He found the first letter in the sugar bowl.

Dear John,

I love your cardigans, the ones that look like they have seen one hundred hands before yours as well as the ones that lie close to your skin. If I am to be reborn, I would like to be one of them because then I would never be far from you and your eyes would always look at me with that soft expression you wear when you look at something you love.

-Sherlock

The next was in his chair, waiting beside his hip for him to find.

My dear John,

Your face the first time we faced Moriarty will forever be burned into my eyes. Trust and terror were written so plainly you may as well have shouted it, yet as your arms wrapped about him, something else fought to make itself known: love. I do not mean it in the way you think I do. Stop glaring at me. And don't roll your eyes, either. Honestly, John. I mean love in the sense that one man loves another man, a way that has nothing to do with physical desire. And though it took me far too long to see, I love you, too.

-Sherlock

His laptop contained the third.

John,

You never told me what the H stands for. I believe most have guessed it to be Hamish, but I have another theory. The reason you use the H is because it means something to you, your middle name. For some reason, however, you refuse to write out or even discuss what it is. You are, for all your practicality, a man too-aware of the thoughts of society. Hence, it is embarrassing. From what you told me, you take after your mother who was a sentimental woman. Your father passed away only a few months before your birth so it is, in all probability, related to him. He was a lover of flowers, was he not? One of the most well-used of your books is on floriology, and another Watson's name is in the dedication. You blush every time a certain flower is mentioned, too. I can only conclude, dear John, that your middle name is Heather. It is, like the rest of you, so ordinary that only someone looking for it sees deeper.

Every part of you is beautiful to me,

-Sherlock

The last letter was on his bed, resting lightly against an pillow he had never seen before.

My John,

That's what you are, you realize. You are mine, and I treasure you more than even I know. That's why I must ask you something selfish, something I could never bring myself to ask when breath ran through me. John, my most precious John, every night you lie back, lie down on this pillow; commit its scent to your memory as I have committed yours to mine. Remember me, John, as no other person may.

I am now and will forever be, yours,

Sherlock Homes.

John Watson's eyes had grown weak over the years, and reading had become nearly impossible. Still, every morning he read his letters, the most solid proof he had that Sherlock had ever existed. And when he crawled into bed on the coldest winter night, he read them over again. He read them until the letters became pictures and no longer meant anything, then he read them again. Clutching them like a dying man clutches his life, John laid his head back on his old pillow and smiled a bitter smile.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

Goodnight, John.

A/N: I had been planning for an adorable twist to this, but my melancholic self took over. I hope you like it, though!

Reviews and comments make me smile!