I never intended. I never dreamt.

People like him we know about them. We watch them. But James Moriarty. The most dangerous criminal mind the world has ever seen. And in his pocket the ultimate weapon. A key code. A few lines of computer code that can unlock any door.

I interrogated him for weeks. He wouldn't play along. He just sat there. Staring into the darkness. The only thing that made him open up. I could get him to talk. Just a little. But.

John. I'm sorry. Tell him would you.

Those are the words I said to you John. When you can to me that day. But there is more. There is so much more that I didn't tell you. That I couldn't tell you. Not when he was still. Before he shot himself. Even now I can hardly admit it to myself. But I feel like I owe you an explanation. Why I told him what I did.

There has only ever been two people who I relish a conversation with. The first, although I will never admit it to him, is my brother. The second. Was him. The way he would structure even the shortest of sentences, it is enough to make one smile.

He was such a pleasure to talk to. Not in the conventional sense of that phrase. Just to hear him bend words into rhythms, flow sentences into paragraphs.

At first he didn't say much. I'd planned it all out. What I could tell him. I set boundaries. Allowed him to think he had got all the details, but having none.

However as I told him more. The more he talked. The longer I talked for, the more intricate the sentences.

I don't for one moment expect you to fully understand the attraction I felt towards him. It was never physical. It was similar to when your favourite book ends; you can't wait for a sequel. Another glimpse into that world. Now image you know the author. Whenever you like you can visit them, and they will give you another insight into that world you love, but at a price. At first it isn't much, but the more you look, the more you are giving away. Until you don't know how much is being taken from you.

That is what it is like with him. I didn't love him. I was addicted to his intelligence. And I know you don't want to hear this, but there are times which I want him back. Just to have one more conversation. Just to hear him talk. To dance with his words again.

I know you will have told my brother about what I did, so I ask you, if you feel it right, to explain to him, in your own words, why I did it. Or rather how I did it. Please believe me when I say, I didn't mean for him to access any information. I just couldn't stop him.

Sherlock beat him. I could not.

I am sorry.


Author's Note: I don't own Sherlock