Fuck Yeah Mystery Husbands!

ihavebeensherlocked:

thecityofpaper:

In the top drawer on Sherlock’s side table in his room, a small collection of strips of paper were beginning to form their own little colony. A new one was added to the bunch every few days, and every time it always had the same scrappy handwriting.

Went by Scotland Yard last night on my way home, got a few files for you. Hid them in the flat. Find them and solve them before I get home, I dare you. -J

You really should clean out your website, it’s getting harder to find stuff. -J

Lestrade called this morning, saying he needed your statement for the case you solved yesterday. Didn’t have the heart to wake you up, but be at his office before eight tonight. -J

Little notes that John left Sherlock whenever he left or when Sherlock got too bored and needed something to do. It wasn’t something they ever mentioned, it was just a habit John was forming, and Sherlock couldn’t say that he found it annoying or a waste of time. He also couldn’t say that he was keeping them just because they sometimes made him smile, or when John wrote something particularly funny, they made him laugh. He liked the notes and he very much liked John’s spiky, scrappy handwriting. 

Sherlock occasionally pulled out the notes from his drawer and read through them, but only when John wasn’t around. He assumed John probably thought that Sherlock just threw them away, but the collection of them grew over the year and a half they lived together, not one ever being thrown away.

—

Sherlock had to silently slip back into 221B. If John, or anyone of the snipers knew he was here, it was all over.

He quietly grabbed the bag he packed for himself the last night he was here, and stopped short at his door. He turned and looked toward his side table, and quietly walked to it and opened the drawer. He froze when the wood creaked against the metal, and heard John toss in his bed above him, but didn’t wake up. He quietly grabbed all of the notes that made their home there, and stuffed them into an empty pocket in his bag. 

“Goodbye John,” he whispered, a pain clenching hard in his chest, before slipping back out into the night.

—

Over the two years and three months that Sherlock was gone, he had read and re-read John’s notes and memorized each and every one, and never threw them away. It was the only thing Sherlock had brought that someone connected him to John. His heart ached when he laughed at the jokes he had already read so many times. John could never cease to make him smile.

When he returned home, and after a reunion filled with a punch to the jaw, a hug and many tears, John was almost reluctant to believe that Sherlock was not going to leave again.

On Sherlock’s third night home, he heard a slip of paper slide under his door frame, and slid out of bed quietly to grab it.

You still there? -J

Sherlock’s heart clenched and beat rapidly in his chest. Oh John, he thought.

He quickly went to his drawer and ripped a page out of a notebook and grabbed a pen.

Still here. -S

OH MY GOD THIS IS EXACTLY PERFECT. JUST WHAT I WANTED Q_Q