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I never understood what 'falling in love' was supposed to mean. The only person I ever truly loved was John Watson.
That’s the thing though, I have just loved John Watson. There wasn’t any sort of… falling… where would I fall from anyway? It is a ridiculous expression. There never was a harsh landing on the process of loving John.
If we must take use of metaphors, I would say that I always have loved John fatefully, steadily, like water. Like a lake, at times like the ocean even. Of course, sometimes the water is rough but most of the time it is… present. It is wide, it is deep, it is inviting, and yet frightening. The fascination and pull some people feel from the water – that’s what I feel for John.
The love I feel for Mrs. Hudson, for Lestrade, for Molly, for Mycroft even, that had been hard-earned. I wouldn’t admit it. Not with words. However my love for these people is unsteady. Sometimes I can’t stand any of them, like the water – the river – was too demanding, too winding.
When I stood up there, with Moriarty, him explaining his genius plan, pushing me into a quandary, I was forced to drown myself. But at least not drain all water.
By falling for love. Off the roof of Bart’s.