Dear John,
Within this envelope, I am enclosing my will, a photo of the two of us, and a CD full of songs that made me think of you.
I am writing this letter to clarify a few of my more recent, possibly cryptic, actions. My time here is drawing quickly to a close, so I would very much like for you to understand a few things, or at least attempt to.
Look, John, I... at the aquarium... I was ready to die. I wanted it. And Mary... Mary decided, like so many others before her, that it was best for everyone if I didn't get what I want. I... I wish to God she wasn't as brave as she was. Not quite so noble. So loving. I wish she had just let me die.
Then you and she and Rosie could be a normal family, without the bothersome Sherlock Holmes butting in.
Look, I realize this is all my fault. And I don't blame you for not speaking to me, but John...
Don't blame me for living. It's not what I wanted. It wasn't my idea.
It's just one of the tragedies of our universe: the people who want to die get saved, and those who don't deserve death get snatched too quickly by the Reaper.
I regret every breath I take. Every movement I make.
I shouldn't be breathing. Shouldn't be moving. Mary should be the one still alive. I should be the one with the bullet in my chest.
I wish I died in that aquarium. Honestly, I think I've only got a few months left, anyway. At the rate I'm using Cocaine and other terrible things, my heart will stop, or I'll jump off a bridge, or something of that nature. Perhaps I'll lose mobility in my arms-- they are so covered in bruises and puncture wounds it would be an almost welcome change. Hell, I don't even care how it's effecting my brain anymore. I rarely take cases, these days. I'm too high or too broken to function.
Since it is likely that I won't see you again, I think it's safe to tell you... I think I'm in love with you. No, I don't think, I know. No one has ever made me as happy as you have, and I will treasure the time we spent together until the end of my (admittedly limited) days. I know that this is a terrible thing to say-- your wife dies, and in place of her affection, you get mine-- and I wish I could just snap my fingers and fall out of love with you. Unfortunately, I think we both know that's not how love works. You can't just turn it on and off like a tap. To do that would be to take away a huge part of who I am-- who I have become.
In the words of that old-as-time song, "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine". Every time I hear even a snippet of that song, I can't help but think of you. "You make me happy when skies are grey/ you'll never know dear, how much I love you, so please don't take my sunshine away...". You are the sun and, as you taught me after learning of my pitifully limited knowledge of the solar system, I am a planet orbiting around you in infinite circles, destined to do so until I either crash into you or you burn out.
I'm not sure which of those scenarios this is. Maybe this is me getting hit by a meteorite and shattering into billions of irreparable pieces, all flying at terminal velocity through the cosmos.
Maybe I'm just losing my mind.
Anyway, in the likely case that I don't see you again... I need you to know that you are loved. In your own words, you are the best man I have ever known. Before I knew you, I was so... so alone, and I doubt I shall ever be able to pay you back for everything you have done for me. But the best I can do, in our current state of estrangement, is thank you.
Thank you, John Hamish Watson, for being the best and the bravest human being I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. It was a privilege to consider you my best friend, and it was a privilege to love you.
Thank you so ineffably much for being you.
And though it is highly atypical of me to close a letter with this sort of valediction, I feel that you most definitely require an exception. So, with this short closing message, I shall leave you in peace:
If there is an afterlife, I hope to see you there.
Love,
Sherlock Holmes