The contents of an unsealed envelope addressed to Doctor John Watson, which has spent time on the floor of the room of Mr. Sigerson, various pockets of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and buried deep in a desk drawer in 221B Baker Street:
My dear Watson,
I do not know how to begin this letter, nor do I know how to tell you what I am going to tell you. All I am sure of is that you have been unfairly kept in the dark for far too long, and I mean to set that right, no matter how difficult the task may be. It is the least I can do for so dear a friend, who is so undeserving of the treatment I have offered.
Sherlock Holmes is alive, Watson. I am alive. This letter is not a hoax, it is only the truth. You were under the impression that I had perished at the Reichenbach falls, locked in mortal combat with Professor Moriarty (and indeed, this was very nearly true). That is the impression which I intended to give you, and the rest of the world. I had my reasons for this deception--sound reasons. I knew that there were men who would escape Inspector Patterson's nets as he rounded up Moriarty's gang. I knew that if I were to disappear, they would become relaxed and eventually expose themselves. I also knew that if I were to return to London, I would very likely not live to see a full day in that marvelous city from which I have been absent for far too long. It is likely that you would have been in danger as well.
So I decided to disappear. I had not planned for such an occurrence--I was quite certain, when I perceived Professor Moriarty on the path with me after your departure, that my career had indeed come to a close. However, I saw the opportunity when it presented itself, and I would have been a fool not to take advantage of it. After my confrontation with Moriarty, which resulted in his plunge into the waters of Reichenbach Falls, I scaled the cliff face which towered over the path. In that way I was out of sight when you and your companions discovered the scene. Yes, I saw you, my dear Watson, and I heard you calling me. The only thing that kept me from answering was that I knew exactly what I had to do, and I was determined to do it.
Shortly after you left, I realized I was not alone--a confederate of Moriarty's began sending boulders down at me from the cliff far above. I barely made it down from there alive, but somehow I found myself on the path and ran fast and far over the mountains. I ended up in Florence, certain that no one knew what had become of me.
For nearly three years now, I have been traveling. I spent a good deal of time in Tibet, then passed through Persia, Mecca and, very briefly, Khartoum (I hope to someday tell you of my adventures there, but to do so at this time would be most imprudent). I now find myself in France, awaiting an opportunity to return to London.
I am, of course, stalling, though for what purpose I cannot imagine. I know that I will not post this letter. In all probability I shall destroy it, obliterate all signs that it ever existed. Yet I continue to write it, for I do not believe that I could stop even if I tried. I do not understand this feeling, but I cannot fight it. You have always described me as emotionless, which is certainly not an unwarranted description. But if you knew how I am feeling as I pen these words, you might think differently. There are so many things that I want to say to you, but do not know the words to say them.
When I heard of your wife's illness, and that she was not long for this world, I was struck by the incredible unfairness of it all. My dear Watson, if there is any family that does not deserve such tragedy, it is yours. You and your wife deserve so much better than sadness and hardship. I have been told that you have had some time to grieve, to adjust; that it is not the shock that my own supposed death was. Thank heaven for small blessings. The last I heard from Mycroft, her condition was most dire, and by this time, as I sit here writing to you, I have no doubt that she has already passed on. I wish that I could be there now, Watson. I wish that I could return, to offer you some comfort during this time, but I do not know how. I do not know what I would do or say to ease your pain. I am helpless to help you, after all you have done for me, and that makes me more ashamed than I could ever admit to another living soul.
That is one reason why I cannot return, not now. I do not know what I would do for you. But there is another reason, one which is even more difficult for me to admit. When I began this ruse, I did not tell you that I was alive for fear that some remaining agent of Moriarty's would discover my secret--if you acted in a manner different from that of a man who has just lost a friend, it would have been suspicious. As time has moved on, however, my reason for keeping the truth from you has changed. I am afraid, Watson. I am afraid of what your reaction will be to this great deception of mine. It has eaten away at me, though I have done my best to ignore it; it has kept me awake at nights. I am afraid that, when it is revealed exactly what I have done, you will never forgive me. That you will no longer consider me your friend.
In your account of my death, you called me the best and wisest man you have ever known. I can only think now of how wrong you were, my dear Watson. I am far from that ideal. Would such a man have deceived you as I have? Would such a man be afraid to face you after all these years? Would he be afraid to face the consequences of his actions? I am afraid, Watson, of those consequences, for if you do not forgive me for this deception, which you have every reason not to, I will have paid far to high a cost. I have been afraid before now, but never have I been more so than when I think that I may lose your friendship, which has become the most important thing in the world to me, though I did not understand this until too late.
I said to you, years ago, that "I am lost without my Boswell." I spoke in jest then, of course. I did not realize the immense truth of that statement. But I know better now. If there is anything I have learned over the past three years, my dear Watson, it is that I cannot do without you. So I beg you, my dear friend--forgive me. Forgive me for lying to you, for keeping you in the dark all this time, for causing you unnecessary pain. For the sake of all those years of friendship that we shared, forgive me for these years apart.
I know that I must return to London soon. I cannot allow Moran to continue to run loose as he is, and I cannot continue to deceive you. I know now that I cannot tell you in a letter, so I shall have to tell you in person. I only hope that, when I do, my fears will not turn to reality. Until then, my dear Watson, I remain, as always,
Very sincerely yours,
Sherlock Holmes
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A note:
Sherlock--
Mary Watson is gone.
--M