Dear Sherlock,
I'm sorry about that last letter. I just had to say it. I couldn't keep it in anymore. It's probably inconsequential to you - it certainly is for me now. Because this can't have any consequences. But you never cared about love anyway, and you never saw it as something of importance. Especially seeing how you treated Molly. But it did get better for her after you found out. It won't have the chance to get better between us.
You may be wondering how long I've known about this. Well, it's a bit hazy, even for me. Because when I realized, I discovered that I'd always felt that way from the moment that we met.
You intrigued me. You made me wonder, and you sparked my brain into thinking and exploring the many mysteries of your character. It's not that I ever began to love you, it's just that I always did.
And that's the way it's meant to work, isn't it? That love isn't created with intention, but rather discovered slowly through subconscious feelings gradually emerging in a time span much longer than you know. Or is that just me again, hoping that the love I have for you is the true love that will never fade.
But why am I still with Sarah, then, and why did I ever go out with her in the first place, when the person I really cared for was right beside me all along? The truth is, Sherlock, that it was you or no man. I would only have ever been gay because of you. I was so uncertain of my sexuality when I was younger that I suppressed any feelings I had for men. I lied about having feelings for you because it was hard for me to accept that those feelings so long contained were slipping out again.
Well, there you have it. Now you know everything. I hope you understand me, and you don't think any differently about me because of this. I'll still be your friend, and, if you can tolerate my feelings for you, then I'll still be your flat-mate, in a way. Your chair will remain empty.
Your John.