Regarding the book:

The Authentic  Life of Billy the Kid, by Pat Garrett

...

It was not that I had forgotten it.  Nor is it that I did not think on it much, for the inscription was often on my mind.  The book itself was bought on a whim.  I had entered the bookseller’s just as the American was leaving; the man had just sold it to buy something new for his travels home.  

“Is that about the American outlaw?”  I asked.

Old Harrison, the bookseller, grumbled something unintelligible as was his custom, and I opened the cover to have a look.  

“Biography and first-hand account,”  I read.  It was almost as if fate had contrived to place this volume in my way.  Did I not live with a man who kept portraits of condemned criminals on his walls?  Yes.  

To be honest I was not looking to purchase anything more than an entertaining novel for myself to enjoy, and I could not afford to buy two books.  But I am often impulsive and sentimental.  Impulse and sentiment won out; I bought the book as a gift.

What I wrote on the inner cover was not nearly as impulsive as the purchase had been.  For months I’d been thinking on ways I could express my heartfelt feelings, and I wasted no time writing them out in an inscription on the leaf page.  An inscription seemed the perfect medium with which to do so, it was personal yet not uncomfortably intimate.  What I did not consider was just how exactly I intended to present the book.  There was no occasion forthcoming to warrant such an indulgence.  

The next day I left the book on my desk.  Perhaps I should wait for a holiday to present it?  The book remained untouched for a week, and then a month.  After that I placed it on my shelf, and there it stayed.  

Six months went by, and Christmas came and went.  How could I have explained a book given at Christmas with a personal inscription from six months earlier?    

And so the years passed.  The words I wrote remained hidden within.  

I never read it.  It was Holmes’ book.  I always did intend to give it to him eventually, I simply hadn't found the right time yet.

The book moved with me when I married. While I enjoyed married life and saw my friend only rarely, I looked at it fondly as a reminder of days past.  

Then for three years, I could not bear to look at it at all.  

Even after, I could never look at it the same way.  The inscription within no longer represented a secret acknowledgement of my inner feelings, but rather my own cowardice for not having said what was in my heart while I’d still had the opportunity.  

How many men are fortunate enough to be given a second chance to make amends?  

I was, but I did not.  The book returned with me to Baker Street and resumed its former place on the shelf in my little room upstairs, and there it stayed for another ten years.

I am glad that it is still not too late.

In several days’ time, I will be Doctor Watson of 221b Baker Street no more.  Crates of our belongings (after so long it hardly matters what belonged to who) line the room.  Holmes assured me the cottage he bought will be more than adequate for both our needs, and I take his word in this as I do in all things.

Sitting by the fire in my favourite arm-chair, and beside me Holmes sitting similarly in his, I imagine we are both lost in memories of the past.  

The one thing I did not pack is the book; it is on the table beside me, and I feel ridiculously nervous.  After all this time, am I really going to do this now?  

“Are you familiar with Billy the Kid?”  I ask.

“The American?”  

“The one.”  

“No more than his name.”  

He isn’t interested.  I tap my fingers.  After all this time, I remind myself, it is not the book that matters.  “I came across this at the book shop.  I had a passing thought it may amuse you.”  I pass it to him and he accepts.  

As I already ascertained, the book itself is of little interest to him.  These days it is not uncommon that we surprise each other with small presents now and then, and so there is no awkwardness anymore in presenting such a gift.  All my best writing supplies have come to me through similar small gestures from Holmes.  

He flips through the pages, alighting on one and pausing a moment or two to read a paragraph, and then as he is about to place it down beside him the sight of ink on the front leaf catches his eye.  

The amount of time he spends looking at the inscription is much longer than the time he spent looking at the typed page.  

I know what he is reading.  

My dear Holmes,

When I returned to London, I had thought my adventures over. Little did I realize they had not yet begun.  Thank you for all that your companionship has brought.  In the years to come, may we look back on a life well lived, and remember the worth of a true friend.  

Yours always, John Watson 1883

Today, I wrote one thing more.

Now as much as ever, John Watson 1904