Technically, Sherlock Holmes belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, although I'd like to think he belongs to our own fondness as well.
No, they serve no practical purpose whatsoever. It is a quarter past two o'clock in the morning, and I have been travelling on this lurching train for the past three hours. Sleep will not come; therefore, a slowly swelling weakness has impelled me to submit my brain to a sheet of foolscap. Presently, that predominant force is occupied by thoughts of Park Lane, the man who wants to see me dead, and my old companion.
Watson thinks that my body lies under the crashing waters of Reichenbach Falls... as do all upstanding citizens. Indeed, he assisted that general opinion by his own publicizing of my apparent demise. He might not have been mistaken for all these years, but it is a shame what kindness of heart forbids. My fortunate extension in the land of the living might have been terminated by a misjudgement stemming from his own affections. With that in mind, I've refrained from any communication with him since I evaded the bottom of Reichenbach.
Now, as I near London, I also near my friend. I should think that he will accept me gladly, loyal as he is. Yet there is a fact which lurks in the back of my mind, and it is one which I am loathe to acknowledge. However reluctant, I must bring it out of the shadows, for I cannot suppress data without arriving at a misshaped, and in this case, desirably comfortable conclusion.
Watson will be hurt.
My reasons for giving no indication of my life are perfectly rational. Yet to a mind in which emotion often prevails, these reasons would not erase the impact they had upon our friendship. He may feel untrusted or deceived. Such feelings are at least understandable, if not necessary. I did deceive him. I deceived the world, and in a highly commendable cause. As a result, the end of an evil force in London will be secured. If I have not involved Watson in such a paramount issue, he should not take it personally.
There have been times when I've wished that he could have known I was still alive. I've often felt a certain unease in the untouched isolation which has surrounded me for the past three years. He was the most patient and loyal man I've ever known. It will be a blow to him to discover that his strength of faith to me has not run parallel within my regard to him.
Watson has never created a breach against me. I have never known him to be more faithful and trustworthy than when placed under crucial discretion. However, those circumstances, which were more extreme than anything we'd ever faced, made me wary of his nature. Any revelation to dispel the intensity of death may have either intensified his loyalty or given way to emotional and disastrous results. I could not afford to take that chance.
The well-being of London has been at stake with the presence of Moran. I could not risk losing the chance to trap him, thus allowing further crimes to operate through his invariably uncuffed hands. My choices have ensured that he will do no more damage, though I pay the price of damaging the ties between myself and Watson. I believe it better to stand by the masses with necessary deception of one than to betray the masses in order to meet emotional needs of minority.
Even so, I cannot help but feel the responsibility of any injury I have caused to him. If I do not owe an apology to him for circumstances, I do owe him sympathies for anguish. God forgive me if I have misjudged his character, but the stakes were simply too high.
Sherlock Holmes.