AN: once more: hello everyone! Here's my Sunday gift for you! I hope you'll enjoy it! :)

We're almost near the end, and I feel quite sorry because I'll miss this mess as soon as it'll be done. Nevertheless I'm writing another one which is providing me quite a challenge. I love challenges, but they can be quite struggling too. Yet I hope my efforts will be rewarded and that it'll come out as a really nice story :)

As usual I thank you all (you're all amazing, brilliant and fantastic!) for your support and your lovely reviews! Every single word by you all is highly appreciated and evaluated! Thank thank thank you!

All the rights to BBC, but all the fun of reading to thee! :)

John arrived home earlier than he had expected. He was tired, too tired even to describe it. He crawled upstairs and into bed. He started snoring as soon as his head hit the pillow. Despite the tiredness, at four a.m. he woke up.

He turned on his right side to go back to sleep, but as soon as he did it he saw something lying on the other pillow. It took him two minutes to realise they were two pieces of paper. It took him other two minutes to realise it was the same paper he had used to write his letter to Sherlock. It took him over ten minutes to understand he wasn't dreaming. Why were there two pieces of paper lying on his pillow? There wasn't any when he had come home.

By the way they were folded, so perfectly, yet so gracefully, he understood that Sherlock had placed them here. He tried to deduct how he had done that. Having been a soldier had taught him to open his eyes at the minimum amount of noise, so that it was quite impossible that every other man had been able to enter without having woken him up. Yet, Sherlock wasn't every other man.

He sat on the bed, took the papers and turned the light on.

Dear John,

Do you remember those letters you have found in my drawer, about two months ago?

Obviously he remembered them, obviously.

I'm sure you do. And I'm also sure you remember how much angry I was with you, because you had read them. I was really angry. But I've never explained you the reason why. You thought that I was mad at you because you had put your nose in my privacy, but it wasn't true. The reason why I was that furious is because I thought that you had understood what those letters were about.

You've even written me that letter trying to finish the one I had started and never had the courage to end. But you were wrong, John. Totally wrong. I wasn't trying to thank you for all the things you do for me. Well, I started like that, because I didn't know what to write for a start, but they weren't gratitude letters, not at all.

They were supposed to be…love letters. Yes, you read it right. And yes, aimed to you.

Still now, I don't know how I'm managing to write this down, my hand is shaking and I feel I can't go on for much longer, but I'll try. You didn't expect this coming, did you?

But it happened. It's so simple and yet so hard, so hurting, and yet so beautiful. I love you, John. No matter how I tried to hide my feelings, to wait for them to disappear. They never did. I could hide them in front of your eyes, but I couldn't hide my heart from them.

I don't know precisely how it has begun. It wasn't love at first sight, but slowly, but steadily I felt something growing inside of me. It didn't bother me much at the beginning. I thought it was a normal accustoming to the new situation of having a flatmate. I had never had a flatmate before you, you know?

Anyway, soon I started to find your company admissible, then I found it nice to have you around, then I discovered how my world without you would be hollow.

I realised I loved you on a summer day. You may not remember it, but I'll never forget it in my entire life. It was a very hot day in London and you had just put your head under a stream of water from a fountain. You were sweating and you had to refresh, you said back then. And as soon as I saw you with wet hair, streams of water down your neck, I felt the world starting to spin around me, so much I found it difficult to place a step before the other.

I didn't know what it was. You know, sentiment is not my field at all. I struggled, I thought, I analysed. But the truth was that I loved you.

I had never felt such a feeling before. One may say I'd never felt anything in my life at all. And it was true, before you. But all of a sudden there was you, caring for me, trying to understand me, saving my life.

I thought I could be alone for the rest of my life, I didn't need friends. Friends were useless. Yet I dared to call you "friend", because that's what you are to me. A friend. The only one I have ever had and surely the only one I could ever love.

You've been always there for me. You have suffered my moody character, my endless blabbing, my silences more than anyone else. You've complained, yes. Yet you had always a smile for me, you risked your life for me. And I have no words to express how grateful I am to you for that. I have no words, for sure. I have this feeling that expresses it all. "I love you" is my thank for you.

You have made my unbearable life bearable, more than you can think. You have made me feel. The emotionless detective has feelings because there's you, by my side. You have made everything you touched better, every day a day worth to live.

And I know you aren't gay and I know that you have no romantic interest in me at all. I'm sorry for writing all these things to you, but I couldn't bear to hold them inside anymore. I want you to know, John, that you are the best thing that has ever happened to me in my entire life. I was so alone, so lonely, and you came to rescue me. You, doctor John Watson, have eased my pain, have made it cease even.

And I know that you'll be grateful for this letter, because you're always too kind. Yet I know that you'll struggle to live with me from now on. So if you ever want to leave 221B for this reason, I won't stop you. I'm ready to face the consequences of this letter.

No, that's a blatant lie. I'm not ready at all. But I'll accept whatever decision you will take, even the most painful one: to live without you, John. It's impossible, but I'd do it for you. Don't pity me. You know what a dick I am. You'll surely live a better life without me.

John noticed that at this point some of the letters were blurry, teardrops had fallen on them.

It's slowly becoming painfully hard to write this down. I don't even know how I managed to write this much. My hand is still shaking and my so brilliant mind is failing to go any further. I'll stop here.

Everything I've written here it's the truth. I'm not doing this for some sort of experiment of mine, as you might think. I'm not doing this because I want to tease you. I'm not doing this for any other reason in the world.

I'm doing this because I wanted you to know that my love for you is real. I wanted you to know…better, I want you to know that I love you much more than you can think of. I love you so much it hurts. That's all.

I love you.

Sherlock.

AN pt.2: Worst love letter ever written? I hope not :)