This is my first angst story, and also my first one shot. It made me pretty emotional whilst I was writing it because I'm just that sad haha! Would be lovely to know what you guys think, so leave a review if you have the time!

Thanks so much for reading.

- beacons

If you were to ask John now what he thought of Sherlock Holmes, it would not vary greatly from what he would have responded had you asked at his initial meeting of the man. Arrogant. Insufferable. Pretentious. Troubled. Dashing. Captivating. The only difference would be that now, two years on, he could probably make a decent attempt at telling you why he was that way. However, he wouldn't bore you with such trivia, and Sherlock would tell him that no one need be burdened with the complexities and frivolity of another's relationships.

It was only now, as the sunlight fell upon his face, reflecting the contagious glint in his eyes, that Dr. John Watson felt the unexplainable and irrational need to pluck his notepad from his desk (Sherlock had confiscated his laptop, again), and put pen to paper on the matter.

I am writing this for no apparent reason –

This was true, for the incessant nagging in his ear to finally articulate his feelings had materialized from the depths of no where –

And however pointless this may seem, I feel compelled to continue. The month is March, 2010, and I occupy my armchair as I regularly do, this time unaccompanied by my flat-mate, (who seems to have fled to Barts to collect penicillin. And, Sherlock, if you are ever reading this, I swear I've lost count the amount of times I've told you to stop digging around in my private journals). A little off subject… anyhow, I feel the time has come to express my emotions toward one Sherlock Holmes. The sleuth of the century. Upon my return from Afghanistan, the loneliness I felt was consuming, and deafening, and the hollow space in my chest I thought would never be filled again… the war had left it's mark and I was certain I would never find another thing to do that made my existence worth while. I had watched friends die. If not physically, but emotionally, mentally, I had died with them. But then along came that conceited dick, who despite clearly only requiring my presence to vent his anger or boost his own confidence based on my lack of intellect in comparison to his own… made me feel whole. I don't know how. My journey with him has brought to my attention the connection we share, I don't know what you might call it… and for god's sake, no, for the last time, in case anyone cares, we are not gay. Although, regardless, I feel in him I have found a life-partner, a sort of companionship that fills the void… I must stay with him. Truth be told I fear what might happen to him should I leave… the thought of it makes me fundamentally fearful…

The ink from John's pen continued across the page as his hand faltered at his own words. It was mid-day, and he knew this, but his gaze wandered to the clock. Sherlock had been gone a while. Then he found the skull, sitting miserably on the mantle piece.

"Mrs. Hudson took my skull."

"So I'm filling in for your skull?"

"Relax, you're doing fine."

Perhaps there was more in those lines than John had given them credit for. Sherlock was – had been – very alone. Before John, Sherlock did not have a friend. He was just as alone as John had been. Much in the same way that Sherlock filled a void in John's life, John had filled a void in his. The thought warmed him, as he continued to scrawl across his notepad.

Sherlock returned from the hospital around six, and John watched silently as he went about removing his scarf and coat, hanging them up, moving toward the mountain of paperwork stacked up on the table and flitting through them impatiently. It was always fascinating to watch Sherlock go about – the way he moved, the way his muscles would contract ever so slightly as the realization of something he would probably curse him self for not picking up on sooner would dawn on him, the way his jade eyes begged the untold story of an unhappy childhood, how his hands masterfully recited the melody of something recreated or something original on his violin…

"You've been redundant."

Sherlock did not look at John at the accusation but continued to go through his papers, looking for something or nothing, probably trying to keep himself busy. John glanced upward, his frown lines intensifying.

"Redundant?"

"Yes. You haven't done anything all day. Well, maybe you wrote something monotonous about me, but apart from that you have been idle. Your body language gives away everything about you, John."

The doctor allowed the comment to pass over him as he usually did, no longer bothered by Sherlock's ability to read every cubic detail of his existence with such ease. Maybe this was the result of growing tired, maybe this was the result of growing fonder, or maybe this was the result of simply coming to accept the man Sherlock was wholeheartedly. Sherlock was an encyclopedia of terms and definitions and fact, but also was he a sonnet of love. Because John knew. John knew Sherlock loved him, even if he couldn't vocalize it.

On this particular evening, as Sherlock sat in his armchair with his elbows on his knees, hands in the praying position at his lips, the doctor noticed a minute difference in the man's composure. There was nothing new, no – in fact, something was missing. Something that had always been there before, except for the night he had sat in the pub in Dartmoor – the hounds of Baskerville case had ignited a sense of self doubt within Sherlock, which had never resurfaced until now.

"There's something I need to tell you, John."

His tone of voice masked something that John wasn't sure he had ever really seen in Sherlock before. It was almost like fear, but more like… pain. The momentary gap in which neither of the two spoke allowed a blanket of silence to swamp them, a silence so thick and cold, the hairs on the back of John's neck stood to attention, a silence so thick and cold that the sound of the clock ticking away in the background became primary noise and echoed like the resounding sound of a cathedral bell.

Sherlock's gaze found his, and for a second almost every secret he had ever retained threatened to reveal themselves, but then as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone.

"Okay, should I be worried?" John eventually replied, unsure whether his voice gave away the sudden trepidation he felt. The detective's upper lip twitched and his right shoulder moved upwards into a shrug before it fell again as if admitting defeat. Sherlock exhaled deeply.

"You must understand, John, that I do not establish emotional attachments. But you do and therefore I have been reluctant to divulge this information to you. Primarily, it is important that you understand that."

At this point, and John could not label the feeling directly, but a strange sensation had begun to creep up on him, wrapped itself around his body and was suffocating him, depriving him of oxygen. In response he simply raised an eyebrow and edged upward in his chair. "Sherlock… Sherlock, what are you trying to tell me?"

"It's an illness, John. A vicious one, at that. Impossible to give a time span, depends on the host. Most doctors are inaccurate, given their general incompetency."

The walls of the flat begun to close in around them, slowly crushing everything that compiled their surroundings, of the two years they had had together, a rather fitting metaphor for what had just been announced. They stood about a meter apart from each other on a solid platform, and just as John reached out for Sherlock, there came a sickening crack and the floor at their feet split right through the middle. John's side shook and trembled before coming away from Sherlock's completely and plummeting downwards, taking John with it, though he screamed and kicked and cried still with his hand stretching for his friend.

"…John?"

"So what is it exactly you're telling me, Sherlock?"

The doctor's question threw him off guard. He had not expected John to need him to say the words; he'd thought the subtext would be quite clear to him given his profession, but no, the demon needed a name. As always, John surprised him.

"Cancer, John. Lung cancer, to be exact. Probably the most boring of cancers, and the most predictable, but it's not like I can be choosey."

Those words burned their way into John's peripheral vision and no matter where he looked, he could always see them. Always there, cancer, John. Lung cancer, to be exact. Probably the most boring of cancers, and the most predictable, but it's not like I can be choosey… For a long time afterwards, they were the only words that seemed to ring through his ears, and for once he had been shocked by Sherlock's careless attitude towards such a thing. Now when he looks back he understands it was his method of coping, even if it was a little dry. He did not wish to allow the demon to get the better of him, and that was reasonable. That was just fine. In that moment, though, John could see the past two years of playing consulting detective with Sherlock as fleeting memories across his brain, he could see the smile on his face that he so dearly cherished and mentally stored them away, unwilling to ever let himself forget that face. He'd only just found out and yet was already on the path to saying goodbye. Stop being such a twat, John. He's not dead yet.

John mentally composed himself before shifting slightly in his chair. Sherlock watched intently, his eyebrows furrowing in the middle. "You said that you had been reluctant to tell me."

"Six months. I found out six months ago."

Six months. That was plenty long enough for the disease to manifest itself –

"And I suppose you've been refusing treatment?"

"Naturally."

Naturally. Of course. Sherlock was not a man to ever accept help when it came to his body, it was weakness.

Sherlock watched as John's eyes searched his, his frown lines deep and the corner of his mouth turned down. As of yet the only emotion he had been able to read had been disappointment, disappointment in him. He could already see the unspoken words: First of all you wait six fucking months to tell me you have cancer and then you're not even going to try and pretend you care! Dammit Sherlock, are you mad? For once could you just be a normal person and accept help? What's wrong with you? This could end you, Sherlock, this could kill you! And you'd rather maintain your stupid idea that you don't need help rather than admit defeat? This is your life! The man before him cast his gaze to the floor, and this tiny little movement meant everything. He couldn't even bring himself to look at him.

"John, you must understand why I waited to tell you."

"Because you knew if you told me sooner I'd make you get chemo."

"I knew you would be against my decision and I didn't want to burden you until this was…"

Sherlock's sentence trailed off and the air grew dense. It was no longer oxygen they breathed, but tar, or something similar of a thick and gloopy substance, slowly oozing through their systems and poisoning them. Well, that's what it felt like anyhow. The words, the situation, all poison, all slowly killing them. The doctor looked up almost immediately, praying to the God that may or may not have been up there that his interpretation of that sentence was completely wrong.

"It's spread."

"Well of course its spread, John, I haven't been receiving treatment and it's been six months."

"You were going to say, until this was nearly all over. You didn't tell me for six months that you had cancer and now you're dying, and I never even got a say in the matter. Don't tell me that you didn't want to burden me, because now I am burdened more than ever."

At this, Sherlock leant back in his seat. His hands fell to his knees and rested there, and for a few moments that felt like an eternity, he was speechless. His intentions were in fact all well – he had genuinely believed he was doing the right thing by John, by protecting him from the truth until it was absolutely unavoidable. Yes, given, he had done it partly because he knew John would detest with passion his decision to refuse chemotherapy, but… he never, ever, wanted to hurt the doctor, and now that disappointment that tarnished his eyes was inescapable, making Sherlock's stomach lurch and igniting a terrible guilt that he never thought he would shake.

"Death comes to all of us John, at our time, and there is no use trying to get away from it."

"But you could of – you could have let me have this time with you, Sherlock, you could have let me spend it well…"

The evening was growing darker, as was Sherlock's presence in John's life. He couldn't help but be cynical about it - his best friend was dying, and he hadn't even been aware till now. Sherlock had estimated two months left - the doctors, three.

"I can feel it now, John. I can feel my body deteriorating."

John would never forget that night.

"But there must be something you can do - I mean, for god sakes, you're Sherlock Holmes. You're supposed to outlive God trying to have the last word."

It would eat away at him for the rest of his days.

"This was my choice, John, it was my decision to allow this to take its course. I only ask of you now that you support me until it is done. Stay with me."

The man before him turned into a frightened child, his eyes pleading. John's hand reached out, his fingers circling around Sherlock's.

"Of course I'll stay. I won't go anywhere. I'll be right here, always."

As much as John wanted to prolong the inevitable, to wrap Sherlock up in his arms and never let him go, as much as he even wished he could trade places with him, to somehow transfer the demon from Sherlock's body to his own... he knew that the end was nigh and there was nothing in his power that he could do to prevent it. Instead he would be strong, he would smile, he would carry on as normal, for as long as Sherlock's body would allow it.

The more John wanted to elongate the days and extend his time with Sherlock, the quicker time flew. Days turned into weeks and gradually, Sherlock became worse and worse.

One morning in early April, the two sat in their living room, listening to rubbish television and now and then making comments about just how awful it was. John was not listening, though; instead his eyes were fixed on the untouched piece of toast he had made for Sherlock that sat forlorn and neglected in front of the detective.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock glanced upward, his blanket slipping.

"You need to eat something. You haven't eaten anything in two days. Please, Sherlock, just~"

"I can't, John. If I eat I'm going to be sick."

This became his usual response and eventually John stopped asking. As time went on, Sherlock's face grew paler, sickeningly white, which before might have illuminated his jade orbs but now even those had muted in colour, the bags under his eyes grew darker and heavier, and his lips were always chapped and sore. To begin with the doctors at the hospital had insisted he stay there, to which Sherlock replied, "If I'm going to die, I'll die somewhere I'm comfortable." At this John had had to leave the room for a small cry. Something he'd being doing less of now, actually, because he realized it made no difference and it only irritated Sherlock. Anyhow, now the doctor's had given in because it was clear to anyone with half a brain that he really was on his way out, and no amount of medical assistance was going to change that. So, on the good days the two would spend the day out, maybe to sit on a park bench and enjoy the view, the colour, the serenity of the cool air against their faces, and on the bad days, Sherlock would occupy his arm chair with his duvet and a hot water bottle. John had taken to sleeping on the floor in Sherlock's room at night to keep an eye on him, something Sherlock had greatly protested against to begin with but now was hugely grateful for.

The toast grew cold. So did Sherlock.

"John, I need some more hot water."

John was willingly at his beck and call, not wasting a second each time Sherlock needed something. He dropped his newspaper, quickly swallowed the last mouthful of his sandwich and sprung from his chair, grabbing the bottle from Sherlock's stomach.

Dashing to the kitchen, he boiled the kettle and leant against the worktop. He ran a calloused and tired hand through his hair, allowing his eyes to shut for just a moment, listening to Sherlock's raspy breathing from the living room. It was only moments like this, the rare moments that he now got alone, that his fatigue would creep up on him. His body would ache relentlessly with the constant running about and lack of sleep, for most nights now he spent rubbing Sherlock's back when he was being sick or simply being too scared to fall asleep in case… in case… well.

Breathing in, breathing out. Breathing in, breathing out. He hadn't realized the sound had lulled him to sleep until he was shaken abruptly awake by the nauseating noise of his flat mate heaving from the bathroom, emptying his entire insides. This, as it happens, couldn't have been much considering the last thing he ate was a piece of cheese yesterday evening. The doctor rushed to his aid, falling to his knees next to Sherlock at the sight of his thinning body leant over the toilet, his hair disheveled and matted. John thought back to the horrible comment Sherlock had made last week about this very matter: "Well, John, look on the bright side. At least my decision to not have chemotherapy left my hair intact." The memory of it made his toes curl as it had done when he'd said it, his dry and awful humor always ignorant and sometimes evil.

John's left hand rubbed circles into his back, his right coming up and smoothing the hair out of his face that had become stuck with sweat.

"I want to sleep," Sherlock whispered, breathless. He fell back against the wall, seemingly finished vomiting, bringing his legs up to his chest and lolling his head back. John shuffled in front of him.

"Do you want me to get you some Donormyl? I can fetch some from the surgery."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I don't want to be alone."

They sat there for some time, and every now and then Sherlock would lurch back over the toilet, and John would comfort him, and then he'd had to hurry to the kitchen to get some water and some diazepam as the detective began to complain of stomach pain. It begun as a dull ache in his pelvis, he had said, which then progressed to a stabbing sensation, which then formed into a horrible agony in his abdomen. John helped him to his bed, laying him down and propping the pillows up underneath his head, resting his water on the beside table along with the hot water bottle. He refused to wail or cry from the hurt, and instead tried to maintain a straight composure, but eventually began to writhe in his sheets. Once the painkillers took their toll, he fell asleep, perhaps only for an hour or so. John sat on the floor against the wall; resting his head on his hand and trying with all his might to fight the weariness he felt, the sleep that threatened to take over.

Being Sherlock's carer was exhausting, mentally, emotionally, and physically, but John wouldn't have had it any other way.

Mrs. Hudson, when they told her, had thrown her palm to her mouth and suppressed a sort of whine. Then she'd stumbled a little and John had to guide her to the chair, to which Sherlock had retorted: "Oh, really, Mrs. Hudson. It's not the end of the world. At least you won't have any more bullet holes in your wall." That was the thing about Sherlock. All the things that once infuriated you about him seemed impossible to let go of when the prospect of him no longer being around was upon you. Mycroft had simply exhaled deeply, looked up at the ceiling, pinched the bridge of his nose and rested a hand on John's shoulder. He then did the same to Sherlock, who simply looked away in disregard for his brother's feelings. They'd never had a good relationship and it seemed that even in the face of death, Sherlock wasn't partial to reconciliation. Lestrade had tripped over his own words, sounding rather like a bumbling child trying to defend their naughty actions – "but – there must – can't they save him? I mean – that's impossible, not Sherlock, it's not possible – you say he refused treatment? – why would he do that?"

"Why does Sherlock do any of the things he does?" had been John's reply. When Molly had been informed, she'd insisted that she visit the detective herself.

It had been a rather pathetic scenario to watch, but probed the doctor's heart nonetheless as he listened from outside the door. She'd begun to cry and told Sherlock that she'd always admired him, and for once Sherlock didn't have the heart to shoot her down or make her feel small.

"Thank you for your assistance these past years, Molly Hooper."

"If you – if you need anything, anything at all before you – well, you know, then… Just ask, okay? I'll do anything to help you."

Sherlock placed a small kiss on her cheek. "Your work with me is done."

"Do you remember the first time we met?"

The doctor walked with his arm looped through Sherlock's to support him, trying to ignore the way his legs shook, as they both stare over the railings at the Thames. The weather was warm, but Sherlock still needed to wear his scarf and coat as he was unable to retain a normal temperature these days. He raised an eyebrow.

"Please, John, don't start bombarding me with awful clichés."

"No, just listen. When we first met, I thought you were the biggest, most arrogant nob I had ever met."

"Well that's a lovely thing to say to someone who's dying."

John paused for a second, glaring at him. The 'd' word always felt like a steak in the heart for John, so he'd banned its usage. Sherlock wore apologetic eyes, and John loosened up before walking again. "And has your impression changed?"

John grinned. "Not at all," he beamed. The detective smiled. "I can just endure you better now."

The two of them shared a mutual understanding that there was far, far more than to it than that, something more in depth and complex and heart warming. They shared something incredibly special, something amazing, something that didn't need to be articulated because they could both just enjoy it in this moment over looking the river in the bright city that not long ago they had roamed together, minds on fire and excited, excited at the case at hand and the prospect of a long lasting friendship. It was these moments that feigned off the demon that had taken Sherlock's body hostage, moments like these were they could forget and simply appreciate Sherlock's final days on Earth.

That evening, John had rushed to the surgery to pick up some more Donormyl, leaving Sherlock (much to Sherlock's irritation) in the care of Mrs. Hudson. Whilst she busied herself cleaning the mess that their flat had become, the detective found himself rummaging through John's personal things, flicking through notepads and case files and flinging them aside. He sat at the table wrapped in his duvet, hot water bottle at his stomach and glass of water at his side, eyes scanning whatever rubbish John had thought to be of any sort of remote importance over the past two years. A lot of it he had seen before, but on this day in particular, he felt he needed to go over it again, to consume as much information on the doctor as he could, to be surrounded by him, including all his flaws and even the long winded bullshit in his journals. He skimmed and scanned until he came across one page in particular, in John's favourite notebook, the page simply titled, 'my confession'.

… Truth be told I fear what might happen to him should I leave… the thought of it makes me fundamentally fearful… I can't imagine what it would be like without him, because the bastard has quite literally burned himself into my life, occupies the once empty space within me. I feel a compelling need to keep him safe. No one else understands Sherlock Holmes, and in all honesty I'm not sure if I fully understand him now… but I believe in me he has found something he was always looking for, even if he didn't realise he was looking for it. He is my best friend, my companion, a life long partner, a colleague. It is my responsibility to keep him well, to keep him going…

His fingers traced John's messy handwriting. His words were sincere, meaningful, pathetic. Pathetic but beautiful. He stared at the page, touched the ink, wanting the words to scold into his memory so he could always hear them, in the lullaby that was John's voice. As he shivered, he pulled his duvet tighter around him and imagined they were John's arms. John. The man who didn't bore him. John. The man who hadn't given up. John.

The dawn filtered through the curtains, painfully bright, stinging John's retinas. He'd come to see the arrival of another day as a marking off of the life calendar for Sherlock, as morbid as it sounded. Sleeping on the floor was taking its toll on his back, but the ache was instantly forgotten at the loud thud that tore him fully from his uncomfortable slumber. His eyes darted straight to the bed, which didn't hold any sort of Sherlock, and his heart sank as he jumped to his feet to see the detective on the ground, shirt stuck to his chest with sweat. He clutched his heart, his breathing accelerated and uneven, eyes fluttering close, his free hand pushed up against the wall for support. John ran to his side, gripped his hand.

"Sherlock?" he pleaded, not sure if he had ever seen him in such a state. The detective shook his head slowly, his hand gradually reaching up and pointing at the glass of water that lay by John's covers on the floor.

"Oh my god, Sherlock, I'm so sorry – I forgot to put one down for you – this is my fault, I should have put one on your table~"

"Relax, John," Sherlock managed, before sipping at the water John now held to his lips. He drank for a moment before pulling away and closing his eyes, concentrating on controlling his breathing. John bit the inside of his cheek as he scrutinized Sherlock's appearance, taking in how the life was fleeing his eyes, leaving behind a sad remnant of the man he once was, a sad remnant of a busy mind. He took in the way his once glorious cheekbones were now too prominent, sticking out of his gaunt face and starting to look a lot like the caricature that had been published of him in The Daily Mail.

John pulled his friend from off of the floor, hands under his armpits, guiding him slowly back to the bed. He'd been muttering "I'm sorry," for the past five minutes absent mindedly, unable to express the guilt he felt for forgetting to place a glass of water at Sherlock's side and how such a stupid mistake could have such awful consequences.

John gave Sherlock a shot of morphine after getting him comfortable, having been sneaking supplies from work and using Sarah as an accomplice. His subconscious knew that tonight was the night.

"John." Sherlock gripped the doctor's jumper, pulling him to sit on the bed. "I want you to know something."

No. God no, not this. The doctor could already feel his heart tearing in two. The fact that Sherlock was preparing for some sort of sentiment told him everything he needed to know.

He was ready to die.

"Sherlock, please don't~"

The detective squeezed John's arm, his long fingers bony and frail. "I want you to just listen to me, okay?" Beads of sweat were dripping from his face. John soaked the flannel in the bowl of water he'd collected the night before, and placed it on his forehead. Mustering up the energy to talk had become a conscious effort for Sherlock but he took a deep breath and begun, knowing that this could be the last time he would speak to John again.

"I want you to know that I do have feelings, John. I do feel things, I do have a heart. Despite not showing it all the time… I never wanted sentiment to distract me from my work. But seeing as now my work is done, I feel you should know that you were my greatest friend, John, my only friend. I want to thank you for staying with no obligation to. I want to thank you for showing me friendship."

His grip was tight on John's arm. John shook his head. This is not a goodbye, not yet, Sherlock. He busied himself sorting the pillows beneath his head, arranging the covers around him, pulling the bed sheet tighter at the corners.

"Stop, John."

No. I won't humour your selfishness. How dare you be willing to let yourself die.

"John."

I won't give up on you, Sherlock.

"That's enough."

John felt the hand close around his wrist once more. The grip was looser this time. His gaze found his. The lights in his eyes were almost out.

John stumbled slightly at the realization that this was it. This was Sherlock's final night. He gripped the side of the mattress, trying relentlessly to fight the tears that begged to fall. Eventually, he was seated, held weakly by Sherlock.

He felt his bottom lip quiver. "I don't want you to go."

The former detective gave a weak smile, his chest rising and falling very slowly. "That's part of life, John, and in our turn we are all taken by death."

His voice was not authoritative anymore, it was not confident, it was not loud. Nothing about him held any evidence of the brilliant man he once was. Looking back, John supposed that was the worst thing about it all. Watching a fantastic man like Sherlock slowly deteriorate, lose that excited glint in his eyes as the ability to reel off a deduction or solve a case in 12 hours slowly abandoned him.

"I'm not sad, John, and you shouldn't be either. I had my time and you shall have yours. The world will keep turning."

The grip on his wrist was getting looser. His eyes growing dimmer.

"You're my best friend," John's small voice trembled, clutching on to Sherlock's hand for dear life.

"As you are mine."

John began to taste the saltiness of his own tears on his lips as Sherlock's breathing slowed, before he leant down to rest his head on his friend's shoulder. He took him in, the way he felt, the way he smelled, the colour of his humanity, soaking up all the Sherlock he possibly could before it happened. Sherlock's hand rested on John's crown, as the doctor sobbed silently into his shirt and clutched onto him like a helpless child.

They stayed that way for a while, holding each other, gently and silently savoring their last moments, remembering the times they shared together. A new day was being born as Sherlock's life ended.

It may have been an hour, maybe more, before John looked up through tired eyes.

"S-Sherlock?"

His fingers wrapped around his wrist.

It was done.

Monday, 17th May 2010.

Hello John.

I had no doubt that you would someday stumble across this letter. Your tendencies to write your feelings are monotonous, as I have always told you, so I give you permission to scold at me, where ever I am now, for this 'confession'.

I feel it an obligation to finally tell you all the things I have ever wanted to tell you, but somehow, despite my vast vocabulary, have never found the words.

Firstly, I would like to say that you are by no means, at all, an idiot. Regardless of my incessant insistence that you are in fact an idiot, you are not. On the contrary, you are the wisest man I have ever had the privilege of knowing (aside from myself, of course) and have thus been a pleasure to live and work with. I never was fully able to understand you, John, as you never ceased to surprise me, which made you a constant adventure and an excitement for me.

Secondly, I would like you to know that despite my inability to forge relationships, my relationship with you came with such ease I was incredulous. You have an infectious way about you and this is something that I do not doubt will guide you into the future and into a life far greater than the life you would have had with me.

Thirdly, I would like you to have in writing, that you are my best friend. I was alone, as you rightly concluded in one of your journals, but your arrival into my life rescued me in a way that I had not been aware I needed to be rescued. Thank you for enduring me, John, even though at times I know you wanted to punch me in the face.

Last but not least, I would like to ask of you to move on. If you have not done already, I would like you to let go of the life we shared, and put your talents to other uses, to other people. Do not forget me though, John; you are my only hope at having a lasting memory. But please, for me. Do not be broken.

Thank you, John Watson, and good bye.

Your friend,

Sherlock Holmes