You are everything I am not.

You are the man I could never be.

And I do not believe you truly understand me when I say this.

Because everything you do is perfect.

And though you are modest.

Sometimes vain.

You simply get along with your work.

Your wonderful work.

I feel magnificent.

Knowing that I am there to help.

Should you need me.

I do not tell you enough.

How marvellous you are to me.

To this country.

Our line of work is not the best.

As it can often be trivial and far too demanding.

But we pull through.

As the partners we are, sir.

Yet.

I digress.

As I sit here and write, you conspire in that chair.

Plucking the strings on that beautiful instrument, you love so dearly.

And I cannot help but wonder what follows.

For, I cannot stay here.

I believe you already know this.

Being as intelligent as you are.

But do you know why?

It is what you have done to me.

Not physically, however.

I know it is wrong.

Illegal.

So I must leave you.

Before I may be punished under the law...

Your brilliant mind could not understand this.

For I love you, Holmes.

My Sherlock Holmes.

Your dear friend,

John Watson