Author's Note: I don't know if this chapter makes up for the last one, BUT here it is anyway. Chapter 10.

[Letters Never Sent]

Sherlock,

Been a long time, hasn't it? If you're wondering, I'm alright. I'm in Afghanistan. As a Medic. It's been quite an eye opening experience. In a lot of different ways that are all a bit boring, but mostly about myself. What I'm like, what I'm willing to do for the sake of "Queen and Country" as you may have called it. It's bloody hot here. Sun always seems to be shining. It's a bit crap, if you ask me. I miss London's rain and clouds and off days, where I had a bit of an excuse to sit about and drink tea and no one would really judge me for it.

Ah, but that's not why I'm writing, is it? Nothing can ever just be friendly these days. Not when it comes to me, to you, to us.

Guess the real reason I'm writing is... well, a bit of closure. Least that's what my mates tell me. Mates, I mean a few of the nurses I've come to hang about with. They've been a real treat, really. For me. Women are a lot easier to talk to than I ever thought. Well, I guess it makes a difference when you aren't trying to chat them up. Anyway, they mentioned that the best way to "get over" someone is by writing a letter. You spill all your guts into this letter, say everything you always meant to say and then? Well... then you burn it. That way, you've said everything you wanted to say, addressed to the person they needed to be said to, but they never have to see it. You never have to get the backlash of telling a person they're a bit of a prick or that their nose was ugly or that you spent most of your time wanting to hit them for being stroppy.

Alright. So I guess... here I go.

Where do I start? You... well, you single-handedly changed pretty much everything I'd ever thought about myself. Do you know what it's like, to have one person come crashing (excuse the pun) into your life and just completely obliterate all preconceived notions you'd ever held? Especially when the person is obviously mad? A madman changed my life. I didn't want to think it at first. Wanted to just... I don't know. Guess I wanted to believe that you were just like every other bloke I'd ever met. But you were never every other bloke I'd ever met. Not once. Not during coffee or dinner or film nights or the times you gave me a bit of a leg up on course work. Never. You were always a step ahead of everyone and everything. And I always thought it was ridiculous that you'd want to bring me along with you.

I remember the first time I realized I might be in love with you. THAT was a strange time. I mean, I'm young, you know? I'm not close-minded. I got that sexuality could be kind of "fluid" so to speak and to pin myself down to any one thing so early on would leave out a lot of new experiences for me. But I'd always thought a snog and maybe a handy was about as far as I'd have gone with another man. I didn't think I'd end up actually falling in love with one. Didn't know I ever had the desire to. I guess that doesn't really matter though, does it? Heart wants what it wants and all that. I told you that once, remember?

Heart's a bit of an arsehole, isn't it?

Anyway, we'd already been friends for a bit, couple of months I'd gather, and I respected you. Well, thought it was just respect. Turns out it was admiration as well, which is alright. But then that admiration kind of twisted up a bit. Got everything a bit... out of hand. One day I'm laying about, and I realize that I'm thinking of you. Not in a friendly way. I'm thinking about holding your hand and snuggling on couches and I'm thinking about what you might look like naked and what I might have done had I ever got you there. I'm thinking about you romantically all of a sudden. What it might be like to wake up and have you be there and all that. Very confusing time for a guy who thought he was straight. Thought. Didn't know for certain. Could have gone either way. Point is, after a while... all those romantic thoughts didn't seem so foreign anymore. They stopped being just things to think about and started being things I wanted. I was pretty much certain by that point. That I was in love. Head over heels, in fact. Too much. Much too much.

I had to work extra at not letting you know. Because normal people, they wouldn't have guessed it right away. Normal people are a bit blind to that sort of thing. We automatically assume that there's no way someone might fancy us, because we're all hung up on how crap we think we are at everything. But you? You could see right through all that. And it's not like you're modest. Not remotely. Moment you'd have found out, you'd have said something. I know that. Guess I was just lucky that our friendship wasn't a typical one. It allowed things to slide. You know, little glances or quick touches or what-have-you.

Bowled me over when I found out about you. You know, being in love with me and all. I really did think you'd gone mad for a minute, that I'd been dreaming, that you were having a bit of a laugh, at my expense.

It's weird to think about this now, what with the way everything went about. But I thought... well, I thought we were going to be a forever kind of thing. I know, sounds a bit far-fetched, doesn't it? I remember some nights, sitting about in your flat... doing nothing. Laying on the couch or just fanning through a bit of work or just being there, and you'd be there at your desk or on the floor or with your nose in a book or sometimes laying on the couch with me, and I'd think "I could do this for the rest of my life." And whenever I thought it, I meant it. I remember the way I felt in those moments. Contentment. It was just comfortable, just having you there, knowing I could reach out and just touch your hair or your shoulder or your bum. I wondered if you ever felt that way about me. I know you never wanted to be contented then, thought it was useless, and maybe it is. I liked it alright though. It was a steady happiness, nice and mellow.

I kind of realize now you didn't. Not really. You couldn't. It wasn't really the way you worked, wasn't the way you were designed, I guess. I know now that you are a man of extremes. Either you're completely, stupidly happy or you're devastatingly, horribly depressed. It's never enough to just "be" for you. There doesn't seem to be a grey area, not when it comes to your emotions. Not that you liked to let on you even had those. I remember all those times, when you would relax all the muscles in your face, and to the world you'd look a bit like you just didn't care about anything. I knew better though, Sherlock. You were in a constant battle with yourself, with all that humanity that lurked about in you. That you tried real hard to shove off in a corner. You didn't fool me.

I wanted to be everything to you. I told you that. And you tried to warn me. But I was a bit naïve then, a bit silly. I didn't realize that one person could depend so much on someone. Or something. I hadn't really given thought to the way you operated then. How black or white everything was. I wish I'd have known it. If I'd have known, I could've helped you properly. Could've done a real service to you. Instead I allowed myself to become a replacement. I shouldn't have done that. I shouldn't have just given in every time and let you use me like you did. But I guess that's the stupidity of being in love with someone. You think you're their world and it makes you feel a bit shiny, like some kind of treasure, and even though you know you're doing them more damage than good, you let them keep on because it boosts your ego a bit.

I liked being your distraction, I guess. I liked that you needed me as much as you did. In the beginning anyway. Before the letter. Before I realized just what you'd do to yourself without. It was silly of me to think I would be able to be your distraction forever. I thought that if I was there, you were okay. And mostly that's how our relationship worked. But I couldn't always be there. I wasn't always going to be there.

Why'd you do that, anyway? Why'd you let me in so far if you knew I was just going to be shipping out eventually? That doesn't seem like the guy I met all that time ago. The one who didn't get attached and all that lark. You knew I'd be going off, knew I'd be gone for a long while... you knew all that and still came to bed and told me you loved me. Why? Didn't you know it was just going to end badly? Or did you think you wouldn't get that attached? Did you think you could distance yourself enough that you'd be alright when I was gone? Did it work?

I hated you for a while there. Not you, though. What you did to yourself. I saw all this brilliance and talent, saw how completely amazing you were in every way, and you just kept binning it. I wanted to beat the shit out of you on those days, when you'd ruin yourself. But at the same time I just wanted to hug you and remind you of how ridiculously wonderful you were. How perfect I thought you were, even if you were a stroppy, arrogant son of a bitch. Yeah, I did, you know. Think you were perfect. I'd look at you sometimes, with your hair and your skin and your smirks and I'd just think 'I got lucky with this one.' I'd think 'Perfect.' and that word would just go round and round in my head until it started sounding a bit funny, like it wasn't a real word anymore.

The first couple weeks were hell. I sat about wondering if you'd gone off and done yourself in. I kept thinking about what I'd said, how I couldn't stand about and watch you ruin yourself, how I couldn't leave and just worry about you constantly. I did anyway, of course. Spent all of January and a bit of February worried sick. Thought about writing you, just to see if you were alright, to see if you were alive. But then I realized that even if you had been alright, you wouldn't have replied. So I just sort of let myself think you were okay. That you'd gotten through it and that you'd already moved on and left me behind. Even though that hurt, much more than I care to think about now, it helped. It gave me a bit of room to focus on what I was supposed to be doing.

I saw you once, a couple years ago, I gather. I was on leave, was getting ready to be shipped here. I was at a shop, picking something up. Turned around and looked out the shop window and there you were. You were just walking by, but I knew it was you instantly. Still tall, still pale, still had all those curls, those cheekbones. You looked like you were in a bit of a hurry. You probably were, knowing you. You looked good though. Quite fit. Shopkeeper thought I'd gone a bit barmy cause I was just standing there staring out the window for a bit once you'd walked by, bags in hand, jaw dropped, eyes wide. It was like I'd seen a ghost. But it wasn't a ghost, just you. Still alive. Still striding about London as though you owned the entire world. Made me feel great. Made me feel shit.

At least I could move on then, you know.

Just so you know... you were the most amazing person I'd ever known. I learned a lot from you. Sometimes, when I'm in the mess hall or what not, I catch myself looking at all the little details. I catch myself looking at the different dirt on peoples fatigues, or the way they put themselves together in the morning, body language... it's interesting. I never tell them, of course. I'm not too sure I've got it quite like you do, but it's a bit of fun when everything seems a bit bleak.

Point is, in the time that we were together, you were arrogant and rude and demanding and a bit selfish at times. You had a tendency to say the first thing that came to your mind even though it made you look like an arsehole. You often meddled in things that weren't quite your business and sometimes I wanted to just tie your hands up and have you sit in a corner and think about what you'd done. But more than that, you had your heart in the right place. You had a way of telling me things that usually sounded like insults but I knew were compliments. It should've been easy to hate you but it wasn't. I loved you with every little bit in me, and I feel confident in saying that had you not been a stupid git and had you left all that chemical shit behind, I would probably be coming home to you on my leaves instead of to my parents. And that's a bit disgusting for me to think about. Not because it's you, but because the last time I even saw you in passing was... what, I'd gather nearly three years ago now? And I think I still love you. You, Sherlock Holmes, really did a bit of a number on me. But I guess I have to thank you, kind of.

Anyway, I best be off. This letter got a bit out of hand and now I'm going to need a bonfire just to burn it up. Maybe I'll have a few of the mates about and we'll have a few. They won't have to know I've just killed a couple trees to tell my ex-boyfriend good bye, right? Course not. Here's hoping you're still doing well, Sherlock. I know you probably are but... well, who knows.

Sincerely,

John

John,

I shall start by addressing this to you, John, because it is you who has become a nuisance. On numerous occasions I have done sweeps of necessary information in my mind and each time I've deemed our past relationship and your existence unnecessary. And so each time, I've committed to deleting you permanently from my mind. However, it seems as though I have been unsuccessful. I have gone through many different theories on why this is such, thought most seem to be inconclusive at best.

I began researching methods, instead, to drive you from my mind. Though most of the information I came across was predominantly riddled with useless psychobabble, I found a method or two that—at the very least—wouldn't waste any more time than strictly necessary. The first method proved to be highly unsuccessful. Therefore, I've submitted myself to the second method, which is this. I'm to write out any and all thoughts pertaining you. Admittedly, this is a time consuming exercise, as I've inadvertently created some sort of stock pile on information on you. One might venture to claim it is too much. In the past, I may have scoffed at the notion of "too much information", but I fear I may have finally come around to understand what "too much information" is. At any rate, I've little else to do at the moment and perhaps doing some sort of "memory dump" may allow me to properly dispose of useless information.

Where do I begin in this diatribe? For once I haven't the faintest. Perhaps I shall start with small details. Ones that take me no more brain power than a quick glance.

John Hamish Watson. Approximately 1.6 meters tall, 11 stone. Blond hair, blue eyes. Medical student. Trained at Bart's. As of January 2000, enlisted in Royal Army Medical Corps. Prefers coffee black. Takes tea with one sugar and a splash of milk. No knowledge of foreign languages. Sociable. Tidy. Competent. Occasionally overzealous. Quick study. Fond of curry. Not so fond of couscous. Prefers Chinese over Mediterranean, but Italian over Chinese. Drinks on occasion. Sister Harry: alcoholic, lesbian. Military past in male family members. Left handed. Tendency to read over same paragraphs numerous times before digesting information. Thoughtful. Quick to anger. Passionate. Compassionate. Sentimental. Anti-narcotic. Trusting. Gentle. Comfortable. Proud. Amusing. Slightly superstitious. Loyal. Patriotic. Prefers left side of the bed. Enjoys James Bond. Dislikes cats. Works well under pressure. Accepting. Reflexive.

Oh. Perhaps that isn't the best place to start.

Perhaps then I begin where we met. I found myself slightly intimidated by you, John. I'm aware that I register on perhaps the more lean side. You seemed sturdier than myself. I was inebriated. Under the circumstances, I was certain that the probability of my coming out on top in an altercation between the two of us was slim. Who knew you'd be so easily dazzled? I enjoyed that you were easily taken to my deductions about you. They were simple things. Obvious details that anyone with eyes could've seen. I very nearly killed you and there you stood smiling and complimenting me on my existence. You weren't very intimidating after all. Not for the moment. You were easily readable. I asked for coffee and I could see your indecision in the lines of your face. Logical. Then why did I seem upset? I needed an excuse to take something from you. I needed a disguise. The best disguises are the ones in which one hides in plain sight. You were too distracted by a strange man throwing a temper tantrum to notice that—when he brushed by you—his hand took to your bag's side pocket. So obvious. So readable. I could not for the life of me conclude why I had been fascinated by you, John. I still cannot for the life of me conclude why.

Perhaps you wonder when I fell in love with you. I imagine quite early on. I couldn't be quite sure of it at the time, of course. I'd never quite experienced the effects of "love". If I had to give a precise moment, however, I'd say it was the first time you'd seen my dormitory. I allowed you to freely examine all of my possessions. I admitted one of my darker secrets to you. Instead of discontinuing contact with me, you became more interested. I was certain I would terrify you had I confessed anymore of myself, though somehow you were unafraid. Yes, that was the moment. I had never felt comfortable with any one person before. You were always hospitable.

I did plenty of research after that. Read countless, very dull novels detailing romantic relationships. Read further into the physiology of "love". The chemical effects, I realized, I'd already encountered. Heart palpitations from passing glances. Elevated pulse at touches that barely registered as such. I wondered if you'd ever noticed my pupils upon catching my eye. I imagined they were quite dilated. I considered asking on few occasions, but found the question itself may cause suspicion. I wasn't sure you were familiar with the chemistry of lust. I found it was much easier to avoid the risk.

I thought, perhaps, that it was a passing affection. I'd rarely come into contact with people who admired me as blatantly as you had. I thought, perhaps, I was merely attached to the attention. I will confess that I'd always found you aesthetically pleasing, and had—at this point—attempted to conclude that the mixture of your aesthetics with the positive reinforcement you seemed to willingly shower me with had caused me to grow affectionate toward you. It was the most probable conclusion of all the facts, given the circumstance of my romantic history, your sexuality, our friendship, etc.

You know, John, it was not particularly pleasant to admit that I was wrong.

After six months I was still harboring the same emotional attachment. And it hadn't waned, as I'd predicted it would. It had, instead, grown. It had come to a point where you were a source of pleasure to me. I found myself cataloging different methods of making you laugh, of how to procure a "warm smile" from you. I found myself researching the best possible methods of convincing you to feel similar affections. In simpler terms, I wanted you to love me as I loved you.

I recall moments in which I studied you quite closely and found that you may have been exhibiting similar reactions. In the privacy of my room, I must admit I was quite elated to spot them. Though I am a man of logic. I was well aware that further data would need to be gathered if I was to make an educated conclusion. However, I was impatient. I am notoriously impatient. This you know, John. And so, despite not having concrete evidence of your affections toward me, I made the brash decision to inform you of mine. I acted out of my element, that much is certain. I was prepared to sever ties if need be, though—I must confess—it was the last thing I wanted.

I didn't need to. That was a nice revelation.

I must admit that it terrified me, how you wanted to pursue a romantic relationship with me. It was very conflicting the next morning, when we sat at my table and discussed it. I had no previous experience in such attachments. The only type of attachments I had known were predominantly destructive. This, of course, you realized. However, you were brave. You were loyal. You were willing.

I have things I must confess. Well, more things. It seems as though this has become something of a confessional. Was that the purpose of this exercise? Perhaps it was. These are the thoughts I associate with you, John. It is best I release them while I am here. Though where I should start is, again, a rather daunting thought. Though, as you'll never read this, I suppose anywhere is fine.

Many of the things I told you while under chemical influence were false. The ones I said of you, at any rate. I hadn't known it at the time, of course. It took steady deliberation later on to come to terms with such. I told you that you had become my drug of choice. At the time, perhaps I believed this to be true. I had become very dependent on you to keep me grounded. You were, in hindsight, exactly what I had needed. However, it is with great regret that I confess I used you in the wrong ways. Allow me to explain this in simple terms.

The narcotics I chose to use were chemically created. The effects of them were signs of the body being poisoned. I chose to poison myself in order to keep my mind at bay. Calling you a drug of choice insisted that you were a poison, John, as my drugs of choice were poisons. You were not a poison. I, perhaps, was a poison. Perhaps I still am a poison. But you never were. You, John, were an antidote. I managed, somehow, to miss this fact. Had I seen this before, perhaps I could've used you to your fullest potential.

I have one other thing I shall confess here and that is this: I sabotaged our relationship purposely. Upon finding me "intoxicated" three months before your departure, you informed me that if I was caught again, you would end our relationship. At first, the thought was horrifying. Then the thought of said thought became horrifying. I had realized the extent of my dependency on you, had realized that it had grown out of hand. The idea of your departure was no longer just saddening, but completely devastating. I had lost direction in how I was supposed to live if you weren't beside me. The night you found me, I am afraid, was my act of self-control. It may not seem it, though it is the most accurate way to describe it. I knew that you would come in to find me there, and you would be livid. I knew you would keep to your promise. I knew you would leave the next day and I would no longer be a part of your plans. I had planned for you to find me in such a state. I needed you to end our relationship, because I needed proof that I was able to function without you. I suppose I could've just explained the situation. I could've been the one to end us. But remember, I had lost control. I couldn't have left you. I didn't have the will power. It had to be you to leave me.

I suppose my true final confession is this: you were not the only one hurt that night. I realize that in executing my plan, it was my own fault. However, the damage was not just yours. You waited for me to speak, I realize this. It would've been counterproductive. I would've merely ruined my planning. I may have actually begged, for the first time in my life. I suppose if I had to choose any person to beg for, though, it would be you.

Revealing all of this has done one thing. It has made it quite obvious to me that I am—after five years—still very much in love with you. It makes sense, now, to know why I couldn't properly delete you from my mind. I suppose that I am much smarter than myself, though how such a feat is possible, I may never know. My best guess is that my subconscious mind is much wiser than my conscious mind. I will have to investigate this matter further.

Mycroft could give me information on you, if I asked. It would mean allowing him to similar information, which I can't exactly claim I'm comfortable with. Perhaps it is best that I don't know of your current whereabouts (though with the times we're currently in, my wagers lie with either Afghanistan or Iraq.) or whether you are okay. I do know, however, that wherever you are, you are succeeding beyond typical standards, for Queen and Country.

Regards,

SH