Chapter Text
Dear Sherlock,
I don't understand. I don't know why you jumped, and maybe I never will, but I know one thing. You were never a fake. You are impossible, and lazy, and arrogant, and a right pain in my arse, but you are not a fake. And you are brilliant.
I remember on our first case, when I'd first met you, I don't remember what I'd asked Lestrade exactly, but I remember his response. "Because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think one day, if we're very lucky, he might even be a good one." I think you are now. Hell I think you always were. I don't know why you jumped, but I know in the days before that damn fiasco, you were good. You apologized and smiled. You were more compassionate. I cannot tell you how much I appreciated it.
I also remember that you told Anderson, that same night, that you were a 'highly functioning sociopath'. Now that, that I take issue with. You may not have realized, Sherlock, but you have so much heart. I think the real reason you try to lock away all of your emotions is that you can't handle them all. I know that you have a great brain, you always have and always will, but I also believe that you have a great heart. One that you do your best to lock away for fear of getting hurt. 'Caring is not an advantage' and all that.
That same night, when you made that comment about Jennifer Wilson not being upset about her daughter, you noticed. A sociopath wouldn't have. You noticed how everyone stopped and you immediately turned to me and asked. You asked, when no sociopath would have cared. There are so many more times I could describe to prove it to you, saving Irene, and yeah, I knew, saving Mrs. Hudson, defending your friends, the pool and so many other times. You were a good friend you know.
There are so many things I want to ask you. Now I may never know the answers. No, you know what, no. I refuse to believe that. You can't be dead. You just can't. One day you'll come home. You'll come home to me, to all of us. And I'll punch you and scream and cry, and you'll know it's because I care. I care way too damn much. You're my best friend Sherlock. Hell, you're more than that. I wouldn't drop dates and work for a 'friend'. I don't know what that makes us, but I know I want you home.
I want you home, you hear me? I want you to play your blasted violin at bloody three o'clock in the morning. I want to have to force you to eat because your body is just 'transport'. I want there to be more smiley faces painted and blasted onto the wall, you hear me? I want you to rant about random experiments that I'll have to clean up. I want you to go off on a tirade about that damn deerstalker. I want you to be insufferable and sulk on that horrid couch that I can't hardly look at anymore. I just want you here.
I meant what I said at your grave you know. I do owe you. I was depressed you know, oh of course you do. I didn't eat much, kinda like now. It's not that I want to die, it's just that food just doesn't interest me anymore. And then you swept in, with your coat and your turned up collar and mysterious cheekbones. It became all dashing about, saving people and hunting down criminals. It was a good life you know. We would giggle inappropriately at crime scenes and I would try to keep you from traumatizing witnesses. I had a friend again. I had someone that I cared about, someone to look after. Maybe that's what I needed. I don't think I missed the war or the stress, I think I missed having to look after a friend in a situation they couldn't take care of on their own. Now, the damn limp is back. Psychosomatic, I know, but that doesn't stop it from hurting like hell. The nightmares are back too. They had faded, but now they're back. With appearances of you falling again and again. Of you bleeding out on the pavement and me helpless to save you.
I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have said you were a machine. There is no way you could have not cared about Mrs. Hudson being hurt, I guess that was a ruse to get me away. Away from the final battle between you and that tosser. I don't know what he had over you, to make you jump. I don't know why you did it, but I know you must have had no choice, because there is no way in hell you would leave me on purpose. We found that he'd killed himself. If he did that before you jumped, why'd you jump, if after, what did he say to make you go that far? Did he have a gun pointed at you? No, that can't be it.
Please Sherlock, come home. I don't care what the entire bleeding world says, you're not a fake, you're you. You're my friend, my flatmate, and I shouldn't love you but I do, so please, please for the love of God, come home so that I can bloody well tell you.