Hello everyone! So I've been watching the two seasons of Sherlock in a few days and was shocked by the last episode, like everyone I suppose. So here's a Oneshot to calm my frustration. I call it Slash but you can read if you don't like Slashes.

Elendil-sama

He was running in a deserted street, the sound of his footsteps echoing on the foggy pavement. He was running in the cold darkness, his eyes wide open so he could see every form, every little detail he could gather. And while he was running through the empty streets, only one single thought was haunting his mind, pushing him onward: he had to go faster.

John.

He turned right, and then left, following the instinct born from his fear, and finally, he reached a wider and brighter street.

John.

He looked up and saw it: a shadow was standing on the roof of the highest building, its long and black coat floating behind like a cape. Instinctively, he raised a hand towards it and, as a response, the figure bowed slightly in his direction. He wanted to step forward, to run and reach the silhouette that attracted him with such a force that he winced in pain when his body refused to move.

Keep your eyes fixed on me.

He opened his mouth to answer, to shout something, but his treacherous throat seemed to follow the same path as his body and let no sound escape. No, he could not let the same thing happen, anything but this. Not this.

Goodbye John.

He watched powerless as the figure bent forward into the emptiness and, for a short moment it seemed like it was flying, its long coat floating behind like wide and dark wings. But soon, the reality came rushing and the figure began to fall, so slowly it tore his inside up.

This time, he perfectly heard the scream of horror that rang through the silent night and he opened his eyes. He stayed still and panting for a moment, his whole body covered in cold sweat. When he finally caught his breath, he sat on the edge of his bed and ran a trembling hand on his damp face.

He had been having the same dream every single night for two years now. And, while he had followed every advice of his therapist, or tried to forget by diving into his job, he could not keep Sherlock Holmes from haunting his nights.

He got on his feet and went to the bathroom where he washed his face. When he lifted his head, the mirror sent him the image of a tired, sad and empty man. He avoided his eyes from the reflection and went to the living room; his heart sank when his eyes fell on the spot where his friend uses to sit.

After Sherlock disappeared, he hadn't had the force to go back to 221 Baker Street. He had feared that seeing the empty house would cause him to collapse forever. However, after several weeks spent at the hotel, his therapist –who had seen him get worse every day- had suggested that he came back to the apartment and saw if that helped. So he had come back, intending to have one last look around before leaving forever.

But when he had arrived, he had collapsed on his knees, overwhelmed by a flow of memories and sorrow, and before he had been aware of it, he had asked for his things and moved back. He had carefully closed the door of Sherlock's room, wanting to preserve the detective's environment, and had taken back his room.

Slowly, he headed toward the closed door and put his hand on the cold handle. He opened the door and went in before closing it behind him. He took a deep breath and felt his muscles relaxing on the spot. Every time he was awoken by a nightmare, he came to this room and took his smell in. It helped him getting a dreamless and painless sleep.

He fell to the floor, his back to the door and put his hands on his head, hiding his face in his arms. He didn't know what to do to calm this pain that burned through his veins every time he thought of Sherlock. His return from Afghanistan had been hard, but this, this separation, it was unbearable. Because this time, it was not his leg hurting, but his whole body: every single organ seemed like it was made of steel. He wanted to find a way to get this pain out.

Suddenly, he raised his head while a memory went through his mind. Weeks after Sherlock went missing, when he still was not able to think properly, his therapist asked him to try something: he would write a letter. She had told him this technic helped people who had lost someone by making them write all the things they had not had time to say.

That's what people do, right? Leave a note.

He got up painfully and went slowly toward Sherlock's desk. He had not touched anything since his disappearance but took the liberty to dust it from time to time, just in case…

He shook his head to get these thoughts out, because they made more damage than the rest. Because Sherlock could not come back, he could not.

He sat behind the oak wooden desk and opened the second drawer on his right to take out a paper pad and a pen. He sat for a moment watching the blank page, not knowing how to begin. He suppressed a smile, it was not like this letter would be read anyway, so why should he stress about it? He put the pen on the paper and, suddenly, it began to run on the page as if it was moving on its own, covering the page in black.

Sherlock,

I would have begun with "Dear Sherlock", but I know you would have seized the opportunity to reprimand me on my being too emotional. It has been two years since you've gone and my therapist advised me to write you a letter. She said it would help me feel better…

He lifted his pen and let out a small laugh.

But I suppose you don't give a damn about these kinds of pointless details, right? You've always been pretty clear about that point: you like that people just go to the point, so here it is.

I resent you so much. For leaving me, for leaving without any explanation, because if you think for one second that I bought your pitiful story, you're wrong. I don't know what happened up there or what made you do what you've done, but you should have told me, Sherlock, you should have.

Because you may be in peace, but you've left me in a world of darkness, of pain and doubt. I was so alone Sherlock, so lonely after I came back from Afghanistan: cut from the world, from my family and my friends. Who would have thought that Sherlock Holmes, the greatest mind of our time, would do me the honour of introducing me to his world? You made me see a world of brightness because, in spite of all our weird adventures, at least I had a goal, something I could hold on to. And I owe it all to you.

So why? Why would you leave like that? Why would you leave me behind?

He wiped some tears that were dripping on his cheeks and some drops landed on the paper.

Ahh…thank Goodness no one's here to see me, it would have done it. "The widow soldier's writing to his dead boyfriend!" they would say. But you never were interested in other people's thoughts, were you? That's why you never saw that I…

Funny, I can't even write it, even though you'll never read this letter, since you're gone.

How could you leave after giving me a taste of a better future? After giving me hope?

He lifted his head and his eyes landed on the shelves covered with diplomas, medals and newspaper cuts bearing his name or his photo.

Tell me, Sherlock, what is it that makes you happy? If you had to choose one thing that for you would be the symbol of what is most precious to you, what would you choose? Knowledge? Glory? What would it be?

Tell me in one single word, what is happiness for you, Sherlock?

John.

He could not keep up writing, his eyes were filled up with tears and he could see nothing. He put his pen down and crossed his arms before hiding his face in it.

He only realised he had fallen asleep when he opened his eyes. He was still holding the same position and he slowly raised his head. The room was still dark and he felt a fresh wind going through his hair.

He straightened up and turned his head toward the windows, and found it opened. He didn't remember opening it, in fact, he never opened it. He lowered his gaze and jumped in surprise when he found it empty. The letter! Where was his letter? He brusquely got up and went to the window to see outside; the street was empty. Had someone got in the room while he was asleep?

Confused, he turned and went toward the door, but as he did so, he saw something on the floor. He bent and grabbed what seemed like a piece of paper on which was written something. His heartbeat accelerated as he recognized the elegant and slightly curly writing. It was impossible. He looked intensely at the paper, which seemed to come from the same pad he had used, and read the single word, written by the hand of Sherlock Holmes.

John.

Voilà! Hope you liked it, if you don't mind, leave a review, it's always good for the writers. Thanks for reading and a Happy New Years to you all!

Elendil-sama