"Eat."

"No."

"Sherlock."

"Lestrade."

"Eat the bloody eggs."

"These eggs aren't bloody."

"You know what I meant. Now eat."

"I don't like eggs Benedict."

"You have to eat sometime. You'll die otherwise."

"I'm fine."

"Eat."

"No."

Lestrade threw his hands up in the air in frustration.

"EAT THE EGGS, SHERLOCK!"

"FINE." Sherlock stabbed at the eggs with his fork and shoved them into his mouth. He raised his eyebrows at Lestrade as if to say 'Happy?' Lestrade sighed.

"It's like living with a five year old." He muttered under his breath. Sherlock finished shoving the eggs in his mouth and stormed over to the desk in front of the window. He pulled out a piece of paper and pen. Lestrade sighed and walked out the door, calling over his shoulder,

"I'm off to get groceries." Sherlock gave no sign that he had heard Lestrade and simply continued to write.

John

After Lestrade came by, he dragged me back to his flat. I didn't have the strength to resist. Life with Lestrade is quite different from life with you. He despises it when I preform experiments. He'll throw them out. He told me that if I want to do experiments, then I can do them somewhere else. So I don't do any experiments. I don't wish to leave the flat. Lestrade is talking about trying to get me back to work, but I continue to refuse. It wouldn't be the same without you. Mostly I just lie around the flat until Lestrade makes me eat. I'm sleeping less again. I'm sober and I'm back on the nicotine patches. Maybe I'll feel better again someday.

Lestrade walked into the flat, carrying the groceries. He shut the door behind him. Sherlock did not acknowledge his presence, and simply continued to write. Lestrade sighed and carried the groceries to the kitchen before walking over to Sherlock. He glanced over his shoulder, but all he saw was 'John' before Sherlock was folding up the letter and stuffing it in an envelope. He placed it on top of a stack of envelopes that teetered and threatened to topple over.

"Letters to John?" Lestrade asked, a note of surprise in his voice.

"Maybe. What's it to you?" Sherlock replied, guarded.

"You should take them to his grave. Give you some closure."

"I don't need closure."

"Look, Sherlock. I don't know what else to try. You are a miserable wreck. You need to do something. This will get you out of the house and it will give you some closure. We're going."

"Fine." Sherlock got up, grabbed the envelopes, stormed out of the flat and onto the street outside. It was cloudy and raining. 'How surprising. It never rains in London." Sherlock thought, sarcasm seeping from the thought. Lestrade followed soon after, carrying Sherlock's coat and scarf. Deja vu plagued them both as they thought of the day Lestrade had gotten Sherlock out of 221B. Almost two weeks ago. 'How time flies when you want nothing more than to die.' thought Sherlock. He pulled on the coat and scarf over his pajamas. He almost felt like himself. But then he turned to the side, and where John should have been, there was only Lestrade. Sherlock turned around and strode to the street, flagging down a cab. They climbed in, and the cab pulled away.

"Poor weather, as always."

"Don't."

All forms of communication failed. They pulled up to the cemetery after a long uncomfortably silent car ride. Sherlock yanked the cab door open, stalked over to the grave, threw the letters down, and stalked back, just as Lestrade was getting out of the cab after paying the driver.

"Let's go."

"Sherlock, just stay a little longer."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Why should I?"

"Because you cared."

"He didn't." Sherlock turned his back and flagged down another cab. Lestrade sighed, something he seemed to be doing a lot more since Sherlock came to live with him. He turned to follow Sherlock into the cab, all the while muttering to himself,

"Blasted John Watson."

John sat at his desk in his old flat, plain and boring, and without Sherlock. Life had slowed down quite a bit since his "suicide." He was attempting to find the gunmen Moriarty had set on his friends, but it was proving to be much more difficult than he had first assumed. At a complete loss, he decided to go visit his grave. See if anyone cared that he was gone. He put on a hat and scarf along with a long overcoat, to ensure no one would recognize him. A bit silly, but it wasn't worth the risk. He flagged a cab and rode over to the cemetery. There was his headstone, cold and simple. White marble, with only his name. Placed upon the grave were several bouquets and a few British flags. 'Nice.' He thought. 'It would be nicer if I could tell them I wasn't dead. But not yet. I'll cross that bridge when I get to it.' He heard a cab door slam behind him. He spun around quickly and saw Sherlock getting out of the cab. He glanced around quickly, and darted into the trees along the side of the cemetery. There he watched as Sherlock threw something down on top of the grave and stormed back to Lestrade, who had just gotten out of the cab. They were talking, but John couldn't hear what about. He crept closer.

"Why should I?"

"Because you cared."

"He didn't."

John watched Sherlock as he strode away, his heart breaking. He had really hurt Sherlock. At least he judged so from that statement, the five nicotine patches he could see, and the distant look in Sherlock's eyes. After he watched Lestrade get in the cab, he walked back over to the grave to see what Sherlock had thrown down. It was a stack of envelopes with his name on the top one. He picked them up and stuck them in his coat pocket. He was curious what Sherlock could possibly have to write about. He walked back to the street, hailing another cab to go back to his flat.

Once back, he pulled off his coat, hat and scarf and set the letters down on the small desk next to his laptop. He then turned toward the too small kitchen and went to make himself some tea. Once the tea had brewed, he came back to the desk, sat down, and stared at the letters, too scared to open them, and too scared not to. They were like Howlers, whether you opened them or not, it was a ticking time bomb. He sighed and finally reached over and picked one up, sliding his thumb under the flap and ripping the envelope open. He pulled out the letter and began to read.