When John comes home that night, he notices nothing in particular that seems out of place. But when he looks around, something just feels wrong.

He starts by looking around the desk, the tables, the couch and chairs and bookcases before he comes to the knife in the mantel. (You can put back everything but dust. Dust is eloquent.) There's a letter there that John doesn't remember, sticking out at an odd angle from the rest of them. He yanks the knife out and sorts through everything.

There is no address, no stamp. Just his name scrawled across the envelope in handwriting he would recognize anywhere.

He sets the other letters and the knife down carefully on the mantelpiece, fingers trembling a little as he turns the envelope over and over in his hands.

It's light, probably only one or two pages, but it feels like the weight of the world in his hands because the only things he can think of are the facts that Sherlock-wrote-this and Sherlock-touched-this.

Sherlock.

John takes a deep breath and walks over to the couch. He sits down, pulling out his phone. No messages, no missed calls. So this probably isn't Mycroft's doing then. Mycroft had been going to great lengths to try and regain even a hint of John's trust. Coming into the flat to leave a letter would not have been his current M.O. No, he'd have dragged John to his office, offered him a drink, tried to chat just like he had when he'd given John the ring that John now wore.

"It belonged to our father, Sherrinford Holmes. Father wanted to pass the name on to Sherlock, but Mummy wouldn't have it."

"And their compromise was Sherlock?"

"Family names, John."

"So why are you showing me this, then?"

"When Father died, this was left to Sherlock."

"And?"

"And I believe that my brother would feel much better knowing it now resided with you."

John had stared at Mycroft then, as though he had grown a second head. "You want me to have your father's ring."

"I want you to have the ring that my father gave to my brother."

John had hesitated only a second. Then he reached out, plucked the ring from Mycroft's hand, and slipped it on. It fit perfectly. He hadn't taken it off since.

He'd been wearing the ring for nearly two years now. He touched it, twirling it around his finger, playing with it as he so often did. He imagined it must be what married men did from time to time - he'd seen them, playing with their hands while out with their wives-or-husbands-or-partners-or-whatever. Would you have worn a ring, Sherlock, if we'd ever...

He shakes his head, stopping that train of thought. There lies madness. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

He looks at the envelope, which is currently sitting on the couch cushion next to him. He gets up and goes into the kitchen. Fills the kettle, pulls out two tea cups, sets them down, puts one back, grabs the tea, fills two tea bags, puts one in the cup, empties one back into the tin. This is his routine. Even three years later, he still begins making tea for himself and Sherlock.

Once the kettle's boiled and the tea is steeped, he brings the cup out to the living room, setting it on the coffee table and picking up the envelope again. He shook his head a few times, and opened the envelope.

He pulled a single sheet out and unfolded it. The handwriting was a bit more rushed than he was used to, but it was definitely Sherlock's. John swallowed the lump in his throat back down and began to read:

John,

If you're reading this, I'm sorry. Something's gone wrong, and I'm not there to tell you the things I should have said in person - the things I should have been able to tell you, and for that, I apologize.

I love you, John. I could never actually say it - that's why I'm writing this. Love terrifies me, John, because it makes people vulnerable, creates a weakness. Though, I believe you understand that about me better than anyone else could, and that is just one of so many things about you that makes me love you even more. A paradox, it's true.

Moriarty knew - he saw that you, John, you were my heart. It is precisely why he targeted you. He read me too well, John, and he knew I would do anything to keep you safe. I fear that you reading this means he may have succeeded.

Please know that everytime I walked into 221B after your arrival, I felt like I was coming home instead of simply coming back to a flat. You made it home, John. You gave me someone to come home to, and I would have given everything I had to keep you there with me always. If it were in my power to be there now, I would give it all away just to come home. Just to come back to you.

You know I place very little value on sentiment, but there is one item that I would like very much for you to have. It's a ring of modest monetary value, but it belonged to my father, and was left for me after his death. It's currently in Mycroft's possession. I would like you to have it as something small and simple that you could keep anywhere, and I hope that when you look upon it, you think of me fondly, as I have often thought of you.

I find myself recalling that first Christmas of ours. You were with Jeanette, and I told you your jumper was ridiculous. You scoffed at me and said it was, "festive." We laughed, and it felt right, standing there in our flat, our home, laughing with you. Only you, John.

There's only ever been you, and I cannot ascertain why. John. My John. I've called you that more times than I could count, when I was alone, when you were on a date or at the surgery or just out and I was home.

I wish I had been more courageous - perhaps I could have told you how I felt, and we could have had more. But please believe me when I say that I wouldn't trade a moment of it - the giggling at crime scenes and the late night Chinese dinners and the early morning morgue visits and staying up all night with you just talking or thinking or working. John, these months with you have been the best of my life. I wish I could tell you that; look into your eyes as I said it.

I must bring this letter to a close now, before I am able to spoil everything that I have written here. But please know that I have loved you more than I had believed myself capable of. And know that you were loved by me, and you made my life a happy one - and there's no tragedy in that.

Believe me to be, very sincerely yours,

Sherlock

John looks at the letter. He turns it over, looking for more, but there isn't any. He studies the paper and finds nothing of importance about it. He looks at the ink but it is the standard fare that Sherlock had always used.

John's hands began trembling again, and he pulled the letter to his chest. It crumpled against him, but he didn't care, because reading this was like watching Sherlock fall, living three years alone and lonely and then seeing this tiny glimmer, this tiny hope...

"After all this time, John?" Mycroft's voice echoed in his head head. John could picture everything. The cabbie I shot, and the girl that died because I was more worried about Sherlock, and the pink phone and the semtex and Westwood. I was ready to die at that pool, die next to him, to save everyone else.

I remember the blonde lady with the speckles and the comic books kids he was ready to write off and Buckingham Palace in a sheet and Irene Adler's betrayal, and I remember harpooning a dead pig and Henry Knight and the feeling of him finding me in that lab when I was scared to death - I would have kissed him if I'd had any idea He'd have kissed me back.

I remember Moriarty's trial and his threat against Sherlock and I would have done everything, anything, if it would have kept him safe, and I remember a phone call and the image of my best friend, my whole life, falling from a building and the last thing he ever said, "Goodbye, John." And he paused for a moment, and I thought maybe he wouldn't go through with it, and then he jumped.

"Always." John takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.