Dear Sherlock Holmes,

You love John Watson.

This had never been intended, of course. You'd gone out of your way to get the person you were least likely to fall in love with, and then he came along, ordinary and normal. But then, within a day of meeting you, he shot a man, and you fell a little bit in love. Oops!

But you couldn't very well kick him out of the flat, could you? No, of course not, what would you say? 'So sorry, I'm in love with you but I really don't need my heart pulverized right now, good day to you, bye.'

This, of course, wouldn't be that bad. He was a competent man, an even better partner in un-crime, and was straighter than a titanium pole. What a shame! You would have made such a lovely couple.

You knew this, of course, and yet you still dug your god-awful-unrequited-crush grave and hopped in, clutching to the incredibly slim chance that John actually was gay, and you had just read the entire situation wrong. That rarely happened, though, so hahaha to your new streak of masochism.

Then you were dead. Not really, you know. Just to the world – which, surprisingly, contains John! How terrible, he thought you were dead. Part of him died with you, you know. If you had been there to see, you'd only see pre-Sherlock John, not the stable army doctor you knew. Yes, knew. Past tense. You changed him, and even though Sherlock-Holmes-sized winds don't knock him over, Sherlock-Holmes-Is-Dead-sized winds do. And he collapsed, darling, completely and utterly crashed and self-destructed. It was all your fault. Ironic, really, that you were ripping him apart and protecting him at the same time.

A lot can happen in three years, Sherlock. You thought that he'd welcome you back with open arms – and he did! (After brandishing a chainsaw to your face, of course.)

But he still didn't love you! After everything that had happened, too. He loved Mary! How delightful – he deserved her, after all. A clever, kind, funny, beautiful woman for John – not you . Boo hoo, Sherlock!
And they got married, and you wore a suit and tie, composed a waltz, proposed a toast to a marriage that you despised and wished would eat itself. Oh, it's funny how life plays out, Sherlock. John and Mary get a happily ever after, and you get your heart burned out of you, just like I said.

You will never be free of me, Sherlock Holmes. Have you missed me?

I told you so,

M