"John? John Watson?"
The mailman stood in the door to 221B Baker Street. John nodded, quickly but ferm. Unnoticcable to the weak eye. The man handed him a letter. The letter. The letter, that John had been waiting for in months, but a letter, that he hoped, that he would never recieve. He closed the door. The apartment got darker without the glimpses of the sun coming through the door and windows. With the help from his shaking hand, he grabbed a hold of the letteropener and, slowly but worried, opened the frightful letter. A couple of tears ran down his cheeks, whilst pulling the letter out of the envelope. His hand had only shaken this much twice before. In Afghanistan. Whilst getting shot in the leg. The other one was when Sherlock "died" a couple of years earlier. Two different kinds of pain, but the same degree. Sherlock falling from the roof still brought up nightmares, eventhough it was fake. Just imagining him, the most human human, that John had ever met, dead. It was unbearable. He tried to fold open the letter, however his hand shook too much. He grabbed the other end of the letter with his other hand, and he opened the letter.
If you're reading this, you know what happened to me. You're not the smartest, but you're smart enough to realize this. Look John, I know, that this is familiar to you by now, so eventhough you won't admit it, you know how to handle this situation. Just remember what I said in your wedding toast:
You are completely and utterly brilliant. I never expected to be anyones best friend. Especially not the best friend of the bravest and kindest and wisest human being, I have ever had the good fortune of knowing.
It might be stupid and ignorant, but it is true. However, I'm sorry. I put you through alot of lies and crimes everyday, and I risked your live more times, than I can imagine. I'm sorry for leaving you there with all of those ordinary people.
John stood there. Stood completely still, when Mrs. Hudson came out to see, what was going on. She grapped the letter from Johns completely lifeless hand, and read it in terror. She began to cry, and her eyes quickly became red, thanks to the tears. She walked quickly into the kitchen, grapped a napkin and dried her soaking wet eyes. John continued to stand right next to the stairs. He leaned up against the wall and slowly sat down on the ground. At this moment, he was still unable to comprehend, what he had just read. He lifted his arms, which now felt like they weighed several tons, and took his hands to his eyes. His eyes started to produce tears. One after another, as they indivitually ran down his cheeks. Every single thought running through his brain bringes memories. Memories of Sherlock. Such as the first time, where John was with Sherlock at a crime scene. "A Study In Pink". He would never forget it. Running after a taxi, Sherlock being held in captivity by the cab driver. John shooting and killing the cab driver.
Another knock on the door. John didn't realize it after the third "knock knock". He wanted to stand up, walk over to the door and open it, but his legs wouldn't do anything. It took a while, however he eventually got up from the ground, went over to the door and opened it. A woman was standing outside the door. Completely dressed in black. Black dress, black jacket and a black hat covering her face. She walked up the first steps, and she lifted her head. The first thing, that John was able to see, was red lipstick. Rose-red lipstick. Next thing to notice was the nose, then the eyes. The unforgettable eyes. Blue with black mascara and eyeliner. A woman? No. THE woman.