Oh, John,
I am in such despair at your letter, but I know that I deserve no better. Or rather that once I would not have. True, I have disparaged the idea of love in your presence, little knowing that I would have such cause to rue my words, that through you I would at last learn what love is. Now I am love's fool and I ask you if I do not deserve your pity? Was I not, like some sick creature, devoid of an essential sense that others enjoyed as one blind. Healed at your hands, are you not surprised that I was overwhelmed by these new sensations? Would you cast a newborn chick from its nest?

For I long to be near you, John. I think of you on waking and as I lay down to sleep. Is this not love then? This desperate enslavement to another's presence, another's smile and voice? Note, I do not say that I am desperate for the touch of your hand on my skin, or the feel of your lips in a lover's kiss, although I am, for I know that I can never hope to have such things in this life. No, I would adore you chastely and with all respect. How can you say that I do not respect you when it is my very reverance for you that has led to my love? I do not confound you with my previous lovers. You are as far above them as a saint amongst sinners. I have put them from my mind. There is only you.

You reproach me for speaking. On our walks I was accustomed to baring my soul to you as I bared my chest for your examination in the countryside. It was impossible for me to conceal my feelings for you. As a reward for the most tender, the most respectful, the truest love, you seek to cast me afar from you.

You tell me that you were warned against me. Surely as a fair and just man you would not withhold the names of my accusers? If they are so without sin themselves, no doubt they would wish to be known for their virtue? A criminal must be told of his crime and by whom he is accused. Do I, guilty only of the sin of falling in love with one so worthy of love, not deserve the same courtesy?

Henceforth I shall devote myself to becoming worthy in your eyes. I know I can never attain your love, at least not the love that I feel for you. Without pretending to win you, I bestirred myself to deserve you. In begging your indulgence for the past, I was ambitious of your support for the future. I sought for it in your utterance. I spied for it in your eyes. Do not tell me that I was mistaken in seeing tenderness there.

Your dearest friend,
Sherlock