Watson sighed and sat up. He checked his watch; half past two in the morning. He would be moving out in around eight hours, and counting. It felt…. Strange. He didn't know what to do with himself. For the last four hours he had been lying awake, trying to get some sleep. Now he had finally given up. He needed to talk to Holmes… But Holmes was understandably not speaking to him, and even if they had been on speaking terms he was asleep. Watson smirked to himself. The one time he couldn't sleep Holmes could, yet whenever he could sleep Holmes was awake, partaking in loud activities that prevented anything akin to rest. He walked over to the desk, and took out a pen and his writing paper. He paused for a moment before rising again, walking over to his now almost empty bookcase and taking down a dictionary. He went back to the desk and began to write:
My dear Holmes,
It is strange to think that this is probably the last letter I will write at this desk, but that is how things must be, mustn't they? I am wracked with indecision, which is somewhat irksome. I have been absolutely sure I am doing the right thing up until around three this afternoon. But now I don't know what I should do, well, that is not entirely true. I know what I should do now. I have no real choice. What I mean is, was this the right decision when I made it? I am being selfish. At least I think I am. I looked it up in the dictionary, you see I needed to be certain. I had no such luck. The definition did not clear things up at all. The word selfish is an adjective meaning 'concerned chiefly with ones own profit or pleasure at the expense of consideration for others.' I suppose what I am doing now is for my own profit, as it will benefit my reputation, however does it give me pleasure? I don't think so. I like Mary, I do. I am almost in love with her, but only almost. I don't love her, and I hate myself for that.I am sure she can see that and it hurts her… And I'm hurting you. I can see that, I think to fail to notice that I would have to be brain dead… But is it still selfish if I hate myself? Is it selfish if it's killing me inside? If it hurts me so much I can't sleep, eat or function in any way? I suppose I have known on some level that I don't want to do this for some time now. It is an interesting phenomenon that I believe I have been experiencing, that is, emotional pain manifesting itself as physical pain. You have probably noticed, with your considerable skills of observation, that I have been limping more than usual. That is a result of the afore mentioned phenomenon, were it not something I wish to hide I would write a case study on this, as it is an incredibly rare and as yet unexplained condition. But that is beside the point. I have however come to the conclusion that I am being selfish. I suppose then, this is an apology. I am sorry, Holmes, I don't want to hurt you. But now I am in too far. The only course of action I can possibly take now is to try to force myself to fall in love with Mary. And I do want to, Holmes. That is yet another part of my life you have disrupted. I don't believe I am able to fall in love now because of you. But we can never…
Watson stopped writing for a moment, having realised what he had written. He ruled a neat square around his last phrase, before filling it in so that the sentence was no longer readable. He glanced out of the window, thinking for a moment, before rewriting the offending phrase. He had been brutally honest throughout the whole letter, if he was going to be honest he should tell the whole truth.
We can never be together. I know that… But I wish it wasn't the case, Holmes, it is not acceptable and is completely wrong. It is not a normal love, or one that I am proud of, but I must be honest with you. I have surprised myself with the level of honesty in this letter… Holmes, I love you. I don't think there is any other way to put it. It is shameful I know. I hate myself for it, but it is true. I am truly sorry for leaving Holmes, and I know it doesn't help at all, but it hurts me too. That is all.
Yours,
J. Watson.
Holmes lay still, careful not to make a sound. He was waiting for Watson to slip the letter he had heard him writing under the door. It came as a great disappointment then when he heard Watson walking away from the door back into his room.
Watson sealed the envelope carefully, before tossing it into the fire. He couldn't give this letter to Holmes. It would be selfish.