Enjoy. Please understand that this is Sherlock's letter, and in between lines, there are some flashbacks that occurred in each of my four other stories (though not written except for the last one which includes some lines from the Stag Party) ! (:

Please review and thanks again for the amazing comments!

xxx,

Mistro

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Dear Renadale,

You must allow me to explain my actions. My feelings towards you are continental, expressed by escaping waters that hold no borders or barriers.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

"Renadale?" Holmes glanced over his shoulder to find the mysterious woman. She had startled him upon first appearance, not necessarily because he hadn't hired a maid; that was Watson's doing. What struck him were her poise, her manner, and her unparalleled stature. She kept her body stiff as a board with her eyes focusing on everything but the speaker. Her nods were quick and precise and her tongue was short to speak her opinion. He had been enjoying seeing her around the flat, though he could not figure out why and finding her suddenly absent was strangely upsetting. "Where did that maid run off to?"

John lifted his head up from the newspaper he was reading. His polished shoes were kicked up atop of his wooden desk that should have had finished paperwork atop it instead. He had much to do that day, but he wasn't going to miss out on the new theatrical show appearing in his own flat: Sherlock's Obsession with the New Maid.

"Where has that little devil run off to?" Sherlock began lifting up cushions on the sofa, even daring to look beneath its wooden legs for fear she might be hiding. John shook his head from the linear room and took a long drag of his pipe.

"Mister Holmes, I- Oh!" Renadale's sudden appearance on the threshold was welcomed with a crouched version of Sherlock's backside. As usual, she turned her head the opposite direction but this time out of embarrassment rather than timidity. "I… Just wanted to tell you that I received your package." Her arm outstretched towards him as he began to stand up. At the end of her fingertips was the brown parcel she had promised.

"Is that where you were?" He asked, flabbergasted.

The girl hesitantly allowed her eyes to settle upon him. She had only been there two days and already he had forgotten about her. "Yes, sir… As you had asked me to this morning?"

His untamed hair bounced as his head fell lazily to his shoulder. "I asked you to remove yourself from my flat?"

An audible snicker came from the other room. "Yes, sir." Renadale did not know what to say. Did he not want her to leave? Did she have other errands she had neglected? Her mother would shun her for a week if she got fired on the third day. Afraid of what he might do, she distracted him with the package by pushing it gently into his hands. "There you are, sir."

"No need for the 'sir's," he said with a mumble. His fingers began to peel back the brown paper and the curiosity couldn't help but dance around the emerald halos in her eyes. She hadn't even noticed that he stopped unwrapping and that his eyes were fixated on her. "You're awfully curious for a maid."

Renadale tensed up familiarly, Holmes finding it difficult not to chuckle. "My apologies, sir. I'll start on the dusting-"

"Don't. I don't enjoy people touching my things." His brow rose swiftly as the last bit of paper was peeled away. It floated to the ground like a dirt-stained butterfly. "In fact… I'd rather have you open this."

Renadale flinched back in response. "You just informed me not to touch your possessions, sir. I cannot help but feel as if you are mocking me." Her dark brows came together for a split second in her forehead, her true character coming out. It did not last long, but Sherlock was utterly drawn to her change of mood. Another reason he found her so noteworthy.

"How do you know this is mine?"

A beat. "Because it has your name, sir."

"What if it was a gift?" Renadale could feel her legs shaking under her heavy, blue skirt. She was certain he was all tease. "A gift for a friend."

"Then perhaps you should let your friend open it." Though often shy, Renadale did not allow anyone to mock her about something that was out of her knowledge. Especially men. She believed they had a way about themselves when it came to women: cocky, proud, belittling… she hated all of the traits. Thomas, her past love, had made sure of that. And although this man was her new boss she would rather be penniless than serve another man who treated her like a child.

"I am letting her open it." Sherlock couldn't help but laugh at her sudden stubbornness. He only stretched his arm out further.

The sound of a chair scraping on wooden floor sounded from the other room. Watson had stood up in shock, peeking his head around the corner for a better line of vision. Renadale glanced at the Doctor nervously, but all he could give her was a shrug. He was clearly as baffled as her.

With a careful eye placed on her new boss, Renadale clicked open the lid of the wooden box. It felt heavy, which normally meant expensive. When Renadale looked down, she was shocked and yet slightly flattered that he had managed to pick up on her character in only a short amount of days. "They're… gears."

"You said you were an inventor." He shrugged as if it were nothing and yet the gleam and silver edges of the various sized tools proved that it was indeed something worth noting.

"Sir, why did you-?"

"I have a friend who works in the business. He's working on wind turbines, or something such as that…" Once again, he threw out a nonchalant shrug. "He had no use for them and I couldn't help but think that they would be better in your hands than in the rubbish." Renadale tried to thank him, but her words were lost in a flurry of revelation. By the time she had managed to execute a proper response, he had already left the room.

"Be thankful." The doctor's voice startled Renadale back into reality. "He doesn't do that. Not even when I specifically go and ask him to fetch me something as simple as milk." Almost playfully, Watson wagged his finger in her direction. There was nothing more he needed to say and he exited through the door shortly after his friend. The maid stood with her jaw clenched tight, feeling as if this were the closing scene of some terribly written play.

"Bloody hell," she whispered. The foul word stung her tongue, but no other two words had been so fitting.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

And if you think otherwise, please recall the moments where my limited affections were displayed. It is rare for me to hold someone- physically or emotionally- to my soul.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Renadale's brown curls were similar to Irene's. Thick, heavy hair that men yearned to run their fingers through and women idolized. And yet on that blistery night, their thick hair didn't seem to keep the hairs on their neck down. "Irene," Renadale said as they swan through London's dark alleys. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Holmes is missing," she muttered furiously. "I haven't been able to think of any other options, so this is what we will have to work with."

Renadale knew how Irene felt. They both cared for Holmes, perhaps even loved him in whatever way he could be loved. But this was Renadale's second case with Holmes and the poisoned bodies and sewers had begun eating away at her beautiful memories. She did not know the detective as well as the Adler woman did, and somehow following her and Watson to the sewers seemed unfitting as if she did not belong.

And as she considered walking away and leaving it to the experts, she recalled his gentle face and strangely soft eyes. This was a man who had seen murder countless times, torture and overall wickedness of humanity. He had been injured, accused, jailed and almost killed for the sake of equality. He was the most honest and generous man she had met. Few people saw him that way, but she glad to be one of them.

Why would I give up on such a man? Even if I do not know him as well as the two beside me, I believe in him. Does he not deserve my respect? Does he not deserve my help?

It did not take much convincing for Renadale to remain on the case. Sherlock Holmes was her hero. They were going to save him or die trying.

Renadale sincerely hoped it would be the former.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Tonight may be the night that I die. If you are reading this, I hope you shall be in the comfort of my brother's house, alone, and though unlikely, without any tears streaking your young and beautiful face.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Renadale was terrified of ordering a cocktail at the Paris Opera house. "Why can't you do it?" Her voice shook as the nightmare of speaking French entered her mind. "Your French is perfect. I don't even know how to say 'yes'!"

"Oui."

"What are you saying? I don't understand you!"

Sherlock grabbed her tightly by the arms, forcing their eyes to meet. "Renadale, listen to me." Her green eyes struggled to focus on his darker ones, but after a moment of nervous whimpering she finally succeeded. "She is going to ask you what you want. You can say, "Oui. Cointreau."

"How can I say that when I don't even know what it is?"

Sherlock's face twisted into a momentary smile before returning to its serious mask. "Just trust me, you'll like it." He tossed the girl a wink and a shove, forcing her on her way. Renadale managed to pronounce the alcohol perfectly, causing the detective to smile from across the room. As the waiter turned to fill her a glass, she glanced over her shoulder with a nervous shrug directed towards her companion.

How did I do? She asked with her glimmering eyes.

Beautifully, he replied.

The alcohol content in the drink was high, but he could see the nerves dancing about her skin. What she didn't know wouldn't kill her. It was their third case together, but somehow being in Paris with Renadale felt right. It made sense. She was as beautiful as the roses outside their hotel and the pastel palaces that littered the city. His stomach would churn when he would see her, even at the simplest of times when she was not trying to be lovely. Did she ever try? He wondered. She never battered her lashes like Irene. She never polished her shoes. Her makeup was minor, if existent. The girl was ravishing and fascinating rolled into one and as intoxicating as the drink she held in her pale hands.

He took a sip from his wine and allowed for the song-like name to drip from his mouth, quiet enough for his own ear's company. "Renadale Adkins."

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

I would have married you, Renadale. I would have loved you as much as my pathetic soul could. I still do as I write this letter.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

When Renadale entered the stage, Sherlock Holmes did not need to look up to see she was there. He could feel it. He could feel the room brighten. He could hear the other men gasping and inwardly longing for her touch against their drunken skin. He was fearful of looking at her, knowing that it would release his darkest desires and awake a hunger in him that he had only felt with her.

And yet, he could not stop himself. She was alluring. His eyes trailed up from the pub table and onto the elongated stage. And voila… there she was as pretty as a French painting. Her hair was wrapped tightly on her head, her outfit revealing but somehow perfectly right for the occasion. She did not make an entirely good performer, she was far too beautiful for that, but somehow her smiles and body took over the stage as if she had been there forever.

She gave a flick of her wrist, followed by a perfectly executed bow. Sherlock wished he had brought had brought his strongest tobacco to keep his hands steady. They were shaking uncontrollably at the mere sight of her. If she got any closer, he thought his affections for her would erupt. He had to act like he didn't care. Like she didn't affect him. He knew it would hurt her, but somehow it was hurting him to love her.

Love her. He hadn't spoken it. He hardly even let the thought cross his mind. And yet in the darkest and quietest moments of the night, he knew that he did. The pumping of his heart was solely for her. Well, he was certain the feeling of love made one queasy at the sight of another. He was certain it was love that made his body shake when she grew close to him.

But, now was not the time to confess. He stood up and quickly spun around after shooting her a momentary smile. His back was to her as she jumped off the stage and all it took was a tap on the shoulder for him to spin around. He tried his hardest to act surprised. "Renadale! You look…" Damn, Holmes. Pull yourself together. Finding the right words was harder than the Blackwood case.

"I honestly don't want to know." Her hand reached out to grab his sleeve, anger and confusion lacing her green irises. The softness of her skin was almost noticeable beneath his thick fabric, and he could feel himself spinning with intoxication at the sight and smell of her. "We should go upstairs and talk."

"You see, I don't think now is the best time for-"

"No, no. It is certainly the best time."

Sherlock groaned. He had been unfair to the girl, never giving her answers or explanations. She deserved some sort of storyline to keep her beside him. The last thing he wanted was for her to leave his partnership, as she had horribly discussed in their second case together. If giving her answers would keep her there, he would do it. Even if it put her in danger.

Selfishness, Holmes thought to himself. That is what I possess when I see her. He wanted her to himself, though he hardly admitted it to his own soul and even less to hers. When she had been interested in the Edward man, he thought he might give up on his cases. He thought he might give up on everything and live sheltered life with no sunshine and only the comfort of his horribly chaotic room.

But she had proved him wrong. The boy had died and a part of Renadale died with him. And since that moment, he swore to let her pave a path towards her own life. She was her own woman, though she barely believed it.

And that was why he was going to fight for her.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Forgive me, my darling. Forgive my ways. Forgive the words I said that hurt you and the words that I never said that also prolonged harm. You were always the strong one, which is why I let myself fall over the edge into admiration and the strongest passion for you.

There were nights you did not hear of where I could not sleep. I feared my end was coming and, I confess, there were moments where I cursed myself for not letting you go as a maid in order to extract you from my life. This is not because I did not want you there, you were the center of my mind's painting, but because I feared my demise would come soon and that you and I would be far too deeply in love to let it cause ourselves no pain.

It kills me, Renadale. It kills me to know that this was the only way. You saved me once before in the blockaded and miserable sewers beneath London, but now there is no way. As I write the final lines of this note, please heed my advice.

London is a cesspool. Leave. Do not return to the memories, the stench, and the inequality. Leave and start new. You have a gift with your mind and those in London will not appreciate it. London is my second love, but she is twisted like my own prison-like mind. Someone as beautiful as you deserves a breathtaking lifestyle.

I must go now. My soul feels dormant without you already. Your bodice and soul clung to mine and I felt ill knowing that I might not have you as long as I had hoped. Do not cry. Do not forget that I love you. Do not stay in London. I am asking this of you.

Another game will be played.

~S

My fingers drop the letter from my hand. I am glad that I'm sitting on the chair at Mycroft's desk to help steady me, though I can hardly read the scribbled 'S' through my tears.

My heart is the sorest part of my body. Though my shoulders and knees ache from wracked sobs, my heart continues to tighten. I fear it might burst if I continue to cry, but I cannot stop. His words echo through my mind like a broken machine.

I would have married you.

I would have married you.

I would have married you.

I'm not sure of when John enters the room, but the sound of his worn-out soles ring familiar in my head and before I can meet his face, I feel his arms wrap themselves around my bodice. He is warm and soft and comforting like a father, or better yet, a best friend. I can feel the wetness on his cheeks as he pressed his face against mine. His lips move as if he is trying to say something, but no words come out.

My knees have finally given up. I feel myself crumple to the floor and further into John's arms. We are both crying, not understanding the events that have happened, pleased that Moriarty is gone and heartbroken that Sherlock would betray us.

"We could have helped him," I want to say. "We could have saved him." But no words come out.

John and I continue to hold one another as we sit, our tears becoming quieter until both of our souls order us to dream.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

480? Please?

One of my readers, Emma0707, said this quote reminds her of Sherlock and Rena.

I couldn't agree more.

"We're all a little weird, and life's a little weird. And when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love." -Dr. Suess

xxx