Sherlock climbed quietly out of bed, being certain not to disturb either John or Rosie. He moved silently across the room and out the door, closing it softly behind him. In the darkness, he stood on the landing for a bit, simply thinking about the task at hand. He owed John a letter, an explanation about how he had got his scars. With a nod of determination, he went down the stairs and into the living room to find paper and pen, then he settled himself at the desk to write.
My Beloved John,
I haven't been hiding my scars from you, at least not intentionally. I'm not bothered by how they look or what you might think of them. I know you better than to think the sight of a scar would affect how you feel about a person, though how they got there... I know that will affect you.
Sherlock set down his pen and rested his head in his hands. Writing this letter was so very difficult. It required him to visit the darkest corners of his Mind Palace and face memories he'd rather never revisit. Still, he'd do it for John. He picked up the pen and resumed writing.
During the two years I was away, I faced many hardships. It didn't matter, though, because I was working to keep the person I love most in the world safe. There were times when I was hunted, alone, cold and hungry. There were times when I kept company with the dregs of existence, people who didn't deserve to live. Sometimes I wanted to give up, I grew so tired, but I never did because I wanted to come home to you.
The detective stopped writing again and looked back over his words. He knew how John would take them. The doctor would read them then promptly feel an upsurge of guilt and that wasn't what Sherlock intended.
John, I don't write these things to hurt you, merely to explain. You couldn't have known how I felt about you. I kept it hidden from everyone, even myself. I didn't know until Moriarty forced me onto that ledge and I had to jump. Please, please don't let my words make you regret anything you did. Don't ever regret a moment of your life with Mary. Especially don't regret Rosie who would never have been born had you and Mary never met.
I've gone off topic, forgive me.
After nearly two years of working at a painstakingly slow pace, I had eliminated all but one of Moriarty's cells. The last one was in Serbia. I should have taken more time, not rushed in, but I wanted to come home so badly, John. Words can't tell you how much I wanted it to be over. That proved to be my undoing. I was captured. They refused to believe that I was working alone. Their methods were crude, but effective. If I had had help... John, forgive me, but I would have told them everything. As it was, all I had to tell them were my deductions and insults. It only made things worse. I escaped once, briefly. When they recaptured me, they redoubled their efforts to get information out of me. I was convinced I would die there, my body tossed on the midden heap. It was only when I heard my brother's voice that I had hope. Yes, it was Mycroft who found me and extracted me. If it helps, his people didn't leave any of them alive.
Maybe it's time I told him 'thank you'.
John, please, all of this is in the past. It can't hurt us now, not if we don't let it.
Love, Sherlock
The detective folded the letter in half, then he wrote John's name across it. In the past, he had left such offerings in the doctor's chair, but Rosie could reach things left there now. Instead, he left it on the mantle, resting against the skull.
There was no way he would be able to go back to sleep, so he went into the kitchen and started an experiment to occupy his mind.
