Dear Nick
It's been nearly thirty years since we last spoke and so much has gone on I don't know where to start. I don't want to start but my psychiatrist's watching me and she thinks this is a good idea. She scares me. You know the way I was always nervous with girls. Well I'm even more nervous with her.
The first thing I want to say is that I am so sorry. I should have been there. I meant to be there. I don't know what happened but I remember you saying you were going to play badminton and me saying I was just finishing the chapter in my book and I would be out later. I remember Professor Bell coming and fetching me. I remember the ambulance arriving. And all I remember after that is everything hurting.
And all I remember after that is everything being numb. I remember feeling cold. Then feeling nothing. Because you were gone.
I often wonder what you would have been like if you had grown up. I expect you would have been exactly the same. Everyone would have loved you. They would have all been so proud of you. Actually I know what you would have looked like. I got someone at work to put your picture through a computer aging programme. You will be pleased to know you didn't go bald. But you did get a pot belly. Too many liquorice allsorts I guess.
Sherlock is doing okay. He's a detective now. The world's only consulting detective. You would get such a big kick out of what he's doing. He's got a boyfriend as well. A guy called john. John is an ex army doctor and the nicest guy you'd ever want to meet. You two would have got on so well. Just like you, John is the kind of guy who never turns away from the problem. Sometimes he even looks like you. Sometimes I have to turn away. Because it hurts. It hurts so much.
They tell me that eventually if I write these letters to you I will be able to forget you. They don't understand. They don't understand that you are part of me and I will never forget you. They don't understand that I will never love anyone but you. You were my first kiss. And the only kiss that ever meant anything. And yours will be the kiss I will replay on my lips as I die.
They tell me I should move on. I don't want to move on. I want to be with you. Forever.
I know what they say about me. That I am cruel. Unfeeling. Untouched. They all call me the Iceman. Maybe they're right.
Wordsworth sends his love. So do I.
I am most sincerely yours
Mycroft Holmes.