stop feeling both of those things.

So I want to re-visit once more the time I first met him by reading the letters I started when I was fourteen years old.

I left most of these letters by his grave after the fall. They are a bit soggy and tear-stained but none the worse for wear. Then one day when I was visiting his grave I saw another package alongside the one that contained the letters I had left.

I had barely picked it up when the voice I had longed to hear said, "It's a bit late but I thought you might appreciate a late response nonetheless," and I thought I was dreaming. But then as Sherlock stood up from behind his headstone where he'd been crouching I fainted.

When I re-gained my senses I found that I was back at 221B with him leaning over me, looking unusually worried, so much so that he actually allowed me to check his heartbeat to make sure he was really there and alive. Then when I saw that he was I first punched him, before I broke down once more.

It was a mixed reaction. But you need to understand that I had never stopped believing in him and I thought that might be how I died. Always believing but never seeing him again.

But he was real and he was home, finally home and could finally explain to me exactly what had happened on the roof that day and how, after everything, he had managed to come back to me.

And so our adventures and times together went on.

Things weren't always easy that is true, but if I'm honest that is the way we had both come to like things.

I also had little time to write and again if I am honest I wish that I still had little time to write. Wish I could still hear that violin being played at all hours and smell all manner of chemicals wafting in the air again.

Whilst I also, back then, did not have time to look at the package of responses to my letters that Sherlock had given me.

As time went on I even forgot about the package's very existence.

And then he died.

About a week ago I found the package again and finally read his responses and now I finally understand moments that were so confusing to me as a teenager.

And now, as I think is fitting, I have put my old letters and Sherlock's responses to each one all in order and all here in the same place.

I hope in doing so you might join me in reading them and celebrate a fine life.

Love always-especially to you Sherlock-John.



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