#letter 003

How am I even supposed to talk to him? He was a thought, a possibility in my brain when we fell. I know he's always said that if you wish for something to happen you shouldn't be surprised when it actually does but I didn't think it was possible. I didn't...I didn't think. How was I supposed to know it could actually be the truth? I've been avoiding him. He's aware of this. I avoid eye contact constantly and sit as far away from him as I can. For someone who's preaching to Kae'lah about relying on other people more I sure am a fucking hypocrite as always. Maybe if I was more naïve like Seraph I could do this the straightforward way. I thought I was over it you know? That time heals all wounds and gives a new perspective but it doesn't give me an elaborate manual how to handle this situation which unfuckingfortunately is of my own making. but all at once I'm angry and sad and confused all at once again.

But the worst part? More than anything, I get him now. And you know why? Because of you. So maybe I should be angry at you. Or angry at myself for understanding it and promising myself I would have done the same thing. Because what do I have if not you, who I have tethered my entire life around? Or him, who has shaped me to be who I am now and whose influence I missed every day?

This shit is so fucking stupid.

I love you.

Much more time had passed between her last response and the one she was writing out now. The letter had arrived promptly on time, and she was able to get a hold of it before Sherlock had a chance to open it, or see it. She read it immediately, just before going out for her daily jog. Though it didn’t necessarily seem as though Moriarty was threatening her, Joan knew just how creative she could be.

That was something she couldn’t let happen, regardless of her conflicting emotions about whether or not to reply.

She sat down to write it often, but couldn’t seem to put her thoughts onto paper. She’d write a few lines, preachy lines about this correspondence shouldn’t even be thought of, then she’d throw it away, balling it up until it resembled the confusion rumbling inside of her.

It took a month. A month before she finally was able to realize what she wanted to say, and that she actually did want to use this as a way to get to know Moriarty, the same way she wanted to get to know her. It was all a mess.

Sherlock couldn’t know of this. Not of her agreeing, not of the letters. Joan’s mind was already clouded, her thoughts muddled with cases, with lack of sleep, due to her partner’s odd experiments in the middle of the night.

Her life lately just seemed to be one thing that threw her after the other. Since the letters began arriving, she found that she couldn’t stop thinking about what had brought them together yet again. She looked over her latest letter, written in a way that practically begged Moriarty to stop writing her. It wouldn’t work, she knew that much. Moriarty would have her way no matter what it took. So, she crumbled that paper up, swiped it away into the trash can and wrote what she was actually planning on sending.

            Moriarty,

                        There’s only so much I can say before this becomes redundant. The last month I have come to the conclusion that I will continue to write you only if you answer my questions truthfully.

                        I understand that you won’t answer some, those pertaining to your past and your crimes.

                        Explain the painting of me and I will continue to write you without grievances or asking you to stop.

Note: There's a few strikeouts with this one. Oops. And what are trains.