Just a one-shot I wrote a long time ago and I thought I'd post, I know its not wonderful but….review anyway : )
My Friend
My Friend. My Watson. My Boswell. You are asleep and I am alone. This is not an unusual state of affairs. I am frequently alone. I watch you while you are sleeping and wonder how it is that such a soul came to intertwine his life with mine. Do not think that I am in any way demeaning myself. I profess to be nothing other than what I am. You above all should know that I have no modesty when it comes to my own achievements and you should know that there is no more to me than what you encounter. No more, that is that I want you to encounter.
You see, my friend, I have guarded myself from being completely laid open to you, I have made allowances for the questions I know you wish to ask, I see them daily in your eyes. I am sorry but I am afraid you will never know the true soul of Sherlock Holmes. Presuming of course that I actually have a soul. I winder if you ever considered the possibility that I did not? I myself am not sure. I know you are expecting some singular tragedy to to appear in my life, some disaster that has moulded me into the man I am today. Let me dispel this fancy. There is no marvellous tragedy, as I have said I profess to be nothing more than what I am, so not think otherwise. My childhood and indeed my life, have been entirely unremarkable. My life became remarkable when you entered it. You have moulded me into the man I am today, heaven knows what I would have been, what I have been…
Believe that you are everything a man could want in a friend. You are brave, I can trust you, you record everything I do with startling accuracy and you always play the game. Not that I would dare say that to your face; you would become far too egotistical and there is room only for my ego I'm afraid. And in spite of all this, I cannot say that I love you the way that you love me. I love you with the same love I have for my brother, innocence and admiration, perhaps even a little awe. Maybe that is the way you love me, I am not certain I recognise love or would know quite how to love another human being. I have never really been given the opportunity. I will leave that to make of what you will. I do not think I would die for you. You see, my dear Watson, to die for you would mean that I have given everything over to you and that I wish you to live above me and while I greatly value your life and do not wish any harm to come to you, I am not prepared to be that completely laid open to you…or to anyone.
I wish I could be the friend to you that you are to me. The tragedy of my life is that I know I never will be. If I lost you I do not how I could possibly live. Who would protect me from myself? For you are the only one who truly knows what I am capable of. I hope I am of some help to you, at least in some capacity. I would like to believe that somewhere in your heart of hearts you value me purely as a friend and not the cold, analytical detective that you admire. But then, would I? for then you would know all of me and that is not what I want from you. I know I need you here but I do not know why. I know the mind is a strange thing that demands strange things. I know my friend, you can never leave me. Your eyelids are fluttering, you are awake. You look at me with fear in your eyes and my breath catches in my throat as you look into my very soul, a place no-one, not even you, will ever understand.
"Holmes? What is it?" Your voice is tight, strained, slow from sleep but your eyes are wide awake, "Have you been crying?"