Lost and Found - SEQUEL TO SHERLOCK'S SECRET

JOHN'S POV

As they sat in the taxi on the way to 221B, John couldn't help but reflect on the last time they were in this situation. Sherlock had just been released from hospital after trying to kill himself and emotions were tense, to say the least. John's heart broke just thinking about it. Thankfully, this time, things were going much better.

The taxi pulled up in front of their flat and the two men crawled out, hand in hand. After grabbing Sherlock's bag, they handed the driver the fare and started toward the door. John stepped up on the stoop and pulled the keys out of his pocket, only to be distracted by the weird crinkly noise coming from whatever it was he just stepped on. Upon catching sight of the object, his eyebrows furrowed. It was an envelope. Not just any envelope, though. It was antique looking – brown paper, wrinkled and discoloured with age, complete with a wax seal and everything.

He bent to pick it up, intending to discreetly slip it inside of his coat. Questions about it started popping up in John's head. Why wasn't it slipped inside through the door mail slot like the rest of their mail? Why was it in such an odd envelope? Why wasn't it addressed to anyone? It made him feel uneasy, and he didn't want Sherlock worrying about anything right now. For the moment, he needed rest. That idea was quashed when Sherlock looked over John's shoulder, plucking the envelope right out of the unsuspecting man's hands.

"Huh," he muttered, turning the envelope over in his hands, inspecting it. John could already see the cogs turning in the detective's head.

"Nope," John said curtly, snatching it back just as quickly. "You need to rest. Rest doesn't involve solving things." Sherlock pouted childishly in response, making both of them smile. "Come on, love. I'll make you a cup of tea and you can have a nap."
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An hour later, Sherlock was fast asleep with a little help from John's sedatives. As well as caring about the detective and wanting him to recover quickly, John was eager to find out what was inside the envelope.

Smiling the smallest of lovestruck smiles, John went into the loungeroom, just out of range of Sherlock's adorable snoring. Lowering himself into his chair, he heaved a heavy sigh. The envelope was putting him on edge. It could be anything – but, he reasoned, it could be a perfectly normal envelope with perfectly normal contents. A client, maybe? An old friend of Sherlock's? Well, that might be stretching it a bit far...

Shaking his head, he held his breath and quickly tore open the envelope – like ripping off a band aid. A neatly folded piece of paper fell into his lap. The tension in his shoulders lessened a bit. It really is just a harmless letter, John. Stop freaking out, he thought. He opened the paper and began to read.

...Dear Mr. Holmes,

It is my deepest regret that I cannot make known my identity.

While I know who you are – quite well, in fact – you do not know me.

I was involved in a case of yours quite a while back. I was your

Lead suspect. Was, until I had to fake my death. I

Like to think you really thought me dead. You

Deemed my brother guilty of what was, in fact, my crime.

Even if he were to ever get out of prison, he will not have retained his

Sanity. By accusing him of murder, you have murdered him.

This calls for action on my part. You know what they say about

Revenge, Mr. Holmes. What I am pleased to say, is that it does not treat

One kindly. In no world or universe or dimension do

You deserve mercy. No one, especially not you, gets to play God.

You have no right to do what you do, and you can bet your life

On it that you will no longer do what you do if I have any say in it. Which,

Unquestionably, I will. You will be seeing me soon, Mr. Holmes.

...Take care.

The letter slipped from John's trembling hands. Sherlock had received threats before – even death threats – but this letter really shook John. This was different, something was really wrong. Almost scared to look in the envelope, John stuck his hand in to see if the sender included anything else. He nearly thought he got away with it – that the letter was all that was in there – until his fingertip brushed something soft, and his breath hitched in his throat.

Achingly slowly, dreading what he was going to see, John pulled out the other contents of the envelope. His stomach dropped, as did his head into his hands and the thing on to the floor at his feet.

Floating down on streams of air, fell a lock of hair. Brown, thick and curly. It didn't take a consulting detective to figure out who the hair belonged to.

Sherlock Holmes.

A/N: Bit of a longer chapter, finally. I also apologize for the bad structure of the letter. It will all make sense soon, if you haven't already figured it out!