Word Count: 990
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader
Request(s): None
Warning(s): None
(A/N): It's a bit short but I still like it. This is so extremely sad. You have been warned. But it's also super cute, so there's that for you. Enjoy!
My Dearest (Y/N),
If you're reading this, it must mean that everything has gone exactly as Moriarty planned. It must also mean that I'm dead. I'm aware of how harsh that sounds, but I am also aware that you need to hear it in your own head. You have to admit that I am gone. I don't have much time to write this so I shall attempt to be brief but I have so much to say to you. I am almost positive that you'll be crying while you read this so here I'll leave a small margin as a splash zone for tears.
I've spent months thinking about you, weeks observing you, and several days trying to deduce you, but only recently have I truly seen you as you are. You are unlike any other person I have ever met. You don't ignore me nor do you hate me. You don't groan when I speak, nor do you swoon at my feet (like the female fans I seem to attract thanks to John's blog). Instead, you listen to my remarks, and except the answers to the cases I solve. In turn, you make me laugh. Your wit is remarkable, for, without it, I know not how to deal with anything. It is that wit that has broken tension and caused it. You've saved me more times than I can count because of your calculating thoughts. If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't be the man I am, or rather, the man I was. And though I may not express my gratitude for it enough, I am thanking you now. Without you, I would have gone completely mad long ago. You keep me in check and remind me where my place is.
Not to mention you are gorgeous. Absolutely stunning. But we won't get into that too much. I know Shakespeare is your favourite and I finally have a chance to use this quote.
'O she doth teach the torches how to burn bright.
It seem she hangs upon the cheek of night
As rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear;
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear.
So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows,
As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows.
The measure done, I'll watch her place of stand,
And touching her make blessed my rude hand.
Did my heart feel love till now? Forswear it sight,
For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.'
I guess my main difficulty was that you are too good to be true. What, exactly, are you? You're kind and generous. You're honest and true and everything a good person - no, a great person - must be. You're everything I am not.
You have a way with words that even Shakespeare would have envied. And not just when you write or when you try, but in your effortless, most genuine, moments. Like in the morning, where you call me every name under the sun because I shouldn't have woken you no matter how pressing the case may be. Like when you think I'm not listening and you start to hum or sing quietly. (You have a voice that would make the Mousai blush, by the way.) Or when I catch you talking to nobody but yourself as you think about a case.
I find myself listening to the gossip and idle chatter you share with others. I seem to devour every syllable that drops for your lips. And I crave for the sound of your voice from the very moment I awake to the second I fall asleep. You seep into my every thought, and for some reason unknown to me, I allow it.
Perhaps it is your eternal brightness that has me so captivated, or maybe it's all the simple things you do. The way your breathing quickens as you read an exciting novel. The way your eyes light up when the boy gets the girl. Maybe it's your enormous heart that keeps me so fascinated, the love you hold inside of you, waiting to spill forth. Enough love for yourself and someone who is incapable of love in a conventional way.
You, my dear, have taught me things I never knew I'd need to know, and you've allowed my head to include my heart. You aren't just simple facts and figures. You're heartbeats and deep breaths and the butterflies in my stomach. You've completed me in a way I never knew possible and I have to tell you this one last time.
I, Sherlock Holmes, am in love with you. Deeply, madly, almost intolerably. I am completely and utterly yours until the end of time.
I do have a few posthumous requests, though. First, please, for the love of everything sacred, do not mourn me. I don't want you to hurt. I don't want you to miss me. I don't want you to lose the light behind your eyes.
Next, I want you to promise me you won't blame yourself. If you could promise me one thing, promise me that. None of this entire ordeal was ever your fault, it's mine. I am trying to protect you, and everyone else I hold dear.
And lastly, tell everyone that I am sorry. I never wanted any of this to happen. I couldn't have predicted it or prepared.
I truly hope that you do not despise me because of the actions I have taken, for I do not wish upon you any pain. So here I am, even after death, begging for your forgiveness, my love. But still, after everything is done and the sun has set on my life, one thing remains true. I will be seeing you soon.
Eternally yours,
Sherlock Holmes
