My Dear Holmes,
You told me, once, when I was young, that human beings are not animals. You said it with such scorn and anger that I became almost afraid of you. The thought that my mentor had been disappointed by a student so desperate to please was not only mortifying but painful as well. But you realized how much you could loose; how much I needed you and so you came back to me. You've said before that a quick mind is worthless unless it can control its emotions as well.
How then, do you explain the drops of rain that fell from me after reading your letter? How do you deduce the almost tortured, beast-like screams that poured from me? And is it really elementary if the sound of the gunshot as I raced into your cottage caused me to fall, choking on my tears, beside your body?
Your words immediately after Ronnie's death stung like a shot in the heart. The quick mind I thought I could control slipped out of my grasp and I left you.
I left you.
I left you.
I left you.
No matter how many times you write those three words they still burn.
I had no intention of where to go after I stormed out of your house so I stopped inside my barn. Thankfully, Patrick was elsewhere so I was alone when I realized what I had done and was appalled. The yapping lapdog had betrayed the bear while the enemy was preparing to kill it. Half on instinct, half a wish for past deduction games to return (R, Find me. –H.) I fled to one of your bolt-holes.
I stayed there for sometime. I was almost fearful that, if I left, you would come there, and, since I wasn't there, give up the search. But eventually I removed myself from it.
Every time you tried to make things right again between us the wound your words had given me would rapidly fester and I left you again, and again, and again.
Each time a little bit of me died.
By the time I realized my utter stupidity it was too late. The words of your letter touched the wound and healed it. Realization hit me and I drove as quickly as I could to your cottage (don't worry, I left all the oaks as they were). My hand was on the doorknob when the shot rang out. Contrition flung to the wind I dashed to your laboratory to find you shivering in your own blood. The lapdog bowed before the bear.
"Holmes…Holmes, it's Russell…" My hand moved of it's own accord and ran gently down your left cheek. Your eyes fluttered open and the look you gave me made the tears only fall harder.
"Ru-Russ? Why… How…" I held a finger to your lips.
"Because you are the greatest mentor-the greatest father-that I have ever known and I- I-" My voice choked as you weakly stroked my own cheek.
"You wh-what?"
I looked deep in your eyes and saw the love not only of a teacher, but also of a lover.
"And I love you."
Your straying hand gripped my chin and pulled me down toward your face but it wasn't needed. I knew what I wanted-had wanted-since the moment I had laid eyes on you. Nothing more could I have hoped for, you told me without words how much you loved me.
When we parted you gave me a seldom seen smile and a look in your eyes that conveyed everything you had and would ever teach me. Then, with a sigh, your eyes slipped closed and reality crashed down on me.
After that almost everything is a blur. I remember the police dragging me away from you, trying to get me to stop crying. People I had never seen came and tried to offer consolation but nothing helped. The dream returned and intermingled with nightmares of you. I'm sure I looked dead the day of your funeral.
Holmes, this is worse then the time we acted out separation to confuse Donleavy because I know this is not an act. I need you. I'm a part of you and you're still a part of me.
I don't think I can do this much longer…A Note to the Reader:
This letter, obviously to Sherlock Holmes, remains unsigned and, to some, unfinished. Mary Russell is thought to be "merely a figment of…imagination", made up by a desperate author and sent to her editor in the hope of some cold hard cash. According to the works of Ms. Laurie R. King, Holmes does not commit suicide nor does Russell. There is no evidence that Mary Russell ever wrote this letter or, in fact, even existed.
But then, as Ms. King tells us later, there is no proof that she did not.
Quote taken from: Prelude: Author's Note at the beginning of The Beekeeper's Apprentice.