1st letter: Happy Birthday

He was turning 36 soon. He was a middle aged man who had lost his husband not so long ago and he still couldn't accept the fact Sherlock Holmes was not coming back.

Never, ever again.

"It could be lovely!"

No, it couldn't. My husband has just died and you want me to celebrate my birthday? "I don't feel like it, Mrs Hudson."

"But what will I do?" The landlady said, frowning, already worried. "All the food I've ordered."

The food? "What?"

"Oh, John. I wanted it to be a surprise. I've invited some people -"

"Mrs Hudson..."

The old lady placed a warm hand on his shoulder and smiled. "Cheer up, John."

Yes.

You say so because your husband was sentenced to death. Mine died because of a brain tumour. A brain tumour. Tell me how that sounds. A man who was a genius died of a brain tumour.

I miss you so much, Sherlock.

John knew it. John knew Sherlock had always known. The bastard knew it all along and never said a word about it.

The selfish git.

"It's terminal."

"Yes."

John frowned. "Are you even listening?"

"Yes."

He was too calm. Too calm. Too calm and it made John feel sick. How could he be so calm when he had just been told he had a brain tumour and that he was dying?

"You're dying."

"Yes, the doctor said so," The detective said, his hands folded over his lap. "You said we need to get milk."

They walked side by side to the shops. They got milk, tea, beans, bread, Sherlock's favourite cookies and John's favourite jam.

"Strawberry?"

John remained silent.

Sherlock chuckled. "You should try berries."

At home things got worse. Sherlock started working on his experiments as if nothing had happened. They had just returned from the doctor and they had just been told he was dying. And the bastard was working on his stupid ashes.

"I'll need more petri dishes -"

"I don't want you to die."

Sherlock turned to his husband and stared at him, blankly. There were no words he could say to make John understand he was fine with it. Everyone dies. People die every day and now it was his turn. There was nothing wrong with that. And actually, the detective was glad. Happy. Tremendously happy to finally go because the headaches were worse and the pain was unbearable.

But John was taking none of it.

"I don't want to," he whispered. "But I have to."

"I don't want you to die," John repeated and heavy tears rolled down his eyes. "Please, don't leave me."

Sherlock curled the corner of his lips up just slightly. "The pain is unbearable."

"We could... I know there are pills -"

"John... you'll have to let me go."

Sherlock was happy the pain was going to end soon. But he was not happy to leave his husband.

If only he could make him understand he was not everything John thought of him. If only John could understand he was merely a chapter of his life.

And there were many more for John Watson.

"Happy birthday, John."

"Ta, Greg," John said, faking a little smile and accepting the wine the DI of the NSY had just given him. "We can open it later."

And then Molly, Mycroft, two mates from the army and Mrs Hudson were all sitting in the living room having tea and laughing at his stupid jokes.

John knew they only laughed because he was the 'birthday boy', as his mother used to say, and not because he was being funny. Because he wasn't even trying. One of his mates was talking to Molly and apparently they were exchanging their numbers.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal in mine."

"And what happened to the landline?"

"I prefer to text."

"Sorry, other coat."

John cleared his throat. "Here, use mine."

John chuckled when he remembered what Sherlock said. "You were flirting with me. You mad, mad, mad man." Ha. Of course he was flirting with him. Who wouldn't? Sherlock was so handsome. Gorgeous. God, that man.

One of the many things John loved about Sherlock was how stupidly beautiful the man was. He looked good in anything he wore: tailored suits, jeans, his stupid pyjamas, short pants. Even nothing at all.

"Hey, mate," Greg sat next to him. "We went to the pub last friday. You didn't show up."

"I wasn't in the mood."

"Oh, come on." Greg nudged at him. "Anderson paid the drinks. Drank like 6 pints, just to piss him off."

John merely chuckled.

"You know, the guys miss you."

"Greg..."

"You need to go out."

"I go out."

The DI raised an eyebrow. "To the surgery and back here. You know you can always come to my office and have a cuppa."

A cuppa...

"John? John? Are you mad at me?"

John closed his eyes and tried to conceive some sleep.

"John? I did something, right? I did something bad, right? Should I know what it is?"

The doctor turned to the closed door, imagining his husband leaning on the door, probably going to his mind palace to know what exactly he had done.

"Or is it something maybe you just think I did? No, no. I did it. I did it. It was a bad, bad thing I did, and I'm so sorry."

John knew he was sorry.

But he so loved to hear his husband beg.

"John, come on. John? You have to let me in. Are you going to make me sleep in the bathtub again?"

Ha. Ha, ha, ha.

He couldn't stand it any more. John opened the door and let his husband in. He was angry because Sherlock had, again, used all the milk and all the tea for a stupid experiment.

But he couldn't help it.

And they made love like animals that night.

"Oh, the cake's here!"

Mrs Hudson opened the door and one of the boys from the shop downstairs placed a big cake on the table and handed John a white envelope with his name written on it.

"Happy birthday, doctor Watson."

"Thanks -"

Wait.

"John?" Greg asked leaning close to him. "John, mate, you OK?"

"What's this?"

Everyone stared at him, perplexed.

John held the envelope for everyone to see it. But no one knew what he was talking about.

It was Sherlock's handwriting.

"What?"

"It's..." John gasped and tore the envelope open. "It's... God."

Dear John,

Happy birthday. I don't know where you are, but I presume Mrs Hudson insisted you had a party. Just don't let Molly near my pictures or she'll cry. And we don't want that, do we? Remember when she cried after that guy who stood her up? I don't need crying women in your birthday party. It's your birthday.

I just hope that my letter has found you safe and healthy. You whispered to me not long ago that you couldn't go on alone. You can, John. You are strong and brave and you can get through this. We shared some beautiful times together. You made my life better. You're the man of my life, John.

I have no regrets. Well, maybe I regret not convincing you of buying the berries jam, but I know you prefer strawberry.

I'm a chapter in your life, John. And there will be many more. Remember our wonderful memories, but please don't be afraid to make some more.

Thank you for doing me the honour of being my husband. For everything, I am eternally grateful. Especially your patience. And your tea. No one has ever made me tea like you.

Whenever you need me, know that I am with you.

Love you,
Your husband and best friend,
SH

PS. I promised a list, so here it is. The following envelopes must be opened exactly when labeled and must be obeyed. And remember, I'm looking out for you, so I will know…