I'm not really certain why I'm writing you this letter. I suppose I'm hoping it's another one of your tricks, that you're about to reveal the secret, surprise us all. But some endings don't change, do they, old chap? Sometimes, when it's over, it's really over. And I guess this is one of those times. There isn't a hidden escape clause this time around, is there? This is really it. And even though that's what logic tells me—and you always did say logic was the only certainty in this world, didn't you?—I keep on hoping. Irrational, I know. But I keep right on doing it. And I can't stop. Maybe it has something to do with the empty feeling in my chest I've had since I heard your phone call. I don't know if there's a name for it, but I suppose it's a bit like love, isn't it? I suppose that's what really missing someone feels like. It's odd, but I don't ever recall feeling this way before. I suppose you're the first one to leave for good. I still can't say it properly. Just thinking about the words hurts. Maybe it's because putting them out there makes it real. Makes me admit what I already know.
That you're dead, Holmes. There, I've gone and said it. You're dead, and I'm not, and I don't know what I'll do without you, how I'll ever get along, because nothing's the same, anymore. Nothing's the same, and nothing ever will be.
I'm scared, Holmes. I wonder if you ever felt this way. I wonder if you ever feared anything. What about those last moments of yours? Even then, I can't see you as the afraid type. Surprised, maybe. Irritated that everything didn't go according to plan. But never scared. Or was that your plan all along? I don't know. Even when you were with me, I never really felt I knew you. But then what was the phone call for, Holmes? What did it mean? Did you know what would happen, I wonder? You must have known. So did the phone call mean the truth, or was it out of considerateness, a common courtesy?
I can't believe it's the latter. I won't believe it's the latter. I need at least that to hold onto.
Goodbye, Holmes. You were a right good fellow. Bit of an ass, most of the time, but I suppose your heart was in the right place, or at least your head.
You stupid, silly fool. I was always yours.
Love,
John Watson
A/N: Well, then. I've recently been dragged into Sherlock by my lovely friends, and that last episode certainly tugged at what was left of my heart strings by the end. The title is a reference to "The Final Problem," which you should definitely all go read. Just to clarify, I ship the two of them strictly as a BrOTP.
Carry on.