December 27, 1891
Mycroft,
I couldn't do it. I stood there, luggage in hand, all ready to defy your rules and return home, but I froze. Just…stopped. How could I return home, regardless of the danger, just to inform Watson of my betrayal and expect things to be as they were before? I can't tell him the truth, Mycroft. Not when things are already so heavy upon him.
I must have looked so pitiful. My world seemed to crash around me and before I knew it, I was sobbing helplessly as I turned back up the dusty road to the place I now call home. The people here are amiable enough, but nothing like the friend I had in Watson. A kind elderly woman has taken to cleaning my flat twice a week for a small fee and she cooks for me occasionally. She noticed right away that something was wrong and set about trying to comfort me as best she could in a broken mixture of English with Tibetan thrown in.
As heartfelt as her words may have been, they left no impression on me as being consoled to the name of, "Mr. Christensen" has no real meaning in it. Sigerson Christensen has no problems. He doesn't live the life I have and knows absolutely nothing about what I gave up to give his presence voice.
Don't worry, brother, Sherlock Holmes will stay away. He is nothing but a figment of the mind now. A name that will be long forgotten in a trail of deceit and regretful decisions.
S.H