Dear Doctor Watson,

I have never been good with words, or sentiments, or even simple exchanges between two human beings when a part of this two involved me. I can learn the lives in their tiniest details of people having a conversation, their habits, religion, favorites drinks and TV shows, I can deduce anything from a small grin or a blink of the eyes, but when it comes to me, there's nothing. Nothing at all.

I cannot say I've tried really hard to understand human nature. I used to, several years ago, but I quickly gave up, tired and discouraged by the things I have discovered. I even tried to have friends when I was younger and willing to have an actual person to talk to instead of the little cells I looked at through my microscope. But I was awkward, and the rare times I've tried to show any kind of sympathy to another person, I was actually being rude. I finally get to learn that people weren't my area after a few failures, and with time I came not to care whether people liked me or not. Why should I care, after all ?

I've made my way on my own, I finished school and then immediately thrown myself into work. I had to give myself a reputation so that people would actually come to me. This is how I later on get to know Lestrade.

But anyway, I'm not writing this letter to talk to you about my inglorious attempts at being social.

The thing is, I had reached a point where I thought the only valuable thing in life was my work. My brain was, is, like a constantly boiling kettle, burning and screaming, and trembling, ready to explode anytime, and though I'm usually complaining about people's stupidity and calm little minds, I have to admit it, I envy them. There're times where my head is burning like the base of a volcano, where I hear something like a billion bees buzzing against my skull, times where I'm just lying on my couch, begging for the pain and the constant flux of information to stop. Work, as I said before, was the only thing which was able to take the pain away as it kept my mind in activity. It was like the hand who lowered the heat under the kettle, not much, but enough to prevent it from blowing everything up.

Then I discovered drugs. I abused them many times, not caring about my health or brain, or what people might think if they get to know. I wanted to shut the doors of my mind. The first time I've used them was like a revelation. Finally I saw things, I was no more observing. The world came to me like a soft heap of pictures and confused sensations. No more screams, no more endless voices and analysis. No more pain.

I remembered when I was trying to have friends, and I laughed at myself. Why would I need a boring person by my side as long as I had a bottle of cocaine ? Why would I need a voice to talk and comfort me when drugs could make everything silent ?

I have drugged myself for several years, I even came not to bother if people around me knew about this little habit of mine. If they asked why I was inflicting this to myself, I would reply that if alcohol, or movies, or pets permitted people to feel better about their lives and made them forget about the mediocrity of their existences, then why would a simple chemical substance be forbidden ? I didn't care whether it killed my brain cells or not, a part of me even probably wanted it to happen anyway. I kept using drugs while solving murders, and everything was fine.

Yet, it came a day where my brother, tired of my irresponsible behavior and total absence of self-preservation, made me quit. Not in a nice way, if I may say.

Kettle started boiling anew, migraines would keep me awake until I was too exhausted to fight them and then fall in something closer to coma than actual sleep. The world became a book, so I closed every windows with heavy shutters so that I didn't have to read it anymore. I was being naive. I didn't need to see anything to read. I could still hear, smell, touch, feel and taste things. Everything became suddenly noisy and odorous, objects turned into monsters who surrounded me, teasing my over-sensitive sense of touch. It was like having a bad-trip except that I was absolutely clean.

When Mycroft realized that this had nothing to do with drug withdrawal, he began to think I was turning crazy.

I might have, actually.

After a few months, I progressively restarted to solve the murders I had stopped caring about while my mental period. Keeping my mind busy enough, the old good method to remain sane. I was coming back to my old habits, having to live without the euphoria that drugs could bring me. I needed to change my air though. I couldn't stay in the flat I lived in, not anymore, not after having myself locked in it for so long. I came to remember Mrs. Hudson, and the favor she owed me.

I visited the old lady, asked her if I could move in her flat since it was way too big for her alone. She accepted. I just had to pay my rent and everything would be fine. The thing was, I didn't have any money since I spent it all in my drugs. Well, technically I had a pretty full bank account somewhere, but most part of this money came from Mycroft, and by some kind of childish pride, I never accepted to use it. I'd need a flat mate for sure, and even if the idea of sharing my personal space with someone else than my own shadow repelled me, I had to accept it.

This is the part of the story where you come in Doctor Watson. The ex-soldier injured in Afghanistan with the useless cane. I would've never thought in my life that someday, I'd meet someone stupid enough to actually like me in spite of my arrogance, selfishness and massive pessimism. As I have previously mentioned it, I do not care whether people like me or not, I don't give any sort of attention about other's opinions upon me. They may call me a freak, a heartless bastard, a manipulative dickhead for all I care. But you, Doctor Watson, you were different. I intrigued you. I amazed you. Where I thought I didn't care about people's judgments, I realized yours made me feel something. And for the first time in ages, it felt good.

You know, unlike what I may constantly say, I'm not a sociopath, I've never been clinically told I was. I just am an awkward genius who doesn't know anything about love, or friendship, or more generally, people. Being pseudo sociopath protected me. The title frightened people, it kept them away and spared me the effort of having to feel anything. This way, I could stay in a known and safe territory.

And then, here you are, all kind and wise Doctor Watson, not wanting to give up on me the way everyone else already did, making me feel things I've never felt before.

For most people, you would only be this regular short sandy-haired ex-soldier following the smart-arse Sherlock, but to me Doctor Watson, you're the very first person on Earth who can actually stop me from thinking too much by your only presence. You calm me down. You soothe me.

I do like the way you're always rambling about how extraordinary I am, how intelligent and fantastic I am, how my deductions are incredible, yet I don't understand why since you're the one who truly deserves these adjectives.

Now, if you allow me to, I'm going to drop the Doctor Watson and get back to the John.

John, I'm not a good person, I've never been. I don't admit my faults, and never apologize when I hurt the rare people who care about me. There's no room in my mind for sentiments and good deeds. But even though the heart is basically nothing more than a pumping muscle, I'll allow myself a little metaphor. So, as I was saying, there's no room in my mind to care about people, but there's enough room in my heart to care about you.

There.

If you find this, it means you scours into my waste paper basket.

Sincerely yours, Sherlock Holmes.

I just wanted the idea of Sherlock writing a letter to John out of my mind, and then I wrote this little thing? It's not really good, but well, who cares ? As some of you may already know, English isn't my birth language and I don't have any beta, which means I wouldn't surprised if there're a few (or a lot) grammar mistakes in this text, so please, be gentle :)

so, hm, reviews ?