Then my friend's wiry arms were round me, and he was leading me to a chair.

"You're not hurt, Watson? For God's sake, say that you are not hurt!"

It was worth a wound -- it was worth many wounds -- to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. The clear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. For the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain. All my years of humble but single-minded service culminated in that moment of revelation.

"It's nothing, Holmes. It's a mere scratch."

He had ripped up my trousers with his pocket-knife.

"You are right," he cried with an immense sigh of relief. "It is quite superficial." His face set like flint as he glared at our prisoner, who was sitting up with a dazed face. "By the Lord, it is as well for you. If you had killed Watson, you would not have got out of this room alive."

My dear Mycroft,

You have once again bested me. It has been said of me that I am the smartest man in London, but you have proven yourself far more perceptive than I had imagined. The partiality you have mentioned in your letter, and the deeper affection which you not-very-subtly alluded to, I admit to having. I am guilty. I care more than I should.

I write you this letter in the hopes that after I am dead, you or someone you know will endeavor to have it published, so that the truth about me may be generally known.

It is my hope that in the setting down of this narrative, I may clear up some falsehoods about my character which my dear Watson has promulgated. I do not mean to he has made a deliberate alteration in his stories of the facts of our cases or anything of such importance, but that in his characterization of me has made some grave errors. I do not mean that he portrayed me overly negatively. But he accused me of being both the greatest-in terms of intelligence-and the least- in terms of my emotions- towards others. But I am, in truth, neither of those things. If I am so intelligent, then how is it that I failed in my attempts to cease in my improper affections? And if I am so cold, how could I love so strongly?

But we cannot fault my dear Boswell* for this oversight. I most carefully hid my affections, though the pain which it brought me was not inconsiderable. I only slipped up noticeably once. I will save that part of the story for later. I wish to begin my story at the start of my affections, but it is difficult to say when that is, for I was already in very deep before I even realized I was wet. Love is the stealthiest of hunters, not even I could see it coming. I will begin therefore, from out first meeting.

When I first met Dr. John Watson I was ecstatic, for I had made a great innovation in crime detecting. Those who have read Watson's dramatically titled A Study in Scarlet will remember that we were introduced by the insufferable Stamford, who I was certainly not interested in seeing. Watson looked considerably distressed, compared to what I later knew about him, and that was the first thing I noticed. What followed that observations was that he had a unusually open face, considering all his hardships which were many: he was a not-well-off former soldier; a survivor of enteric fever; a gambling addict; he had been wounded in the leg, and had a bad shoulder, possibly because of his continual usage of a cane, though he didn't bring it with him. I concluded that he was a man unusually resistant to the disappointments of life, obviously a strange man- so I thought- and I was not at all concerned with a man who let his optimism get the best of him, for emotions cloud rationality, and therefore disguise the truth of things.

I was glad of his interest in my discovery; he was clearly not a stupid man, for many have underestimated its obvious importance. I told him honestly about my character: if he couldn't handle it now, he never would. "What have you to confess now?" I was curious about him, so I asked more questions than I normally would. But I think I covered it up well, since it is as I told him "It's just as well for two fellows to know the worst of one another before they begin to live together."

It was not love at first sight, or lust at first sight. I will admit to however, that I didn't even consider refusing his request to board together, but this may be attributed to the fact that I am able to learn more about a stranger in a few seconds than the average person in a week of acquaintance.

I had no idea that he was to become the love of my life.

With regards to the Irene Adler affair, I admit I was never interested in the woman. When I asked for her picture, it was merely because I was interested in seeing if he had a tendency towards jealousy. He was right in saying that I am nothing but an admirer of the woman's work. At the time I did not know how much I cared for him, yet I was curious to see how much he cared for me.

I will gloss over some of the later details of our relationship, for most are mundane. I will note however, that I could never seem to remember to bring my revolver, making his presence necessary on dangerous missions. I am now able to acknowledge that this was not because I wanted my adventures chronicled- you know the public's approval means little to me. Whenever I was presented a case I unfailingly asked Watson to remain in the room.

It was during one of those instances that Watson met the lady who was to become his wife. (Does it not seem funny to you, that my then-unknown affection for him was what caused me to lose him?) By the time she had left the room, I knew that Watson had found his love, and it was that revelation that caused me to realize he was mine.

The world is not an overly fair place. I knew that if I cared for him, I could never tell him how I felt. We could never be together, I reasoned, as I am not a criminal, no matter how ridiculous the laws may seem, and I would not wish to make Watson one. The fact that Watson was getting married indicated his indifference to me.

The truth however, is that a man so strange that he could spend all this time in love with a man and not realize it would never be a suitable mate for Watson. I could not give him what he deserved. What he still deserves.

I gave little sign of my displeasure, save a few unkind words on emotion in general. Affection dulls the mind, I told him, and can only hurt. (How well I knew it!)

On the night before his wedding, I realized I had sleepwalked into his bedroom. I do not know what I would have done if I had not awoken- that may be a lie, of course I do- for once I had I stood there for what was only a few seconds. But in those few seconds, oh, you cannot know how hard I fought not to move closer to him. It was my heart against my head in a battle that seemed never to be resolved. It is the first time I remember ever being completely distracted from reason and logic. I am not so sure that I would have left, had he not murmured his fiancée's name in his sleep. I know that I am not an eloquent writer, but I had hoped to at least afford you some amount of clarity. Try as I might to describe the pain this brought me, I find, that in this particular instance, words continue to fail me.

I tried to be a good friend during his marriage. I was best man at Watsons wedding (this experience I choose not to relive for you), and in a halfhearted attempt to rid myself of my affection for him, I spoke to him less, making my visits to his house as far separated from each other as I could force myself to accept. I was not very successful. Occasionally, when I could bear it no longer, I would find myself requesting his help, when I knew I did not need it. For his part, he was always willing.

After my "death" you may note that it was Watson to whom I reappeared. My fake death was a necessary evil: I realized that to save Watsons marriage, and relieve the stress I brought on it by our outings, I had to leave for a time. When I came back, my affection for him would be cured, and I could tell myself our former closeness was merely an illusion, and after many years, I thought I might even start to believe it. You may think me cruel for leaving, but Watson was important to me-too important-, and this was the only way I viewed I could ease the damage I had needlessly inflicted. After all, Watson had done practically the same to me. His leaving me for his wife when I needed him was cruel as well, though I know he did not think that it would hurt me. I did not have to be selfish.

When I returned to him, he fainted, and through the haze of overly emotional worry, in the back of my mind, I hoped that this might mean that he was glad to have me back, that I might have a chance, that we might have a chance. For those few seconds I saw in my mind what a life with him might truly be like. It was then I believed in us, together, it was glorious. If only for a moment. But I knew nothing had changed, though I had missed him more than anyone would have thought I was capable of, until he had controlled my thoughts completely, and in every dream I had, I dreamt of him. Forgive me. It is imprudent of me to write such things, for they are not of great importance to my story.

There is only one other thing which I wish to make clear in this already overlong letter: the events of last week which Watson described in our visit to you yesterday.

I was so overcome with emotion that I made it obvious to even Watson that I cared deeply about him. I begged him to tell me that he had not been hurt. It was as I said: if Watson had been hurt, I would have killed the one who had done it.

A more obvious display of love it would be difficult to find, and Watson was not mistaken in his conclusion that I may have had a "great heart" as well as a great mind.

But Watson thinks little of it. I am not at present worried that he will find me out, for he has discarded it as a fleeting anomaly; strange, to be sure, but not indicative of any greater truth. Therein lies his mistake, for anomalies are the most interesting and informative of all data.

I cannot fault him for this either. If Watson were a great analyst instead of a doctor, a healer, he could never have changed me so completely as to have affection for him. I take responsibility for my emotions.

I have reached the present in my story, but I hope you are not unduly concerned with it. Watson is so much better off because I have kept my affections a secret. It has been said that the course of true love never did run smooth**, and if I am right, and I usually am; this course should not and will not run at all.

I must close the letter here, for I have run out of things I wish to say, and in any case, I have run out of paper: Watson seems to be writing an epic to someone or another. There is a syringe of a certain substance which you will have already guessed at on my desk, and I do not wish it to go to waste. It clears the mind; and you will understand that there a great many things which I wish to forget.

-Sherlock

*Holmes frequently refers to Watson as his Boswell in the canon, who was the biographer of Samuel Johnson.

**Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream. Holmes references Shakespeare in the canon plenty of times, and if Holmes recommends an author, than so do I. Go read it.

A/N: Welcome to the real world. This may or may not be a complete fic. I'm 50/50 about whether I should continue it. I do have the rest of the chapters all planned out though.

This story is dedicated 2 ways: To Alex, who I still insist has no reason to be ashamed, and to Greg, who inspired this story, but who I hope never reads it.