Dear John
I know you'll never get this. I don't even know why I write these, they only end up burned and discarded. Perhaps in a fit of sentimentality I hope the ashes will find their way to you and you will understand their significance.
No. I know that's not possible. And it's overly sentimental and very much not me.
But then... I haven't been me since I left. One thousand and one days ago. One thousand and one letters ago. One thousand and one. And now I'm coming home.
Maybe I'll keep this one. Maybe you will finally be able to read one of the many notes I've written for you. But somehow, I doubt it.
I don't even know if I will make it back to you. But you need to know that that was always my intention. You were always in my mind. Constantly. Sometimes it was welcome. The thoughts of you calmed me when I could not sleep. I would lay at night and simply remember. You making tea, your face when I've done something 'irritating', your mannerisms when you tried to force me to eat and sleep and generally take care of you.
But at other times... it was a burden. When I was stabbed and bleeding, I longed for my blogger, I wanted you there, I felt I needed you there. Not because of your medical background -though that would have been useful at the time. But rather...I simply wanted your presence. Just for you to be there with me, in what seemed very likely to be my last moments.
It happened often enough for me to realize that my dying thoughts are more than likely to be of you-and my regret that I would never again see you.
So no. I've changed my mind. Even if I am not able to return to you. This letter will.
I did not die that day at Bart's-as would be obvious with this letter. No. I left. I had to. And there isn't a day that I don't wish I didn't have to. But had I not left, you would be dead, and that is not an option. Not at all.
The world is a better place with John Watson in it.
Though I do have a confession to make. Two actually, though one will remain unspoken, unwritten until I can see you once again. No, what I will tell you today, is that I have returned to London a few times and that I watched you. I saw how my 'death' hurt you, and I saw how you grew because of it. I saw how you were crippled with grief, and I saw how you overcame it. I am proud of you, John. I have been, and I always will be. You are stronger than I ever could be.
While I was gone, you grew, you lived and you continued to survive. Whereas I simply stopped, motivated to move only by the threat of your death. My only motivator for those long years was that it was for you. Everything. My life has revolved around you since the moment we met, but it has never been more true than when we became separated.
For three years, I have gone from country to country, continent to continent with one sole goal. Take out Moriarty's web. Once they are gone, then you will be safe.
And there is but one remaining. One man, just one more. Then I'll come home, where I will continue to protect you. Because, John Watson, you are the better of the two of us. The better man. The better human being. Just.. better.
I have decided to send this ahead of me. You should receive this less than a week before I return-if all goes to plan. By the time you read this, my mission should be done. Moran should be dead and you will be safe. So, my dearest John, I send this on to you, with one promise that I will hold true to my last breath.
I will see you soon.
-Sherlock
The letter reached John two days before Christmas.
Five days after the new year, it took its place in the draw. Right where his gun once sat.
One thousand and fourteen days after Sherlock's fall, John's body hit the ground.