Work Text:
I was never very good at letters, but here's one for you. I guess this could just barely classify as a love letter, but the difference is I won't be around to hear what you have to say after you read its contents.
Dear Sherlock,
You must be positively proud of me for finally getting it right. I went into the store earlier today to get new batteries for my cousin's toy car and just happened to be met with an incredibly interesting cashier. The moment I laid eyes on him, it felt as if a powerful magnetic force was drawing me desperately to the young man, almost like the intense games of tug of war they made us participate in back in school. It wasn't the way he looked that stood out to me the most (although he did appear quite odd), but rather the way he talked and interacted with the peculiar items untidily surrounding the cash register. Let me describe, in fine detail, everything I noticed about this particular employee in Star Department Co. at 10:33 a.m. this morning.
I found my batteries in the far isle of the third room in the department store and went to the nearest checkout counter to save time. It was unusually quiet; the area that sold clothing next to the room I was in would always bustle with the noise of middle-aged cackling and boring, everyday discussions whenever I entered the shop. I was certain that this was strange because I go there everyday to pick up my food and almost routinely pass through the hardware section of Star Department Co. on my way to the CD rental store located in the same mall. I guess foolishness got the better of me, and I decided to brush my uneasiness off. There was nobody in the line. You could imagine I must have been overjoyed to see an empty queue, but a strange creeping sensation in my gut wouldn't allow me to feel anything at the time.
So, naturally but wrongly, I got into the empty narrow lane and stood in front of the only person I had seen in the shop since I first entered – the cashier.
He was tallish, in his mid-twenties and under the influence of alcohol, judging by the way the bitter smell of beer emanated from him twenty miles away, and his inability to stand still. I must say, to stand close to his foul breath was quite unpleasant and, if I still had time, I would never be doing anything of the sort ever again. This is why I tell everyone to brush well and stop taking drugs – including you, Sherlock.
Grease in his hair and clothes suggested that he worked a job in a gas station or garage before hurrying over to show up for his second job, as confirmed by the disheveled state of his clothes and the black smudges on his fingertips and under his nails.
He wore his own white shirt and black pants with the store’s blue uniform jacket over his torso, and for a moment, my breath hitched in my throat when I realized that he had no nametag.
He asked me if I was ready to purchase my items in a slurred, strong voice which sent shivers down my spine in anxiety. I nodded stiffly, giving him my batteries. As he ducked below the counter to get something, keeping his balance by placing his right hand on the counter, I noticed that the watch he wore was shattered, but even in its current state I could tell that it must have cost a fortune.
I do believe that he was left-handed from all that evidence, and was proved right when he pulled a knife on me with his left hand. I was able to dodge the attack, having anticipated it to come from his dominant hand, and immediately ran out of the shop. Policemen were already there - apparently the man was a thief who had decided to rob the store at the precise time I decided to buy my batteries. Throughout the ordeal I was scared, but thrilled to be in a situation where someone was actually paying attention to me.
I imagine you'd think that's ridiculous, and tell me that the nonsense I'm spouting won't help solve any cases or make me smarter. You'd sit there, in your armchair, your face void of expression and a plate of uneaten biscuits sitting cold atop the table as you'd stare at me with those piercing orbs of a crystalline aquamarine like I had the intelligence of a lemming - though under no circumstances would I mind.
Not that you've ever stared at me with respect anyway.
I do hope, with all my heart, that you only read this letter after I'm gone. I couldn't bear it if I'd have to be embarrassed like that before I leave. Really not the best way to go, don't you think?
Sometimes I just sit there, looking at the painting of the ocean that hangs on the wall next to my bed, so rich and complex in comparison to the dull little pills I keep on my nightstand in small cases for convenience. Is that what life's all about now? Convenience?
Life was always convenient until I met you. And I mean that scornfully; I was just some girl who moved into flat 221D and happened to love puzzles: by that, I meant crosswords and sudokus... at the time. I brought everyone cupcakes from the store so that they would like me and accept me as their new neighbor. There was a lovely gay couple who lived next door, and a kind old man at the top floor. Two little old ladies next to your flat gave me a handful of white chocolates wrapped in foil in return for my store-bought cupcakes.
I don't like white chocolates. Never have and never will. To me they're just impostors, wanting to be something they're not. Chocolate is meant to be made of cacao, not sugar and milk and flavorings. But even if they weren't my cup of tea, I decided not to waste them and instead decided to give them away. You and John, being the only people I hadn't yet introduced myself to, were my first option.
I'm terribly sorry if you didn't like the chocolates - to be honest, you don't even seem like a person who enjoys sweets. But I hadn't prepared myself for those razor-sharp barbs that fired out of your mouth at me the moment you opened the door. The very first words you spoke to me were some of the most hurtful and insensitive ones that had ever graced my ears up until that point. I came to the conclusion that you were having a bad day, but that thought didn't stop the tears from welling up in my eyes. You opened the door after I knocked, and was met with the sight of me carrying a little box, a painfully awkward smile plastered across my face. I greeted you politely. You then looked at me from head to toe, unaware of how rude this was, proceeding to criticize my weight, my makeup, the state of my hair, my 'unfortunate' family backgrounds, my 'cheap and unachievable' aspirations and even the way I held myself in the most abhorrent manner. It was as if a string of insults spewed out of your mouth in a smooth chain as easily as honey oozing from a jar. I will tell you sincerely that I have lived for many years, and never throughout this entire time have I been treated as lowly as you did me during our first meeting.
I was so upset that I hadn't even had an opportunity to marvel at your ability to know everything about me after just a glance.
Then, just as you were about to slam the door in my face, your flatmate (or gay partner, I wasn't sure at the time) came out to us and invited me inside, asking me if I was alright. It was funny, the way he glared at you, but I wasn't angry and didn't feel the need for him to look at you like that. I was never angry. I was only ashamed because everything you had said about me was true.
Mrs Hudson makes the best biscuits. I don't understand how it's humanly possible for someone to put so much flavor and texture into a baked dessert. I ate them all on the spot the minute she disappeared into your kitchen. All six of them! You really must appreciate the lovely woman a bit more, though I know that you already do.
Your friend, John Watson, is a very friendly fellow. He invited me in, accepted my cakes, and introduced himself - as any normal neighbor is expected to. But no, you're not normal, and I knew that the moment I first looked into your labyrinthine eyes in that ordinary doorway.
You are so, so beautiful, Sherlock Holmes. You deny it, but your face is like the rays of light that seep through the cream curtains of my window in the mornings, so that the sun's magnificent warmth is the very first thing I feel and the first thing my mind sets itself on before the day. I look at that painting of the ocean next to my bed, thinking every time about how boring it looks, but how significant and wonderful it is for reminding me of your mind, which holds a depth even the deepest chasms of the universe couldn't compare to. The richness of your hair surpasses even the most luscious of rose bushes, while the boldness of your cheeks make you the person that you are. When people look into your eyes, they are never able to find their way out of them.
Forgive me if I am beginning to sound poetic; it is my last and final wish that you fully understand the extent to which I love and admire you.
I love you.
But how could I not? Imagine being a girl, moving into a flat. Imagine meeting the 'only consulting detective in the world' who just happened to live downstairs. Imagine that he made you feel appreciated for the first time in your life as he used your skills to help him solve the most intriguing cases. Imagine hearing music pouring from his violin from downstairs, every time fantasizing and having the slightest hope that the intricate melody and soulful notes were secretly meant for your ears.
I should have known that my falling for you was inevitable - but did you know that too?
At first, I felt pity for you, as I often did for the people I assumed judged and hated me simply for being the way I am. John scolded you into apologizing, for which I am grateful. But you did so half-heartedly, and I could tell that you didn't mean it in the slightest, and the word was nothing but a word without meaning.
But then one day, John was out on a date and you had no choice but to come to me for help (with obvious hesitance) in solving a case which involved a missing dog of a wealthy official that had presumably been dognapped for ransom. You and I managed to find flaws in the kidnapping, which led to our discovering the criminal's whereabouts. We had him arrested five hours after you had showed up at my door. I could tell, then, that you no longer found me as boring as you did initially, as you constantly invited me to assist you on cases after that first incident.
During the fourteen months that I have lived here, you and I solved over two-thousand, five-hundred complex cases, managing to land an impressive number of around one-thousand, seven-hundred-and-fifty crooks in jail. These included thieves, plagiarizers, rapists, scam artists, con-men, gangsters and oh-so-many murderers, much to your delight and interest. I am being completely honest in saying that I had never felt prouder of myself in my life than those few months, during which I had been able to please you and be worthy of your attention.
But I had not gained your full respect even still.
I grew to love you more and more, increasingly vigorous at heart each day, pining for the moment when I could finally let my waterfall of emotions out in the form of a long, shrill scream. You will have deduced by now that today is the day this happens, and that this is the silent sound of my everlasting song of yearning. Although there is a 99% chance that as you read this letter, my song; and my life with it, will already have ended - but you can never be absolutely sure of anything.
The day you took me to the park was, in all honesty, the most exhilarating day of my life. I still remember the sunlight shining through the thin green leaves, rendering them a translucent, meadowy hue. Looking to the treetops felt like glancing at a white sheet of light, filtering in through the sturdy branches, slowly settling into the atmosphere, basking us in a warmth that filled me to the brim with delight. I suppose you'd have felt the same, if you weren't too focused on a case at hand.
John had gone to St. Bart's to have a look at the body of a young girl who had been murdered then dumped into the Thames while we went to the place where she was last seen by her boyfriend. A day prior to us actually travelling to the park, you had already deduced that that was where she had been killed, and I still love you for that.
While you looked around for clues, I was mesmerized by the calm chirping of the birds and the soothing rays of sunlight that seeped through the gaps of the leaves from trees all around the park, while a gentle, gentle wind pushed the stray hairs out of my face with its soft hand. And then you said to me: "Come here. We need to reenact every movement and every scene that took place before the murder. It'll help me think."
I agreed, of course.
"Angela and was standing here", you said, walking over to stand in a spot a few yards from where you were initially. I took this time to admire the poised way you carried yourself as you made your way to the area. I like the way the sun hits your hair and makes you glow. I asked you if I could help with anything, and you replied, much to my surprise: "yes, of course - you'll be Angela Galahand and I'll be her boyfriend, Jake Matthews. If you hadn't noticed, our suspicions should be pointing towards him at the moment and not at Peter Thompson; the friendly shop owner that lives down the street whom the mediocre police force think is the killer."
Then you kissed me. I'd never been kissed before in my life, being unattractive and inactive towards most of the people I meet. I had dreamed about this many times before, but still nothing prepared me for the sheer bliss I would feel from your soft lips on my own. And I didn't care if it was only for a case.
"You look smashin' today, my girl!" you said in some surprisingly convincing cockney accent.
"You're not so bad yourself, Jakey!" I replied to the best of my ability, failing to channel my inner Scotswoman into my act. Angela Galahand was actually Anderson's cousin's ex-girlfriend, and I had seen her and talked to her once or twice whenever she hung around the station.
I remember you bending down to pluck a little daisy from a small shrub that had grown out from beneath the tiles on the ground, genuinely smiling at it, then presenting it to me like a gentleman. I was starting to think that this wasn't actually for the case. You seemed to read my mind, for you proceeded to tell me that you had gotten these details from Matthews' statement. I accepted the flower with a giant grin on my face - I couldn't stop smiling like an idiot.
After that you managed to discover clues and bloodstains in the grass that lead to you proving once again that your genius surpasses that of every bloke in London. Maybe even the world.
Your mind is so complex, like a Rubik's cube no one can solve. The same applies to the beautiful melodies that you write and play on your violin, testing the sound when I know that you know deep down that they're already perfect. I stayed up late one night, just to listen to the enthralling piece you wrote for Irene Adler. Yes, I know that you wrote it for her, and I don't mean this the way you'd think, but you hurt me. With the song. The song of sorrow that wasn't meant for my ears.
I understand that I am boring to you, and that Irene is beautiful and intriguing and the object of your affections (if you indeed possess any). But still this bothers me. I've never wanted to feel the embrace of another so badly before I moved in to 221D. I had never felt the need to put an effort into my appearance before I'd met you, even though I know now that you couldn't care less for what anyone looked like. Never before had someone had such control over my heart before I heard the sweet sorrow of your compositions pour into my room late at night.
I will never forget the time when I was kidnapped by a gang of Russian drug dealers then saved by you and the entire SWAT team following behind you. I'll never cease to remember that Christmas party in which you hilariously yet rudely deduced out loud that Molly Hooper's present was for someone she fancied, oblivious to the fact that she was as smitten with you as I. I'll take this time to ask you to treat her well and make sure she never feels humiliated like that again.
And as for that kiss in the park you gave me - oh, how I wish with all that I have, that you could give me another.
But you won't be able to. Not now. You see, Sherlock... I've let a tumor grow inside me for too long without even realizing it, and by the time I went to see a doctor he informed me with a tragic expression that I had pancreatic cancer.
I couldn't bring myself to tell you or John because of the argument we had the other night regarding your unhealthy addiction to cigarettes, which I had hidden in my room so that you wouldn't find the nasty little rolls. It was a stupid argument, really, and Mrs Hudson can confirm that statement. But the look you gave me, the one of suspicion and scorn which told me instantly that you already knew I hid your precious drugs and despised me for doing so, caused me to run back home and write this sad excuse of a love letter - and leave the next day.
By the time you get to this part of the letter, I will already be in my home country, spending my final months with my family and dearest friends. I'm sorry I acted foolishly and didn't notify you beforehand of my leaving, but I just couldn't bear to see you look at me like that again; not when I'm about to die, and all I want to do before that is spend time with you. So please, please don't miss me. I'm not even sure you do. You may have just finished this letter and thrown it into the bin, nonchalant. But I like to think that you do care about me, if only a little.
Continue to solve that case you were working on, because I know you will, and you're capable of anything. You once asked me what I would choose in this scenario: eternal sorrow and self-pity in exchange for my wants forced onto me unnaturally, or bliss and contentment for a day, knowing that I shall lose all that I have tomorrow. If I could not answer then, my answer, now, is this.
Sherlock Holmes, there is not a single second in a single minute of a single day that I regret first bringing chocolates to your flat. If anything, I'd choose to live the moments we shared over and over again, in the span and comfort of a day, satisfied and ready for the hardships that tomorrow brings.
I choose bliss and contentment.
I choose you.
With love,
(Your Name)
Sherlock Holmes sat in his armchair by the soft, crackling fire, eyes transfixed on the dry tear-stained paper that was (Your Name)'s letter. He could tell that she had taken time to put all her emotions into mere words on a page, though they spoke much more to him than any other words he had ever read throughout his brilliant life. There was a sinking feeling in his chest which he wanted to describe as a chest ache of sorts, though he somehow knew that John wouldn't be able to make it go away.
The detective reread the final few sentences which had caused him to feel the discomfort in the depths of his stomach which he could tell was not physical but couldn't find the words to describe it.
Sherlock Holmes, there is not a single second in a single minute of a single day that I regret first bringing chocolates to your flat. If anything, I'd choose to live the moments we shared over and over again, in the span and comfort of a day, satisfied and ready for the hardships that tomorrow brings.
I choose bliss and contentment.
I choose you.
Nobody had loved him as she did before. Before reading the letter, he had hardly understood the exact concept of 'love' and what it entails, but her words gave him a clear understanding of what it was like to love someone.
The thin piece of paper felt heavy in his hands. The metallic clanking of pots emitting from the kitchen as Mrs Hudson organised it was silenced by an artificial noise canceler in his head, drowning out the flat in a deafening silence.
John came into the room. "Molly's got that body you wanted to examine so badly ready and waiting for us in the morgue. D'you wanna come along now?"
"Um, not today, John. You go ahead and tell me what you saw when you get back."
John looked at his flatmate strangely. "Are you alright, Sherlock?" When the consulting detective didn't answer, John looked around the room, desperate to change the subject. "Have you seen (Your Name)? I haven't spoken to her all morning."
Sherlock stared straight ahead, hands pressed together and tucked beneath his chin. "No, I haven't seen her. I'll tell you if she stopped by once you get back from St Bart's."
Awkwardly, John stood there, knowing full well that there was a problem but not daring to ask. "A-alright, then. I'll be back soon. Call me if you need anything."
And just like that Sherlock was alone again - with the letter.
The flames roared in the fireplace a few feet away from where Sherlock sat, but the room seemed cold and quiet to him nonetheless.
He continued to stare at her messy handwriting for the longest time, until:
"I'm so sorry, (Your Name). Forgive me."