"Prologue"

It was months after the funeral before John could bring himself to return to 221B Baker Street and begin to sort through Sherlock's effects. He'd asked, prayed, begged for a miracle, that Sherlock would waltz through the door and say that it was all a mistake, or that John had dreamed everything. That it was a joke. That he never died.

But he never came.

John was nowhere near as observant as Sherlock; but even he couldn't miss the finger-sized hole in the bottom of the wardrobe. When the wood lifted away, he discovered a hidden compartment which held only one tin box, and nothing else.

Sherlock was dead. This couldn't – in any way, shape, or form – be considered an invasion of privacy. And so John lifted the lid of the tin, and stared down at the contents. He sifted through, finding nothing but sealed envelopes, each with a name on the front. There were fewer than a dozen, but John recognised the names, including his own.

Sitting back on the floor, propped against the bed, John debated over whether or not to make the call. In the end, he felt that he had to.

"You have found a box in Sherlock's room," Mycroft said before John could speak. "I imagine it was under a floorboard, or in the false bottom of an item of furniture. Am I correct?"

John looked around the room suspiciously, trying to find a camera. "Yeah…"

"His bedroom is no longer under surveillance. It was a simple deduction to make, Dr. Watson. You have questions."

"What's with the envelopes? Are they letters, in the event of his… his…" John cleared his throat, trying to dislodge the lump. "Death?"

"No," Mycroft said. "Sherlock allows his collection to build up, and then he burns them once he has reached ten. How many envelopes are in the box?"

"Eight."

"Hmm." There was silence for half a minute, while John played with the seal of the envelope bearing his name. "Dr. Watson, my brother may not appear to be the type; however, he falls in love with remarkable ease." John's jaw dropped. "He has perfected a mask of indifference over the years. Yet this has been occurring since early childhood, and it appears that time has not diminished this unfortunate habit of his."

"It's permanently diminished now," John muttered.

"…Indeed."

He sighed. "So what are you saying, Mycroft? What does that have to do with… these?"

"Just as he falls in love, so he falls out of love. Sherlock's feelings have always been unrequited, or so he believes. By the time the object of his affection returns any of his sentiment, Sherlock has purged them from his heart, and deleted the memory of being in love with them from his 'mind palace'. The poetry assists this process."

"Poetry?" John couldn't tear his eyes from the stationery laid out before him. "Sherlock wrote poems?"

"No, Dr. Watson. He found them. He finds… he would find a poem appropriate to the situation, write it down, seal it in an envelope with the person's name on the front, and then store it away. Using another's words is less personal. If you recall, I said that he burns them all after the tenth person."

John considered this with a heavy heart. "How many times has he…?"

"Performed a ritual burning? More than you would believe. I lost track after the first three. My brother is used to rejection, although it seems that as he ages, he loses hope far too quickly. He never gives them time to reciprocate."

"But that's horrible!"

"There is one addressed to you, is there not, doctor?"

"Well… yes."

"I do not know how Sherlock would feel about you reading… however, I cannot prevent you."

John nodded. "How did you know about all this?"

"I suggested it to Sherlock. The first few with whom he became infatuated, he assigned them poems. We worked out this system together, and at first he would approach me each time the box became full, so that we could burn them together. Then I went to boarding school, and so he was left to deal with it on his own. After that time, he became closed off from me. Who knows how many have captured his affections unknowingly since that time?"

"Or knowingly, and they just didn't want him," John said, tracing the letters of his name in that fluid, familiar script. How had he not noticed? Did Sherlock give up on him as a lost cause straight away? Or was it after John insisted that they weren't a couple, or that he wasn't gay, for the umpteenth time?

"Quite," Mycroft said, imposing on John's thoughts. "Do not make the mistake of thinking that his feelings are any less strong than someone who takes a long time to fall in love and to recover from a broken heart. Is that all, Dr. Watson?"

"What? Oh, yes. Yeah, thanks, Mycroft."

"You are welcome, doctor." There was a pause. Then… "Don't give up."

With those enigmatic last words – John refused to let himself hope anymore – Mycroft hung up, and John was left to wonder whether or not he should read Sherlock's most personal thoughts.

I can't remember where I found the inspiration for this… yes, I do! It was when I searched through one of my poetry books for an appropriate title for a fic I was writing, since I used to be able to come up with good titles, and now I can't. At least I think my titles used to be good. Maybe they never were? Gah!

Moving on.

The very first poem in the book was just what I was after, but I kept flipping through, and decided that, yes, this just might work. And thus this story was born.

Many thanks to donnabella2k7 for her input on this story. There were too many possibly ways for this to go, and she makes an excellent sounding board. Truly.

Please review! Poems have been chosen, and so suggestions are not required.