Work Text:
My dear Watson,
I hope this letter reaches you in good health. How have you been, my dear fellow? Are you enjoying the quietness of your practice and married life?
I have only just started this letter but I cannot continue this charade any longer. I will never send this to you as long as I live. I will burn it when I am finished, and decompose the ashes for good measure. I do not wish to be imprisoned for my sentimentality, and I do not wish it on you, either.
You may have read my recollection of the Adventure of the Blanched Soldier, where I called your taking of a wife the only selfish act I can recall you commiting in all our years together. That is true– always have you been so selfless, so brave, so steadfast in your companionship. Yet I may be biased. I am human, as you are fond of pointing out, and I am prone to emotions. Jealousy and envy are in the forefront of my mind as of right now, as well as hopeless, desperate yearning. Is it selfish of me to want you back here so ardently? To wish for things to return to the way they were before everything? Before you married? Before I disappeared?
Excuse my dramatics, but the flat has been empty without your voice. I confess that not even the music of my violin nor the constant nagging of dear Mrs. Hudson has filled the space of 221B Baker Street. Nor has it filled the gap you have torn out of my heart. Forgive my mawkishness for a moment more, Watson– but I cannot bear not having you at my side. And yet, I bear it anyways. It is a fault of solely mine– not yours, not your wife. And so I must bear this cross alone.
I suppose many of our readers had considered me the sun that you revolve around, but I assure you it is the other way around, for as the moon I cannot shine without my sun. The world has indeed been very bleak without you.
It would be foolish of me to wish to have you back. Therefore I am a fool. I know if you were here with me you would shake your head, but it is true: I am a fool. I am a fool for pining for you, for wishing for the sound of your laughter to fill the house once again, for yearning for what is already gone.
And now allow my weakness to last a while longer– for I have something to confess. I love you terribly, my dear Watson, and you are irreplacable. I miss you quite much, more than I should allow myself to. You would be quite pressed to find something I would not give up to have you back at my side once again. But it would be witless of me to wish for what I cannot have, and therefore, I only wish that you are happy with your life. That is all that presently matters to me.
I have allowed myself quite enough foolishness already. Pray, give my greetings to Mrs. Watson, and believe me to be,
Very sincerely yours,
Sherlock Holmes