Sherlock can hear John rattling around in the kitchen, slamming things down as he searches for a paper that he needs for work later on that day. Sitting and tuning his violin, he can see the tea-stained sheet of paper sticking out from beneath a large medical textbook that John had been leafing through last night. The question is whether John realizes this, but going off of the muffled curses coming from the kitchen, Sherlock assumes he has not.

John comes into the room and begins sifting through a massive stack of papers beside his laptop. He turns the laptop on as he shoves aside a pile of shredded leaves-Sherlock sighs noisily at the disruption of yet another experiment-and taps in his password. The computer loads up his desktop screen as John pivots to face Sherlock.

John's current appearance is rather disheveled, seeing as he's managed to un-tuck his shirt and has run his hands through his hair multiple times in exasperation. Sherlock has the urge to smirk, but pushes it back. In two minutes and thirteen seconds, John will be officially too late to make it to Bart's on time, and a late John is not a very happy John. Sherlock points to the textbook with his bow, and is rewarded with a gasp of relief from his flatmate.

John whips the paper from underneath the book, grabs his coat, and is out the door before Sherlock has even resumed tuning his violin.

Shaking his head slightly, Sherlock focuses on playing a complicated etude.

…

He is well into the piece when a sudden "ding" sounds from the laptop and startles him. Sherlock usually isn't affected by abrupt noises, and the fact that he was surprised by this one elicits quite a bit of irritation. He sets his bow and violin down carefully, and then rises to his feet, intent on giving the laptop a piece of his mind.

Sherlock sits down at the desk and tilts the screen backward, discovering that an email has come in. He hovers the mouse over the small envelope and clicks on it, opening up an email about the latest "People" issue. He is about to trash the message, but is seized by a sudden desire to make the deletion a little more interesting. He clicks on John's trash bin and renames it "The Fiery Depths of Hell." Now, as he goes to get rid of the email, a small window pops up and asks him, "Are you sure you would like to send People to The Fiery Depths of Hell?" Sherlock hits the 'yes' button with a flourish.

Intrigued by the entertainment he has just received, Sherlock double-clicks on John's documents and begins sorting through them to see if there are any others he can send to "The Fiery Depths of Hell."

…

By the end of the hour, Sherlock has sent-amongst others-Jim Moriarty, The Hound of the Baskervilles, and Justin Bieber to The Fiery Depths of Hell.

He is about to get off of John's laptop and find another activity when a folder labeled "Entries" catches his eye. For some reason, Sherlock finds himself hesitant about clicking on this folder. He holds the mouse over the icon and debates for a few seconds. The stronger urge of curiosity wins out over the trepidation in the end, and he opens the folder.

An extensive collection of word documents opens before him, and he raises an eyebrow as he sees the total number at the bottom of the window. Three hundred and sixty-eight papers. The earliest of the documents is dated shortly after the conclusion of John and Sherlock's first case together, and the last is from six days ago. Sherlock opens the first paper to see if it is anything of interest.

Sherlock,

You're an idiot.

I can't believe you were just going to have a go with that pill and see if you would survive. Bloody hell.

And I can't believe that I've only known you for under a week, and you already have me in this for life. I can't live without the thrill anymore.

Thank you.

I hope you never read these. I say "these" in the plural, because I have the odd feeling that I will be writing a lot more of these letters. I've got to get out the thoughts on my mind somehow. I don't get the sense that either of us want to have a big "heart-to-heart" conversation, and I'm all right with that.

Really though, Sherlock. Did you know which was the correct pill?

John

Sherlock sits back from the screen. So. The expanse of documents is a collection of letters from John to Sherlock. And John doesn't want Sherlock to read any of the letters. But, knowing John and knowing that the human mind desires for someone to know, Sherlock moves on to another document. He glances at the time in the bottom corner of the screen. John won't be home for a long while.

Sherlock moves to the floor with the laptop and makes himself comfortable in the middle of the room, and begins to read.

…

Sherlock,

Have you ever considered owning a dog? It might do you some good. It'd have to be a brute of a dog though, seeing as you'd probably conduct all sorts of hideous experiments on it.

You know what, maybe we shouldn't get a dog. I'm thinking of what you did to that mouse, and I really haven't the desire to see that happen to a dog. You can just practice with houseplants right now.

How many of your experiments are actually experiments? Do they legitimately accomplish anything? I'm not casting doubts on you; I just fail to see the educational value in strawberry jam spread on the stove knobs.

I'm really starting to get why you don't like Anderson. He's pissing me off too. For example, the other day, when you had found the mud on the bottom of the door, and he didn't even give you a chance to explain. He may as well have punched you instead of what he said. Does it ever bother you? I mean, I guess I'm not surprised if it doesn't irritate you, but it seems like there are moments when you get hurt by words. I'm probably just being an idiot. Too tired and sentimental.

This isn't strawberry jam, is it?

John

…

Sherlock,

I bet if you and Mycroft worked together, you'd be able to take over the world.

That's somewhat frightening.

What is your issue with him? Sibling rivalry? Or is it something else? He said something about it being a childish feud, but apparently it's a bit more than that, because you seem to loathe the very sight of him. He's finding us good clients; you ought to be a bit more gracious.

You probably do love him. I don't know that I've ever met anyone who really likes their sibling. It would be rather weird if they did. Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like if the two of you collaborated on a case. Bloody fantastic, most likely. You'd have it solved in half an hour.

At least Mycroft's not a drinker. Do you even know what it's like to have a sibling like that? You try to have a civil conversation with them on the phone, but they can't stop giggling, or they're just angry at the world and they yell at you for being a horrible brother who can't be counted on for anything. Then they slam the phone down and you sit there wondering how much of what they said is true, because there's always some truth to a drunk man's words.

I think I need a cuppa.

John

…

Sherlock,

I need to have a spell, and you're going to damn well listen to me.

WHY THE HELL DIDN'T YOU RUN?

I had Moriarty in a bloody chokehold, and there was a few moments there where you could have gotten out of the pool, butno, you decided to stay, and then the blasted light appeared on your chest.

You had time. Why. Didn't. You. Run.

We're lucky that he got that phone call. Otherwise Lestrade would have been scraping our bloody fragments off of the walls.

Damn it, Sherlock.

I saw your face. When I stepped out wearing that coat. You thought it was me, didn't you? You thought I was the murderer behind everything, all the way back to the cabbie. You can't deny it. There are only a few times where I've seen real emotion from you, and in the pool, that face beat everything else.

It hurt.

It hurt to see you like that, and to know that I couldn't do anything about it. If I had, we would have been blown to bits. But Sherlock, you've got to know that I wouldn't betray you. I didn't betray you when we'd known each other for less than two days, and I won't do it now. Or ever.

Unless it was to keep you safe.

But of course, you won't know if or when that's going to happen. Just trust me, all right?

John

…

Sherlock,

Most women aren't that bad. You just managed to find one of the few that could kill us without batting an eyelash. Actually, thinking about Irene, she could probably kill us by batting an eyelash.

You two should go on a date. The consulting detective and the infamous dominatrix. Sounds like a great mix. I'll leave the country if you bring her to dinner.

Also, change your ringtone. People are going to get the wrong impression of you if they hearthat coming from your pocket.

John

…

Sherlock,

I forgot how much getting shot hurt. The muscles tense and your eyes squeeze shut and there's this huge rush of adrenaline, but after that, it's just this deep, throbbing pain.

At least it was mostly a clean shot. The doctors said there wasn't any extensive damage, just had to sew a couple things back together and stop the bleeding. Granted, they also said if I'd been on my own, I would have been dead.

You did a good job, Sherlock. Keeping me alive until the paramedics came.

I only remember flashes of it. You said something rather crude when I collapsed, and then suddenly you were next to me on the ground. I'm glad that you learned some first-aid (unlike your astronomy skills).

Hurt like hell, though.

Why did you ride along in the ambulance? You were quite insistent on the fact too. No matter. It was good to see someone that I knew, someone who looked human. You looked about as tired and nervous as I felt. I was going to tell you that, but then I started coughing up blood.

I hope you know what I mean when I say 'looked human.' So many of those people…they just shut out their emotions. They don't seem real, and they most certainly do not offer any sort of comfort. It's like trying to take comfort in a statue. All cold, no life and energy. Not like you.

Thank you, Sherlock, for being a friend.

John

…

Sherlock,

Good lord, what on earth was under the carpet? It made a dreadful sound when I stepped on it. I am not lifting the rug to check; that is for you and you alone to discover. I just hope it doesn't start to smell. There are enough scents floating around this flat.

I can't believe I've already written over two hundred letters. I suppose that many of them were just short little things, but they've added up. Honestly, I'm curious as to whether you found all of these yet. I'm obviously not going to ask you-I'm cringing at the thought of that conversation-but I admit that I want to know what your reaction would be. Perhaps you'd just be thoroughly entertained by the entire notion of these writings. I don't really know.

What is your opinion of me, Sherlock? I know that sounds idiotic and somewhat petty, but it is nevertheless something I think about at times. I've got an annoying habit of trying to impress you, but I think that is something that everyone attempts to do when they come into contact with you. I do not try as frequently anymore; maybe I do, though, and I've just adjusted to the fact.

Maybe I am simply disillusioning myself with thoughts of grandeur. I do not truly know if I make a difference to you. That question, it seems, shall remain unanswered.

But if that question is to remain without reply, another similar question should receive an answer. What do I think of you, Sherlock?

Among other things, you are arrogant, annoying, self-serving, ignorant of others' feelings, and seemingly emotionless at times. You frustrate me to no end with some of the things you say, and I feel like the biggest moron in the world on many occasions. Sometimes I just want to snap and shout at you and punch you in the face.

However.

You are a much better man than that. You protect those you care about with your entire being, you see a case through to the end, and you are clearly somewhat modest, because compliments paid to you do not go unheeded (however hard that is to believe). I do not hesitate to call you a friend; I know of no other man who would stand by another so faithfully.

You are a good man, Sherlock.

John

…

Sherlock is completely engrossed by the letters; he does not hear the closing of the entry door to 221B Baker Street, nor the footsteps treading tiredly up the stairwell. He does not hear John's noise of inquiry when he sees Sherlock sitting at the laptop.

Sherlock realizes something is awry when John suddenly stops breathing, and the air around them quickly fills with an incredible amount of tension and nervousness. He looks around from the laptop to discover John standing behind him, flicking wary eyes between Sherlock and the open document.

John appears to have lost the ability to formulate a sentence, so Sherlock attempts to start some sort of conversation. "Why are you home early?"

Sherlock knows why, knows by the two ink blots on John's left hand that work didn't go well, by the drops of blood on his jaw that he needed to leave before something worse happened, by the rim of red around his eyes that it had been personal…

Jerking his head upward as though he hadn't thought Sherlock would speak, John answers evasively, "I was done sooner than I expected."

His gaze quickly returns to the laptop. He looks stuck somewhere between hopeful and terrified, which Sherlock finds to be a rather interesting mix.

It becomes a game of waiting, and Sherlock is excellent at playing the waiting game. He studies John intently.

But John is obviously not in the mood for the waiting game. He sighs heavily and starts for the kitchen, calling as he does, "What do you want for dinner?"

Sherlock turns his attention back toward the laptop. He is not thinking about food at a time like this. He wants answers. John seems to sense this after standing in the kitchen for a few minutes, Sherlock finishing another letter in the meantime.

John wanders back into the sitting room again, dropping down in a chair and flipping on the telly. He clicks through all of the channels-four times, Sherlock notes-not looking at any of what's showing, just pushing buttons so that he has something to do with his hands and not pay attention to what Sherlock's discovered on the laptop.

If he thinks that he will be able to annoy Sherlock enough so that he leaves the computer, he's barking up the wrong tree.

They return to the waiting game.

After watching a debate in Parliament for twenty minutes, John turns down the volume and glances at Sherlock. Sherlock continues reading as though oblivious to John's actions. He waits.

"I cannot believe it took you this long to find those," John says.

Sherlock places the mouse over his place in the letter. He looks up. "I do not make it my personal goal to go through your things."

"I never said that."

"You implied it."

John looks for a moment like he may stop talking altogether and Sherlock mentally berates himself, but then John continues, electing to ignore their brief disagreement.

"I don't read them through after I've written them. I just type up what's on my mind, and then save it."

"But you remember much of what you've written." It is not a question.

John makes a face, glances away. He shrugs. "Some of it, yes."

"John."

It is like trying to make a misbehaving puppy look him in the eyes. John studies every aspect of the room before finally facing Sherlock.

"Why did you write the letters?" Sherlock is perfectly capable of figuring out the motives on his own, but this seems like something that John should tell him of his own free will.

"I needed to get some thoughts out of my system."

"Why wouldn't you tell me these thoughts?"

John clenches his left hand and glares at the inkstains. He scrubs unconsciously at the flecks of blood on his face and sighs heavily. "Can we not do this right now?"

"Why shouldn't we?"

"Why should we?"

"Because I am curious."

"You could stand to be curious a while longer!"

"Do you think so?"

"Sherlock, I'm sure you can figure this out on your own! You don't need me."

"Then what do you have to lose by telling me?"

"You don't listen to me!"John hisses suddenly, on his feet and looking absolutely livid. "You want an answer? Fine. You don't listen to me and I don't need to go invading your Mind Palace with my moronic thoughts, nor do I think you'd care to hear about any of it. Is that what I am, Sherlock? A inconvenience? Because it seems like I've been a inconvenience to a lot of people lately. Do you see this?"

John gestures wildly to the ink on his hand and the blood on his face and the tears that have dried on his cheeks. Sherlock can only nod in wide-eyed bewilderment, because John never acts like this and it's borderline unnerving.

"He almost diedand it was my fault because I couldn't remember what I was doing. I froze with the man bleeding out before me, and there was nothing, nothingin my mind." John is breathing heavily and Sherlock wonders if the man is going to faint. "I stood there with a knife in my hand and the blood was everywhere, and fortunately someone shoved me out of the way before I could do more damage. And I just kept asking myself, 'what happened?'" He trails away in his speech, and mumbles to himself, like he just cannot grasp the concept, "What happened?"

Abruptly John is sitting beside Sherlock on the floor by the laptop. "I tried to write afterwards. When I was alone in my office. I tried to recall what I knew, but there was nothing, nothing coming from my pen, save for blotches of ink."

He waves a hand in the general direction of the computer. "That…what you read there, that is when I am at my wit's end. There is no method to it, no forethought."

John slumps against a chair and glares at the floor. The display of emotion has tired him out. Sherlock thinks he should say something, should offer some form of comfort, or whatever it is that the rest of the world does. Unfortunately-though Sherlock doesn't usually consider it unfortunate-he is not remarkably good at conveying such feeling.

"Are you mad that I read the letters?"

John squints slightly, like he's trying to decide if he's angry or not. "No."

They sit in silence for a while longer. Sherlock rapidly sifts through all of what John has just said, trying to make sense of it all, trying to find the links in the puzzle. One statement in particular stands out to him.

"I don't believe you to be an inconvenience."

John snorts derisively.

Sherlock fights a sudden urge to punch him. How can John think himself to be an inconvenience? Sherlock would not dare bring him along so frequently if he was so cumbersome a person, nor request his help on anything.

But rather than say these sentiments out loud, Sherlock can only manage, "You're an idiot."

"An idiot? Thank you, for establishing my role so clearly."

Sherlock slams his hand down on the floor in frustration. "Wrong. I haven't finished, let me finish."

Sarcasm biting, John replies, "Oh, do continue."

Sherlock flounders for words, trying to ignore John's growing expression of disparagement. Knowing that every second he wastes causes John to become more and more certain of his position as an idiot-stupid, stupid-Sherlock finally splutters out, "For thinking so little of yourself! Good lord, John, do you think I would have kept you around for this long only to belittle you?" And now there is real anger behind Sherlock's words, anger at John, anger at himself, anger at the situation that requires so much clarification. "That's why you're an idiot! For not knowing that I don't ever think that about you, and for making yourself so unimportant. You are important!"

Sherlock is now the one trying to catch his breath, chest heaving with an attempt to get a hold on his emotions. He does not like to lose control like this, because mistakes are made when one loses control. He burns a hole in the carpet with his gaze, repeats the Greek and Latin alphabet in his mind twice, and looks back up to John.

They stare at each other for several long moments, eventually broken by John nodding slowly. "Okay," he says hoarsely, as though he's forgotten how to use his voice. "Okay, Sherlock. I believe you."

There is a pause, before they embrace each other quietly. It is awkward, as they are both sitting on the floor and are at an odd angle, but it is all right.

It is over in a few moments, and John gets to his feet, rubbing discreetly at his eyes. "Tea?" he asks, trying to return them both to normalcy, to what they know best.

Sherlock gives an affirmative, and watches John walk into the kitchen. Once is assured that John has set about making tea, he turns to the laptop and opens a new document.

John,

You are far and above the greatest man I have ever met. I am incredibly fortunate to have a man such as yourself by my side, and I would not want anyone else working with me. You are truly a good friend.

Thank you.

Sherlock

To my UK readers...please forgive my English. I am American, and not very well-versed in British English.

I confess that I have only watched the first episode of 'Sherlock' and watched numerous clips on youtube, so any deviations from the series are my fault.

Hopefully this was halfway decent, and of course, thank you for reading! Feedback is appreciated

~RR