(Author's Notes: John Watson & Sherlock Holmes, of course, don't belong to me, but I am very inspired by their characters & story. All credit for their creation to the many Artists who collaborate on the BBC version of Sherlock. And of course to Sir A. Conan Doyle. Tessa DeMauro, however is mine; created many months ago, and well before TSoT aired. I was thrilled, however, to hear dear Sherlock actually speak her name in that episode.
I wrote this well over a year ago, inspired by readings of love letters that I 'd seen online (Benedict's readings, of course!). It got me to thinking, just what would a love letter written by Sherlock Holmes sound like. I was new to the fanfiction then, to reading & to writing it, and I know now that plenty have tackled this same question. This is my humble addition to the lot. I've written heaps more of Sherlock & Tessa's story since, and there are at least a few more stories to tell. I'd planned to finish The Scent of a Woman before posting this here, but in keeping with Valentine's Day, I didn't want to wait any longer. This takes place within the same time frame-the summer of their romance. Thank you to my loyal followers who have room in their hearts for a Sherlock/OFC Romance-we are only a small portion of the fandom, but I believe we are just as passionate as any other!)
Monday morning, and John smelled the bacon frying long before he came into the kitchen to pour himself a cup of coffee. Sure enough, Tessa was there, clad in Sherlock's plaid dressing gown, tidying up the cookware she had used to make breakfast. She smiled easily and wished him a good morning. "Help yourself, John", she said, drying off a dish," I left a plate warming in the oven for you. Scrambled eggs and bacon," she paused a moment, "and there's a half a loaf of bread left if you want some toast." John thanked her and checked the oven for the plate she promised, carrying it, and his coffee, to the table in the front room, where Sherlock was hidden behind the morning paper
Turned out the eggs were scrambled with cheddar cheese, nicely seasoned with salt and pepper, and quite good. Tessa joined them at the table, a cup of tea in hand. They sat in silence as John enjoyed his meal; Tessa was sipping her tea, stealing glances at Sherlock. "These are delicious," John told her "and a treat I didn't expect. Thank you, Tessa."
"My pleasure, John. Though I did have to get some milk from Mrs. Hudson—yours had gone bad." John nodded; milk had a tendency to do that in their flat, with both men often too busy to see to the ordinary tasks of everyday life.
Tessa had finished her tea, and got up to put her cup in the sink. She walked over to stand behind Sherlock, trying to catch a look at what had him so engrossed in the paper. After a few moments, she placed a hand on his shoulder, to get his attention. His focus didn't waver from the paper. Tessa sighed, then said "Well if you boys would excuse me, I need to wash my hair." She leaned in to kiss Sherlock on the cheek and whisper something in his ear. John couldn't help but wonder if she wasn't inviting him to join her. If so, Sherlock appeared unmoved by the request. His reply to Tessa was a half mumble of acknowledgement. Tessa stood back up, her hand lingering a moment longer on Sherlock's shoulder; she shrugged and nodded at John, then headed back to Sherlock's bedroom.
John waited patiently until he heard the shower turn on, before he spoke. He cleared his throat and simply said, "Sherlock?"
Sherlock continued to read, not paying John any real attention, "Hmmmm?"
John pursed his lips, steeling himself for what was to come. "Tell her that you love her." His quiet but firm statement hung between them.
Sherlock lowered the paper only enough to look at John in surprise and slight irritation, "Excuse me?"
John had been prepared for such a reaction. He took a beat, drew a deep breath, saying, "Tell Tessa," he paused a moment, looking his friend straight in the eyes, "that you love her."
Sherlock tilted his head, pausing to process what John was saying. He narrowed his eyes a bit, nonplused at what he saw as John's seemingly random statement, finally settling on an appropriate response, "John, she knows perfectly well how I feel about her." He turned his attention back to the newspaper.
"Probably," John replied, determined to not let Sherlock off that easily, "but you still need to tell her."
This time Sherlock gave no response from behind his paper, but for a slight adjustment of his fingers upon the page. John knew that infinitesimal movement meant he was actually listening, while pretending not to do so. He sighed, doing his best to remain even voiced and patient, "Sherlock, this is important."
Sherlock huffed a bit, finally conceding this was a conversation he couldn't avoid, by lowering the paper altogether. The irksome expression on his face was not enough to stop John from what he needed to say. "Look, she's a sweet, gentle soul, who wears her heart on her sleeve and it's very clear she is deeply, deeply, in love with you. And she deserves to be told at least once a day that you love her and need her in your life…"
Sherlock opened his mouth, but John continued right over him for a change, "…but since we know you're not capable of that, you need to tell her at least from time to time." John nodded his head to punctuate his statement.
Sherlock was speechless for a perhaps a half a minute ("Well, that's a record", John thought), but finally responded "I fail to understand just why this matter is so suddenly pressing for you." He made to return to his paper, but John's tone of voice—straining now to maintain his patience—stopped him.
His admonishment of Sherlock came complete with a wagging finger, "Tessa is the best thing that has ever happened to you. You know it, I know it, and you can be damned well certain she knows it as well. She's just too kind-hearted to point it out to you—that you've neglected her in this."
Sherlock laid the paper on the table, and got up without another word, walking into the kitchen to refill his coffee cup. John saw this as a classic Sherlock tactic to avoid the conversation at hand. He would not let go of the topic until he'd had his say.
"Listen, Sherlock, and get this through your thick head." There was a quote he was trying to remember now, something from his university days, when he would've done just about anything to impress a pretty girl. In this case, it was a Literature Major with legs like no tomorrow. John had done quite a lot of reading that semester in hopes it would loosen the chastity belt the girl seemed to be wearing. And it had worked, eventually. "If you don't want to lose this girl, you need to let her know in no uncertain terms what she means to you."
Sherlock stood in the kitchen, coffee cup hovering near his mouth, his profile inscrutable. Yet John believed his friend was finally really listening; that only a little more persuasion was necessary to drive the point of the whole conversation home. He found a paraphrase of that quote was all that was left in his armory, but it would have to do.
"A woman's heart is a garden, Sherlock." John softened his tone now, hoping this last was enough, "You have to tend it well or it will eventually fail to thrive. Or weeds might creep in to blight what is fair and green." John was almost certain that was the gist of the quote anyway. "Can you understand that?"
Sherlock didn't even give John a glance. He looked down at his cup, seeming to change his mind about it, and placed it on the countertop near the sink. He nodded his head, then turned without a word, walking towards his bedroom, the tails of his dressing gown rippling behind him. He entered his room, closing the door.
In the silence that was left behind, John could hear the shower still running, and Tessa now singing pleasantly. Ironically, it was a love song.
Despite John's doubts, Sherlock did take his advice to heart. He thought on it for days—sometimes at the forefront of his mind, and at the back of his mind almost constantly. Working it through tended to make him short tempered with those in closest proximity. John recognized this behavior straight off and managed to stay out of Sherlock's line of fire. He probably should have warned Tessa as well.
Sherlock's behavior was more abrupt and impatient than Tessa had ever experienced with him. When she noticed his broodiness and inquired after a reason (seeking, as was her nature, to be a helpmate of sorts) she got the tersest responses of their entire relationship. By Friday night of that week, she told Sherlock she wasn't feeling well, and waved him off from picking her up after the show. Instead, she returned to her flat and cried until it seemed there were no tears left to give. She actually feared she'd done something terribly wrong, and had so begun to lose him. Saturday passed in a blur for her, and she knew her performance that evening lacked the usual energy and sense of innocence she normally brought to the young Mrs. De Winter. The tears she cried onstage though—they were truer than any she'd ever shed before an audience.
Still, Sherlock waited for her at the stage door that night, and when Tessa saw him she knew immediately that whatever had been deviling him seemed to be resolved—much to her heart's great relief. In a very rare show of public affection, he gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek, warmly asking, "Feeling better, my dear?" She couldn't help but smile back; such softness from him always made her go weak and completely feminine.
Yet she found herself tentative in his presence, gun-shy, nervous of making a comment that might bring back his dark clouds. Sherlock didn't seek an answer for her unusual timidity, putting it off as some sort of female capriciousness. He tried to be extra patient though, and eventually convinced her to spend the night at Baker Street, as had been their habit on Saturday nights for much of the summer. They didn't make love, but she slept in his arms, which left them both content for the time being.
By early Sunday afternoon, Tessa felt in more comfortable territory and began to come out of her shell. Around mid-afternoon, she remembered she had been carrying a dvd copy of the black and white movie version of Rebecca, waiting for the right chance to watch it with Sherlock.
"Not to compare it, or course, "she told him "Only that it was a favorite of mine since high school. As a treat, the nuns screened it for us instead of classes on the day before Thanksgiving. My friends and I all fell in love with Maxim De Winter," she said smiling in recollection,"—brooding, mysterious, devastatingly handsome," she bit her lip, raised a brow, purposely directing the comment so he would clearly understand her meaning, "and that accent, wellllll… " she sighed and smiled, "we were in an all-girl school, it didn't take much to get our hearts a-flutter. A janitor might've charmed us just as easily, we were young and hungry."
Inwardly, Sherlock was picturing a young, vibrant, school-girl Tessa, clad in knee socks and a tartan skirt with a tie to match. He wasn't sure the American version of a school uniform was the same as those he was familiar with, but the one he imagined her in worked just as well. He smiled, thinking of how bright she must've been, and while obedient and respectful, he'd bet a good sum that she'd had a defiant streak as well. He wondered if the girl she was would even have noticed the boy he'd been. And if his life might have been a bit brighter then for such a little thing.
But no matter—he settled on the sofa while Tessa clicked through the extras on the dvd to get to the main attraction. That done, she leaned against him, drawing his arm inevitably around her shoulders—not always a very comfortable position for him, but one he tolerated (in brief measure anyway) because it pleased her so.
About a half hour into the movie—the naive young woman having been swept off her feet by the mysterious older man—Sherlock made his move—of sorts. "I'm in the mood for something sweet," he said, just a bit above a whisper, "What do you think?" Tessa shared his love of sweets, so he knew she'd likely agree.
"Sounds like a good idea. Any suggestions?" she replied, still engrossed in the film.
"Well, I believe Mrs. Hudson brought up some chocolate trifle she made the other night. There should be enough for two." His eyes were on the movie, but his attention was focused on her response.
Tessa sat up to look at his face, "Oh, but what about John? I wouldn't want to take his share."
Sherlock winked and gave her his best half smile "Nonsense—I don't think John even knows it's there. It can be our little secret." His tone was slightly conspiratorial.
Tessa smiled brightly, paused the dvd, then got up and went to the fridge. Sherlock placed an envelope on the coffee table, and quietly left the room, slipping into the hallway right outside the kitchen. He could hear her moving about inside.
"Oooooo", she exclaimed "turns out its chocolate toffee trifle. This is going to be good." She located plates small enough to serve the dessert on, added spoons so they wouldn't miss a bit of the pudding, and returned to the front room.
"Sherlock?" Tessa called, seeing he had left the room. She pitched her voice so he could hear from elsewhere in the flat, "If you don't come back soon I may eat both portions." She waited a few moments longer, then went to place Sherlock's plate on the coffee table; she saw the envelope addressed to her in his neat, precise script. The sight stopped her in her tracks.
Suddenly all the fears of the past week came flooding back. She stood between the sofa and the table, plates in hand forgotten, pulse beginning to race. Could it possibly be Sherlock's version of a "Dear Jane" letter? Telling her it just wasn't working for him anymore, he would always hold her in the highest regard, but the time had come to move on. Tessa's mouth went dry and she could feel her heart beat as a throb in her head. She managed to sit, shakily, and placed the plates on either side of the table. She forced herself to close her eyes and did a slow count to ten, trying to calm down. It didn't help much.
Her hands were trembling as she reached for the envelope and pulled the flap open. The frightening realization that he'd left the room so she could read it without him present gave her a terrible swooping sensation in her stomach. But she knew it must be read. Two pages, vellum stationary, no mere ball point pen; this was a serious missive.
"My Dearest Tessa,
I know you've been concerned and perplexed by my recent behavior, but rest assured, you needn't be. You know there are times when I'm working through a particularly thorny problem that I tend to turn inward, and can be more than curt till I find a resolution. Such was the case this week. A friend—to both of us, it seems—chided me regarding matters of the heart he felt I've been ignoring. Certainly you are aware that this is unchartered territory for me, so it's taken me some time to find the answer. I trust you will understand and that you will forgive my distraction.
It's been pointed out to me that I have been remiss in expressing—in words, that is—my feelings for you. I've known from the start how intelligent and perceptive you are, so perhaps I've taken for granted that you've known all along—by the many things we've shared—exactly what you mean to me. I've been told this is neglectful, but you must surely know such would never be my way with you. We read each other fairly well, I think; but I realize now that there are certain things that do need saying, and you well deserve to hear.
And so I commit this in writing, a testament of how I feel and what you mean to me.
I love you, Tessa.
I have not said these words to anyone since I was a boy. There was never any cause until now. But that is what you've given me.
I love your gentle, intuitive nature that somehow always seeks to see the best in people, especially me.
I love your easy laughter—genuine and heartfelt to warm those around you—and your appreciation of irony and of the absurd.
I love your enduring patience with me. The fact that you have waited this long for me to say these things, without asking or sulking, is witness to that alone (among the many other instances I'm sure we both could enumerate).
I love how fearlessly you express your emotions. Before you came into my life, I would abhor sentimentality of any sort. You embrace it (and make your living from it) and have shown me it is not always a weakness.
I love the things you've taught me. The things we do together in the night. The things that never fail to leave me wanting you again and again.
I love your faith in the goodness of humanity. You withhold to judge based merely on the meanest of facts.
I love your Faith in a Supreme Being who designed Order and Good out of Chaos. That is a beautiful, optimistic view of the Universe, and although I may seldom agree, I appreciate your consistent belief in this.
I love your faith in me. That I am a better man than I think. Your tender, quiet expectations make me strive to be that man.
The course my life had previously followed never allowed for the detour you've created. You have shattered my assumptions, first about feminine dispositions; next about sentimentality and its proper place in a healthy individual; then about the future I envisioned for myself (that of being solitary and satisfied to be so), and last about the nature of Love. For here I've learned it does not weaken one, even as it exposes one's vulnerabilities; instead, it hones one's best qualities to be even better, for the sake of who we love, and it shows us our flaws (even those we are ashamed of) can be just as dear to our beloved, as our strengths. True and real Love is more forgiving and patient than I'd ever imagined. This is a miracle that stole upon me a little at a time; you are the miracle I never dreamed possible. Know this then, to be true: I Love You. Remember it when I am far away, or distracted, or impatient, or aloof. My heart, open now as never in my life, belongs to you.
Yours Always,
Sherlock
When it came to Tessa, there were times when she simply defied Sherlock's studied expectations. That was perhaps the first of her charms that he had been attracted to. To solve the mystery she presented, her contradictions, the surprise that came when she behaved quite the opposite than he presumed she would. With this letter, he couldn't be certain how she would respond; he had a hunch and a hope, but the answer could only really come from her.
Among the skills he had perfected over the years, Sherlock had a special talent for moving in utter silence when the moment required it. After Tessa had called out to him, joking about the trifle, then falling completely silent, he knew she'd seen the letter sitting on the table. He gave her a few moments to start to read, then moved soundlessly into the kitchen, to stand in just the right spot so he could watch her, while she would not see him there.
Although it didn't really surprise him to see the look of angst on her face—and though he knew her momentary pain would pass—it tweaked his heart to be the cause of even such brief sadness for her. He observed that as she began to read, she had covered her mouth with her left hand. His lifetime study of human behavior informed him that she was subconsciously suppressing a cry of despair—he guessed it to be over what she expected the letter to contain. She expected a goodbye, especially considering his brusque—and truthfully—irritable behavior of the previous week. Watching her thus stricken awoke a tenderness in him that almost overcame his restraint as he waited for her to read on.
Sherlock's eyes were locked upon Tessa as she did so. He saw her expression begin to soften, and the hand that covered her mouth slowly moved downward to rest against her throat. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply—that had to be the point in his letter when she read his first "I love you". His heart quickened happily at the sight. Tessa opened her eyes, moving the letter closer to her face, which now reflected both disbelief and relief as she continued reading. She moved the first page beneath the second.
She had clearly only read the first few sentences, and closed her eyes again. This time she pulled the letter towards her chest, holding it against her heart. She was still for several moments, and Sherlock held his breath while he waited to see her proceed. Composed enough to read on, she started again. He could see the paper shake almost imperceptibly in her hand, as she traced a finger across the words embossed at the top of the page. Her smile small but pure, her face transfixed now, her happiness clearly more certain with every word she read.
When finished, Tessa bowed her head. Sherlock read calmness in her pose, relief, and contentment. He knew he'd made her happy; he knew his words had reached her heart. He watched as she folded the letter carefully, sliding it back into the envelope, and then placing it on the table where she'd found it, this time flap facing up so he would see she had read it. Tessa tilted her head and closed her eyes; she bit her lip upon a smile and a sigh, then opened her eyes and picked up her plate. He gave her a few moments more before calling her name, nonchalantly, so she would know he would be with her shortly.
She looked towards him as he moved into the front room. "So," he asked as though he hadn't been gone for more than a few moments, "is it any good?", motioning towards the dessert she held in hand.
Tessa's face was lit with joy; actress that she was, in real life she was incapable of masking her strongest feelings. "It's…" she paused, her eyes lingering on his, "…divine. The sweetest thing I've ever tasted." Her smile in that moment dazzled him.
Sherlock nodded, happier himself than he'd felt in many a day, "Good. I'd hoped it would be." He crossed in front of the coffee table to return to his place on the sofa. Tessa handed him his plate, then picked up the remote and restarted the movie. They watched in silence as they ate their dessert; Sherlock, as usual, finished first. Tessa left a small bit on the plate, and placed it atop his on the table.
Sherlock sat back comfortably in his corner of the couch, and this time extended his arm as an invitation to Tessa to lean against him. She smiled and snuggled close. Again they sat watching the movie, the silence between them easy. After a few minutes, Tessa sighed, and stretched her neck so she could kiss his cheek. She tarried there, soft lips savoring the slight rough of his cheek, then leaned back against him. "Thank you, Sherlock." was all she said.
Even knowing what she meant, he just had to ask, had to hear her say it, "For what? The trifle?"
"No," she answered with a happy sigh, "for the clarity."