Though my sleeping habits tended to be far from usual, especially during cases or a long dry spell of them, I had just finished a particularly trying case and was allowing my eating and sleeping routines to fall back into those of "normal human beings" as my dear friend Watson once delicately put it. I had never taken extraordinary interest in my colleague's doings when he disappeared into his rooms every evening; on the nights when I was present to observe, he simply undressed, washed, occasionally read, and drifted into slumber. One night, however, my understanding of the good doctor changed.
Watson had retired to his chamber some thirty minutes prior, leaving me to smoke my pipe by the fireplace, pondering the conclusion of my latest case. When I had finished, I too returned to my rooms. I then proceeded to finish a document I was writing concerning a chemical experiment I had performed, when I heard someone speaking in a low voice. I ceased writing and listened. At first I thought of Mrs. Hudson incessantly muttering to herself as she tidied the sitting room, but the sound was much too deep and a little more hushed. I silently crept to the wall, where I could just make out the voice of Watson in his room.
"I hope that where ever you are now, it's nicer than these dirty streets. I know how much you hated the city, particularly London. Sometimes, I pretend to visit a bed-ridden patient in the countryside just to sit underneath a tree and think about what almost was," I heard a stifled sob, and he continued on in a choked, barely audible whisper, "I really, really miss you. Holmes is my best friend, but… It's not the same. He's so cold, so unfeeling… I love him like a brother, but…" Again, his voice broke and there was silence on the other side.
"Mary… There's so much we never got to do, to see, to experience… It's just not fair. It wasn't meant to be this way. We were supposed to grow old together and have children and see the world. I suppose it's all for the best, though. I don't think I could bear to leave Holmes alone forever. And if we ever did have children," He chuckled softly, "What would Holmes think about that?" He sighed, "Well, I'd better get some sleep. I have patients to see tomorrow. I love you."
I backed away from the wall and sat down. He couldn't know what I had heard; I had just invaded a very private moment. I'd had no aversion to invading his privacy in the past, but this was different.
I put away my writings and turned off the light. I had never realized how much he loved her before. She had died almost two and a half years ago, and I thought he had fully recovered. I never realized how much he loved her before. Or me. Especially me… I had thought it was impossible to love me, or keep your head straight after experiencing that much pain, or being so hopelessly in love, but he'd proven one of my most solid beliefs wrong in one brief moment.
As I began to drift off, I tried to remember the last time I'd ever heard anyone say they loved me, directly to me or not. I couldn't.