Work Text:
John,
I find it difficult to express myself to you. As you also suffer from the inability to express those deepest and unnecessary feelings that so often are heralded as beautiful and to be striven for, you cannot be too upset with me for choosing the medium of a letter instead. There's even something a bit poetic about writing a letter, pen in hand and words flowing straight from the heart to the mind to the pen to the paper, a direct line to the so-called “soul” of a person. If you buy into that sort of thing.
I suppose that you are either completely confused as to the nature of this letter, or are aware and preemptively regretting reading the words that follow. There is no obligation in this letter, as once you are reading this there will be no chance of reciprocity on your part, and I would certainly never expect it from you. I merely feel that I owe it to myself, in a selfish way, to have the last word. You always said “I would outlive God trying to have the last word.” And you were right. Allow me a last victory, in the face of my recent defeat.
As I sit here, thinking of the right words to say, I realize that words are a poor medium for representing the mind. A mind is full of true intent and a rawness that can't be matched in the written form. If I come across as rambling and inadequate, please understand that this is simply because I lack the proper ways to truly convey my heart. If you are not aware of the intent of this letter by now, I'm afraid I have greatly underestimated your intelligence. But I know I have not. For all the times that I called you an idiot or ordinary, I apologize for half. Because in truth, you could understand and know me, and still wish to be my friend. And for that, you are both exceptionally bright and as unique as it gets.
I knew from the moment I met you that you were going to be important to me. I didn't know how, or to what extent, but the moment I looked into your eyes I knew. I knew you, John. You did not shrink at my rudeness, nor did you take my attitude sitting down. You fought back against me. You didn't listen to those who called me a freak, to those who called me dangerous. If you had, I would have selfishly been disappointed, but in other ways glad. I have caused you so much pain. I have given you cause to worry over and over and over, and yet you still choose to remain by my side. I do not deserve to be called your friend, or even your acquaintance, and yet you have called me your “best friend.”
I have left you in the past, letting you believe that I was dead, allowing you to remain with the thought that I would never return. I can never apologize enough, had I my entire life to spend at your feet begging for forgiveness I would. I know that you have already forgiven me, but I will never feel that I have earned that right. As such, I do not expect you to be happy with the revelation of this letter, but I feel that I must tell you.
When I parted from you, if I had the chance, I may have said “There's something I've always wanted to tell you.” I will not have actually said what I meant to say. What I meant to say is this: John. You are the one person that matters most to me in the whole world. I would do anything to keep you safe. Anything to make you secure. I would gladly die for you. In all my years, I have never met a person who could see my faults and still accept me for who I am. And I will never meet another person, I am absolutely sure, that I could ever love. Except you. I, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, love you, John Hamish Watson. That is the whole of it.
A sad speech, I know, and one that could never convey the true fullness of my emotions and devotion to you. However, if you are reading this letter, then there is nothing more that I can say. I will have gone, forever. I leave you with this: Know that I valued every second of our time together. When you thought I was ignoring you or didn't appear to take notice that you had left the room, it was merely because I felt that you were always with me. A voice in my head, keeping me right. Keeping me focused. Every day, those when I was bored and angry, those when I was in a feverish rush to solve a case, none of them would have mattered to me half as much if you had not been there. You were the greatest adventure that could have every happened to me. I hope that the time we spent together meant half as much to you as it did to me. I will die happily believing that this could be true.
Not much more to be said now, and I know that you must be growing weary of my handwriting. You always did complain that it was too messy to truly comprehend. I will say, one more time, as I will never get the opportunity to properly say it as much as you deserve to hear it, that I love you. Absolutely and completely.
T hat is the whole of it, at least that I can convey in words. I will miss you, and hope that you will not miss me so terribly long. You are the best man that I know, you will find happiness without me. I am sure of it. Until then know that you were loved passionately and fully by a man who did not love. Goodbye.
Sherlock Holmes
John stood, hand shaking, as he finished the letter that he had been given by Mrs. Hudson. He looked around the flat, empty and bare of the warmth and energy that Sherlock brought to it. When she had called him, saying that Sherlock had left him a letter, he had expected to feel a renewed sadness. But this...this was too much. John sank into his chair, still clutching to the words that Sherlock had written, desperately wishing that he could have heard them in person, could have responded. Of course I'll miss you. Of course I love you. Why would you ever think that I didn't? Why did you have to leave me here alone? John set the letter on the armrest, cupped his head in his hands, and sobbed. He thought back to the gunshot that echoed in his hears, as Sherlock did what he had been forced to do: shoot Magnussen. For John's sake. He thought back to Sherlock's farewell, his assurance that his mission would only last six months. He seemed so sure. And John knew, John knew that it was a death sentence. That was why he had been given the letter. John continued to cry, alone in the place that had been the most brilliant spot of light in his life. Alone. Without Sherlock. Without the hope of Sherlock. Why did you have to save me?