AN: Here in the ER on account of asthma. Been a rough couple months, lol. Wrote this while waiting cuz...well, not much else to do, yeah? I know I haven't updated in a while - I'm working on it, I promise!

xxxxxx

If I could just have a moment of your time.

In response to our recent conversation, I wish to clarify the matter of my behavior regarding Sherlock's death.

As you are most likely were not aware, my brother, my younger brother, was the only remaining family I had.

Our Mother was a beautiful woman. Kind, soft spoken with a warm smile and an easy charm that seemed to put anyone at ease. Her health, however, was fragile and raising two boys (especially, boys like us) was far too much on her own. There seemed an endless string of nannies, all of which Sherlock drove away. At his worst, at his best and everywhere in between, Sherlock responded to me and me alone. Not that we didn't fight. We have our differences, as all brothers do.

I mothered him, yes. Who else would look after him otherwise? And of course, he pretend to resent me for it. But he didn't. Not truly. There was nothing but love between us.

We were there for each other. Understood one another. You of all people can appreciate the importance of that to us. To have someone simply understand. Or try to.

Then Father died. I was twelve, Sherlock five. He barely knew the man. We, I should say. I only met him twice.

Mummy, as I mentioned, was always in delicate health and the death of her husband proved too great a loss. She never recovered. We lost her two months after my sixteenth birthday. Sherlock was nine.

On the day of her death, there had been an argument. An ordinary, brotherly tiff, one of a countless number between us, or at least, that's how it started. It escalated until I declared (for the first time) my intentions for uni and Sherlock screamed that I was just like Father, going away - abandoning them.

As a result, he held me responsible for her death. At seven years old, he could hardly be blamed. It was convenient after all, and he was so young. But he held on to it, despite the passing years. He grew cold toward me, resistant. To the point where he wouldn't see me. Wouldn't even take my calls.

And so I started an informal surveillance detail, just to keep an eye on him.

Then there were the drugs. The six month disappearance. The reappearance - a ghostly skeleton of my brother, overdosed and near death in an alley.

Even then, we would not allow me near him.

Surveillance was upgraded. Surely, you can understand. Surely, if it were your brother, you would do the same.

I had to go through Lestrade. Find Sherlock work, find him a purpose again. And it worked, mostly. But there was still that spark missing from his eyes.

Until you. You brought my brother back to life.

Please, never misunderstand the gratitude I feel towards you for that. Still, I would have given anything to be the one - to be close to him again.

I hope this small note has addressed your concerns sufficiently.

John Watson, you are truly unique. Thank you. For everything.

- MH