Somewhere in Southern France
July 7, 1891
Watson,
While I hardly believe words on paper are a sufficient apology, I know one is due and pen and ink are my only available option to cure the flood of words that rack my brain. I find it a rather ironic remedy as I have been more or less persuaded to cut off all contact with the world I knew and in as such, I cannot mail this letter to you. So while this insufficient apology will be placed permanently on the parchment, it will also stay permanently with me.
I don't like it, Watson. My disappearance at Reichenbach has altered things in a way I had not anticipated. If only I had broadened my outlook and thought more of the emotional effects than the logical ones. But my brother Mycroft has pressed upon the matter until I came to see the same conclusion as he. While not agreeable, it is a necessary evil that will in due time, be resolved.
Before I began this letter, I sent one to Mycroft, who as you have by now guessed, is well aware of my situation. It was a hateful letter full of angry words and a rather nasty defeat which my brother calls, "Coming to terms." I don't mean to be angry with Mycroft, but his cold manner of dealing with the issue vexed my soul as I realized he was right: this is all my fault.
It has never been easy for me to admit to being in the wrong, especially in situations I regard as my personal affairs, but Mycroft's persuasion in fact as well as age has forced me to it. I must come to accept the consequences of my actions and in this, apologize to you.
I didn't intend for you to be hurt in all this mess. At Reichenbach I was so tempted to return your calls, but something held me back and perhaps it was for the best. Mind you, not in the heavy blow this has caused, but better in the fact that with me gone, Moriarty has no power over you. I would hate for any type of violence to come upon you because of me, so in my staying away, the only pain is sentimental. It hardly seems fair as bruises heal, but heartbreak lasts much longer.
These words look so frail. Lacking any signs of life as they stare blankly back at me. It makes me recall the gift you have in weaving words and reminds me of the flippant way in which I regarded your work. I was inconsiderate and rude. Ignorant of what they really are. I wonder what sort of story you will create for this last chapter. A truly spectacular one I can imagine. I will have to send another letter to Mycroft in apology and ask for a copy.
It is a pitiful attempt at reconciliation, but hear me this, I wish to heaven I hadn't done the things I did. If I could go back through time and alter things, I would go back and find a way to change the course so that it did not end up causing such grief. But as my twist of fate is in deductive reasoning and not time machine mathematics, I am left with my decision. Perhaps Moriarty could have helped me create such a machine. What a paradox that would have been. Such thoughts make me smile, but I am making light.
Forgive me, Watson.
Holmes
