Work Text:
It is telling that, after my journeys, I begin this letter on a clear, crisp night compelled to write: ¿No es verdad, ángel de amor, que en esta apartada orilla más pura la luna brilla y se respira mejor?
I’ve travelled far and wide while you mourn me, and though I shouldn’t dwell upon it, my resolve to remain impassive wanes as I approach home and prepare to break your fragile peace. I dare not feel regret, and I regret only its absence, for I would do all this again to you. I would die for you and carry on living-dead for you. I would break your heart to preserve it from a bullet. I would do it.
ὄπταις ἄμμε. You scorch me.
What I will do next is more calculated and unforgivable; I know it, yet shall do it nonetheless.
Mycroft knew he was to inform me of your condition at the earliest moment. I know of your tears. Of the drinking. Of the brawls, and the times Lestrade had to save you from yourself.
I know of the women and the men; I know of her.
I know you smile with her, kiss her, live with her. I know you plan to propose to her.
I’m sorry, John, for I did not die to give you away.
Je reviendrai.