Chapter Text
It is a testament to the genius of the late Mr. Sherlock Holmes that the most complex of his ciphers eluded the cryptographic powers of some of the world's brightest minds for nearly a century after his death. A small, leather-bound notebook, written in code, was uncovered among the great detective's personal effects within months of his passing, and since that time the scholarly community has devoted tremendous time and effort in an attempt to decode it. Until about a decade ago, progress was impeded by the total lack of any frame of reference from which to begin such efforts. It was not until 1997 that a bored graduate student, who happened to have access to the notebook, decided that it was worth the afternoon's effort to obtain x-ray images of the book. To the student's astonishment, the scan revealed that a few sheets of writing paper were concealed between the pieces of leather that formed the book's cover. The binding was immediately ripped apart to reveal another document, written in the same cipher on six sheets of much-folded but good quality writing paper.
About these few, isolated pages more was obvious from the outset than had ever been known about the notebook. From the length and format it could only be a letter, and it was clearly written not in Holmes' hand, but that of his friend and colleague, Dr. John H. Watson. A study of other extant letters from Watson to Holmes revealed that the doctor invariably began his epistles with the salutation "My Dear Holmes," and signed his name as "J. Watson" at their conclusion. The knowledge of these facts allowed scholars--though not without a good deal more sweat and toil--finally to break Holmes' unbreakable code about two years ago.
All the effort of those decades of research proved more worthwhile than the researchers involved in the project could possibly have imagined. The letter and the notebook--which proved to be a personal journal kept sporadically by Holmes between the years 1889 and 1902, approximately--have been a veritable treasure trove of startling revelations. This is the first time that these materials will ever be presented to the public. My colleagues and I have decided that the letter, which is the earliest of the documents chronologically as well as the first decoded, ought also to be the first part of this remarkable set of writings released from the isolation of the library and the laboratory into the wider world. In time, no doubt, the journal which it accompanied will follow.
Reactions to the contents of the letter within the scholarly community have ranged from horrorstruck disbelief to positive elation, and no doubt the reaction of the larger public will be similarly varied. One thing, however, is beyond debate: this letter will change the way we see Sherlock Holmes and his Watson forever.
--Jane Turenne,
Curator of the Holmes Collection, Victoria and Albert Museum, London
My Dear Holmes,
It occurs to me that it ought to bring me some feeling of triumph, to be in advance of you this one time in the solution of a problem. I have certainly wished, many and many a time, for the ability to anticipate your conclusions, or else simply to keep pace with the workings of that magnificent mind of yours. Never before has my own brain been equal to the task. At this moment, knowing that I have outstripped you at last, I ought perhaps to be savoring the sensation.
On the whole, however, I am finding it an experience which I could very easily have done without
No, no, it will not do to start this way. I can already hear your voice in my mind: "Beginning from the end again, eh Watson? Bad, very bad." I will give you the beginning, then, which you have not yet heard, and by the end of it all you will be miles ahead of me. It is a fate to which I am well used; I am resigned to it.
It started only a few hours ago--My God, can it really have been so little time as that?--which was, of course, the morning of this December the seventeenth, 1888. You remained at Baker Street, scratching agitatedly at your violin and no doubt soliloquizing for the umpteenth time on the idiocy of each and every representative of the government, up to and including Her Majesty, in refusing your help on the case of those poor murdered girls in Whitechapel. I, on the other hand, had braved the cold and windy streets in search of a suitable Christmas gift for the long-suffering Mrs. Hudson. Trudging my way home with my carefully wrapped lace tablecloth in my oxter, I found myself in the vicinity of the Yard, and thought I might just stop in for a chat and a respite from the weather.
As it was so near the holiday, and so bitter out-of-doors, Scotland Yard was both cheery and crowded, and I saw a dozen familiar faces as I walked the halls. All our old acquaintances--Gregson, Lestrade, Jones, and the lot--were about, and each greeted me in more-or-less friendly tones. I thought, however, that I could sense a slight stiffness in their manners. At the time I put it all down to remembrance on their parts of some of your less than kind remarks about the regular forces, and by the end of my visit, some half-an-hour later, I managed to convince myself that I had simply imagined their supposed coolness.
As I was turning to leave, I felt a tugging at my sleeve. It was Marcus Wellstone, the young constable to whom you were such a help in that little matter in Piccadilly last June. He was just the same tall, gangly youth I remembered, as innocent-looking as ever beneath his thatch of blonde hair, but he held himself rather nervously, I thought. Drawing me aside, he said, "Doctor Watson, I feel that I owe a good turn to you and Mr. Holmes."
I began to dismiss him, but before I could finish the requisite, "Not at all, my good man," he turned to me with the utmost seriousness and said "I should be very careful, sir, if I were you, the next few months at the least. You might want to warn Mr. Holmes as well."
As you might imagine, I was intrigued and not a little discomfited by this sudden disclosure. "Careful, Wellstone? Careful in what way?"
The young man squirmed, a dark flush spreading over his already pink cheeks. "You see, Doctor, it's like this. The Yard's been under a bit of pressure, lately. Seems there's those, higher-up, like, as want us to be more... harsh, in the enforcing of certain laws. And, well, Sir, there's some 'round here have been watching you and Mr. Holmes rather close. Investigating you, you might say."
My mind flashed back over the list of the laws that we, my dear friend, have bent or broken outright in our efforts on the side of justice. That list was far longer than I cared to admit. If the constable before me sought an explanation for one of these, I could hardly choose just one action to defend. I needed more information.
"Which laws, in particular?"
Both squirm and blush increased at this question. "I…I think, Sir," the young man positively stammered, "I think it's called something like 'The Act Against Offences of the Body,' or suchlike thing, Sir."
He meant, of course, the 'Offences Against the Person Act,' but even though I knew something of the provisions of that law, I could not understand how it could possibly apply to me, much less to you. Did he think I, as a physician, might have been aiding women in miscarrying? I chose my words as carefully as I could.
"I have never broken any of the laws described in that Act, Wellstone, and, so far as I know, neither has Mr. Holmes."
His face changed instantly from his former intense nervousness to the very model of relief. As it did, some barrier seemed to burst within him, and a positive storm of babble escaped.
"Oh, Dr. Watson, Sir, I knew it could not be so. They're all just jealous, s'what they are, of Mr. Holmes and how he solves things so well and so quick. I told Inspector Gregson, I did, I said, 'How could you say such a thing of two respectable gentlemen like them? So what if they're both bachelors, and have been living together for so many years? They're in their prime of life, they are, and they may both of them marry yet. It is true, Mr. Holmes isn't one to chase after the ladies, or even to speak highly of them, but that doesn't mean a thing,' I said, 'and even if the Doctor is the only person Mr. Holmes'll tolerate for more than a little while, and even if Dr. Watson does speak so highly of Mr. Holmes in that book he wrote about him, and even if they do spend such a lot of their time together, well, they're friends, sirs, and what else do you expect? How could you possibly accuse them of something as unnatural as that, and after all they've done for the force, too?' I told him all that, Dr. Watson, but… but it is good to hear you say it's so, Sir, because, well, I did know that they was wrong, Sir, and just talking scandal and all, but it's best, isn't it, to hear it from a man's own lips?"
I am not sure when precisely in this avalanche of dialogue I became aware of his meaning. I do remember that the word "unnatural" seemed to catch in the air and vibrate through my body like the ringing of a gong. By the end of his rambling speech I was tight-lipped and a strange lightness had come over me, as though I no longer inhabited my own skin.
I cannot recall with what words I escaped from the constable. They were, at any rate, reassuring but few. As I pushed home to Baker Street through the gusty wind and the snow that had begun to fall, I had only one thought. I was being investigated. I was being investigated by Scotland Yard. I was being investigated, with Holmes, on a charge of…
'Unnatural,' whispered Wellstone's voice, again and again, resounding through my mind. 'Scandal…jealous…friends…'
I was on the stairs at Baker Street before I came back to myself. I froze when I heard the sound of your violin from the sitting room, and knew that I must pass by you to gain the safe haven of my own room. I must get to privacy, I must think. But how was I to keep the afternoon's revelations from you? How could I conceal my thoughts from you, my dear Holmes, who see the workings of my mind as though my skull were made of glass?
I stood there on the stair and forced myself to take long, deep, stilling breaths. I had, it was true, managed to keep one single secret safe from your all-seeing eyes, and that for some five or six years now. Surely I could preserve a second for the dozen heartbeats it would take to cross the sitting room to my own door.
I stood in our doorway, opposite Mrs. Hudson's fine looking-glass, and tried to see myself as you would see me. At first, I thought to eliminate any traces of the path which I had taken, but I knew it to be impossible to keep such physical details from your eyes. After all, the errant snowflakes on my hair and coat might tell you which way I walked relative to the wind; the paper in which my long-forgotten tablecloth was wrapped, and the types of knots in the twine, would likely as not signal the shop at which I purchased it; and I shuddered to imagine how much you might divine from the slush oozing off of my poor boots or the clatter of loose change in my pockets. No, your powers in that way were simply too intense, too supernatural. I could only hope to hide what it was I learned, rather than where it was I went. I must obliterate any clues to my emotional, rather than my physical state. Very carefully I wiped the moisture that had once been snow from my face--a man in his right senses would have ducked his head in such abysmal weather. I tucked my bright red hands into my pockets, to obscure the absentmindedness that had led me to forget to don my gloves. And then, reluctantly, I examined my own face.
It was more difficult than I can say to contort my features into something like normality. I looked then as I had not looked since the black days of my convalescence in India. Long moments passed as I wrestled with each and every feature, my face transforming slowly from that of a man ravaged to his depths, to the same John H. Watson as always.
When I judged that I was, or appeared to be, as calm as was possible, I pulled the door open and hurried inside. I meant to escape from you as quickly as I could, mindful that my painstakingly constructed façade would soon fade.
As it turned out, however, I needn't have bothered. I have never before been glad to see you in one of your dark moods but, God forgive me, I was then. It was clear from the moment that I walked in that you were not of a mind to acknowledge my presence, much less deduce the history of my afternoon. Had I not been so infernally distracted I might have guessed as much from the disjointed, melancholy, abrupt strains that you were wringing from your poor Stradivarius. I was greeted upon my entrance by the sight of you, sprawled loose-limbed and dressing-gowned in your chair by the fire, holding the violin as though it took all the effort of which you were capable just to keep it at your shoulder. On another day, I would have tarried awhile in an attempt to tease or prod or scold you out of your black humor. Today, however, I felt only a sort of bitter, cold relief, and I strode determinedly past you without uttering a word.
The closing of my bedroom door was a blessed relief. I did not even make it as far as the bed, but slumped to the floor with my back against the door and buried my head in my hands. The facts which I had been suppressing for the last quarter of an hour finally broke upon me in all their force.
We were, the both of us, ruined. It did not matter that we were innocent. The evidence as presented by young Wellstone, though entirely circumstantial, was enough. Though no one had batted an eye over our personal arrangements before, they could be made to seem utterly damning by any lawyer worth his salt, enough to condemn us in the court of public opinion if not in a court of law. But that was not my main concern.
My mind, as though rent upon a seam, tore in both directions at once. Moral guilt and practical innocence beat in upon me, released from the thread that had bound them together, the one idea that summed up my torment now.
I imagined myself in a witness box. Before me stood a faceless interrogator.
'Have you committed the crime of which you stand here accused?'
'No,' answered my dream-self, truthfully. That was not the question that I feared. I lived in dread, however, of the question that I knew was coming next.
'Did you ever wish to commit that crime?'
In a real witness-box, in a real court, perhaps I would lie. At worst, I would answer the question plainly and without elaboration. In my own imagination, however, I was as eloquent as I was foolish.
'Yes. Yes, I have wished it. I have wished it almost every day for years. I have lived for seven years now in the company of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. When the world looks at Holmes, they see an infuriating, cold, vain, calculating, insulting, and almost inhuman person. As he would say himself--they see, but they do not observe. They do not observe that it is true genius that makes him infuriating. They do not observe that it is only to hide his sensitivity that he seems cold. They do not observe that his vanity is part of a constant effort at self-improvement, that his calculations save lives and reputations, or that the insults of his bad moods are balanced, and more than balanced, by the kindnesses of his good ones. And as to the charge of inhumanity--how can anyone fail to see that, uncommon though he is, that very uncommonness is a result of the most noble, generous, just, benevolent spirit with which ever a man was blessed? He is a beautiful man, in body and soul, more deserving of love than any person I have ever known. Is it any wonder, then, that I have loved him? Is it any wonder, then, that I have hoped he might some day come to love me? He is the True North of my life and I, magnetized, must follow. Imprison me for these thoughts, if you like; it is no matter. But know this: on the day that you condemn Sherlock Holmes, you condemn all that is best in the British spirit. May the penalty for it be on your own heads.'
This was the speech with which my sorry brain presented me, those the ideas which tore me between the penitent feeling that my illegal desires had condemned me, and the defiant wish that I might at least have committed the crime which would destroy me anyhow.
It has not been as difficult as I supposed to put this down on paper, knowing that you will read it. Yesterday morning I would have trembled to write such things to you, but now, after all that has happened on this mad day, I have necessity to counterbalance the cowardice--yes, the worst kind of cowardice!--that has stopped me confessing my feelings for you before. Why I chose to not do so (besides the legal risk which seems to have overcome us anyhow) must surely be obvious to you. Your own opinions on the subject of love have been expressed so often, and so emphatically, that it would be folly to hope that a romantic appeal could be favorably received. Worse, I know that you do genuinely care for and value me, if only in friendship. How could I be willing to risk such a treasure as that for so small a chance of reward? Although I have dreamed of more, I have always been contented with what has been granted to me: with the sparkle of your brilliant grey eyes when they meet mine, with your frequent expressions of brotherly affection and trust, with the sound of your laughter and the scent of your tobacco and the sight of that tall, lean form in an agitation of motion or the languor of repose. I could not survive without those little luxuries.
And yet now it must all come out. I would lose my reputation, I might well lose my freedom, and, worst but most certainly of all, I would lose you.
Somehow I must stop this calamity. I must and I would set the world back to the way it had been when I woke in the morning. If there was any way to make these horrible accusations go away, I would discover it.
Slowly, very slowly, a plan began to take root in my mind. I must have maintained my strange seat, leaning back against the door, for nearly two hours. I considered the case from every angle. I weighed the evidence. I was very careful to be sure that I was fitting the proposed solution to the problem, rather than the other way around. In short, I applied your methods, with more deliberation than I have ever done before. The more I considered it, the more everything fell into place. Every detail fitted. There was only one question left to be asked: Could I do it? Did I have the strength?
Had I only myself to fight for, I might not have found the will. But you were pinned into that dreadful corner with me, and I could not let you down. I lifted my chin, squared my shoulders, and made my choice. I vowed within myself that nothing now should shake my resolve. It was as final as though set in stone.
The only question left was how, and how much, to tell you. As I sat and considered those questions, fate and Scotland Yard intervened once more
The knock at the sitting-room door, though muffled by intervening walls, was abrupt enough to cause me to start. I heard your voice, slurred with boredom, as you languidly bid our visitor enter. And then I stiffened where I sat as I heard Athelney Jones' greeting. Had he come to arrest us? Was I already too late?
My ear was pressed against the door and, since I could hear all that went on, the fear and indecision of the moment were sufficient to dissuade me from interference. I realize now that my inaction was an error, for I am sure that, had I been there, I might have lessened the shock to you which I was later forced to give. But I am getting ahead of myself again.
After the usual pleasantries had been exchanged--though, given your black mood and Jones' pompous smugness (which tonight was even worse than usual), pleasantry is hardly the proper term--I heard Jones begin to explain his presence.
"Well, Mr. Holmes, I'm sure you're wondering what's brought me here tonight."
"I am positively breathless with anticipation, Inspector," you replied, in that scathing tone.
"Yes, well, the situation stands as follows. We have for some time been investigating a member of Parliament. We have very good reason to believe that this man, who has otherwise been considered the model of respectability, engages regularly in depravity of the most abhorrent kind…"
I sat up very straight.
"…in short, Mr. Holmes, that he keeps as a lover an actor from the Haymarket Theatre." Here Jones paused, as though for anticipating a response, and, receiving none, added, "A male actor."
"Yes, Jones, the O-R suffix implied as much." Your voice dripped acid. "Though Dr. Watson often informs me that my use of cocaine will addle my wits, I believe that I am not yet so entirely deprived of mental force as to require elucidation on so small a point as that."
I winced. Jones' choice of subject could not be a coincidence; I was sure that his presence was a test of your behavior. So far, you had expressed no shock at the idea of a Parliamentarian committing sodomy, had insulted Jones for the umpteenth time, and had even managed to drag my name into the discussion within its first few sentences. I felt, to put it mildly, that the conversation was not going well.
Jones gave a little "harrumph" before continuing. "Obviously, Mr. Holmes, we are hoping to build a sufficient case against this gentleman, but our attempts to do so must be conducted in an extraordinarily discreet manner, on the off-chance that our information up to now has been mistaken. Since you have such a talent for discovering what others cannot," the sneer in Jones' voice belied the compliment, "we thought you might assist us in the gathering of our evidence."
There was a long silence. Then came your words, deliberate and dangerously calm, "Let me see if I understand you, Inspector. You think that you may have a case to make. You are not sure whether any crime is being committed at all. If it is, there will likely be no official proceedings. A member of Parliament is far too important a person to be caught out in such a way; at worst he might be forced to resign his seat, but he also would, beyond a doubt, manage to worm his way out of a public trial. Whether or not a crime is being committed, you dislike the risk of investigating so important a personage. You will need a scapegoat, someone whose investigations you can disavow. Furthermore, the task of collecting the evidence for this case is entirely menial; any one of the fifty private detectives in this city is used to such work, and most of them would be no loss to the profession if it proved necessary to throw your locum to the dogs to save your own skin."
"I, on the other hand, am not so dispensable. I am unique. As a result of my work and my methods, my own reputation has been quietly and subtly enhanced, but yours, Inspector Jones, has skyrocketed, as has that of the Yard. In return, I have asked only that you continue to bring me your most difficult and interesting problems, so that I may solve them and you may have the credit."
Only a few times before have I heard in your voice the fierce undercurrent of anger that had begun to seep into your words.
"But now, now you bring me a case neither admirable nor unique, in hopes that I will not only investigate it, but take the blame for it! And a case, moreover, of victimless crime, an offense that hurts no one and nothing save perhaps the immortal souls of the participants. As you well know, Inspector, the soul is not my purview. Where there is murder, conspiracy, robbery, intrigue, violence--where, in short, real harm to innocent prey is being done or contemplated--there am I more than willing to risk my person, my name, and my life for the sake of justice. But this case that you have brought to me today is not worth even the time and energy it took for me to hear and refuse it."
Your unusually emotional and hasty words were carrying us ever nearer to disaster, but I could not help but feel a certain pride as I listened to this speech. The absolute truth of every word, your masterly manner, the extraordinary contrast between your behavior and Jones'… well, to tell the truth, it was quite stirring. However, as much as I would have enjoyed listening to you take Jones down another peg or two, I could not allow you to push the inspector so far that he would arrest us both on the spot. That would have quite upset my plans.
Jones' appearance, and the scene I'd just overheard, would make it necessary for me to adjust my timetable somewhat, but I had already worked out my key tactics and I knew my cue when I heard it. Realizing that I had no more time to prepare myself, and that my performance must be absolutely flawless, I sprang to my feet and wrenched open the door.
For half a moment I took in the scene: the corpulent form of Athelney Jones, encased as always in an acre of grey tweed, on his feet before the basket-chair, flushed and puffed out with indignation; you sitting up in your armchair, ramrod-straight with flashing eyes. The inspector's mouth was open, preparing a retort, and a note of triumph lurked beneath the anger imprinted on his features. My entrance was perfectly timed.
"Oh, hello Jones," I said, in a suitably cheerful tone. The rôle that I had chosen for this little exercise in theatrics was the same slightly exaggerated self-portrait that I have adopted for myself in my published writings: the honest, good-natured, and somewhat idiotic English doctor, instantly recognizable, thoroughly likeable and eminently forgettable. "I thought I heard your voice."
The inspector began to greet me, but you cut him off with a scowl and a sibilant, "Jones was just leaving us, Watson."
I glanced between the two of you as though becoming aware of the tension in the room, and gave a little shrug as I turned back to Jones.
"Oh. Well, I'm glad I caught you before you left, Inspector. I wouldn't bother mentioning it, of course, but as you know the lady in question, and were so instrumental in that little adventure that occasioned our meeting, well… oh, I am running on, aren't I? It's just that, I have some happy news that I thought you might like to hear."
As I spoke I strode over to the fireplace, ostensibly to retrieve my pipe from the rack on the mantelpiece. In reality, I was positioning myself between you and Jones. I did not wish him to be able to see your face when I made my announcement. The mirror would ensure that I could observe you even though he could not. I hoped and prayed that you would, for once, follow my lead, but I did expect my "news" to cause you some degree of surprise. It was this which I hoped to keep from Jones' notice.
"And what news would that be, Dr. Watson?" Jones asked, gruffly but politely.
I thrust out my hand to him with a broad grin. "Congratulate me, Inspector. I'm to be married."
Between you and Jones, I am not sure whose face betrayed more. Surely his changed most dramatically--his eyes waxed large as saucers and bugged out obscenely, his cheeks grew even redder, and his mouth fairly gaped. Your transformation was more subtle, but to me, knowing you as I do, it spoke volumes. The only movement I saw in the glass above the fireplace was a stiffening of your frame that culminated in a slight, involuntary jerk. As I watched, your face blanched far, far beyond your customary pallor, until you were more excessively white I have ever seen you before. For the merest moment, our eyes connected in the mirror. I tried desperately to convey the necessity of my actions, to implore your trust and patience, to beg forgiveness for the shock. What I saw in your eyes, however, was not what I expected to see. It was not surprise. It was hurt. I might even have called it despair.
My first thought, I hope you will believe, was a desire to ease that hurt. But just after that I confess to feeling an unconscionable rush of hope, for might not such a look be a sign that you are not as indifferent as I have always supposed?
With a tremendous effort, I turned my attention back to Jones. Fortunately, he was so bewildered that he had not noticed my distraction. For a moment he gasped and spluttered, then managed to choke out the single word, "Married?"
I forced myself to laugh and smile, seizing the hand that had not found mine and shaking it by force. "Yes, Jones, I am joining the ranks of you noble husbands."
Jones was still wide-eyed and stammering. "Married! To… to whom, sir?"
"To Miss Mary Morstan. Of course you will remember her from the little business of the Agra treasure?"
At this, Jones lost his bemused look and became quite animated. "Why, certainly, Doctor. What a fanciful affair that was! Pearls, and natives, and revenge, and blow-darts, and treasures sunk into the Thames… Just the sort of thing to stir the romance in a fellow, I daresay!"
From behind me I heard you rise from your chair. Your face was still unbelievably pale.
"Well, gentlemen, with such quaint reminiscences and such a charming lady to talk over I trust you will manage to keep yourselves occupied. I could hardly have much to say on what does or does not "stir the romance in a fellow" in any case. You will excuse me, then; seeing as the weather seems to be clearing, I have one or two little things I must attend to." Those words, spoken coldly and hurriedly in the direction of the coat-rack, were hardly out of your mouth before you had slipped from the room. I heard the tap of your feet as you descended the stairs, and the slam of the door as you left 221B.
For some few minutes more I had to put up with Jones' presence. I longed, as I had earlier, to be alone with my thoughts, but I kept up a good pretense. I was everything a successful lover ought to be--proud, happy, a bit shy--and I may say without overrating my abilities that Jones believed every bit of it. By the time he left Baker Street, I was sure beyond any doubt that the investigation into our personal lives would be dropped. Jones would spread the word that "it was all a misunderstanding, and isn't it nice for the Doctor, getting free of Holmes and netting himself such a pretty little bride in the bargain? I always thought he was too good a chap to be caught up with such a devil," &c. &c. My plan had gone off brilliantly so far. I had rescued us both from the danger that had threatened our very freedom.
Not without cost, however. I had not finished yet. I had now to do the thing which I had promised, to hold up my end of the deal I had made with the Devil. I would have to propose to Miss Morstan.
You may have wondered, Holmes, why I chose Mary Morstan of all the young women in London. I have maiden acquaintances more beautiful, richer, more accomplished, cleverer than she. Mary is a good girl, and will make a good wife, but I know other women, even ones who would accept me, of whom as much could be said. Mary Morstan, however, has something that they lack.
Mary Morstan is dying.
She does not know it yet. There are, so far, only small, subtle signs, but I can tell. Yours are not the only pair of eyes in London trained to notice what others do not. There is no way that any doctor, even one far more skilled than myself, can help her. Within five years, no matter what anyone does, Mary Morstan will be dead.
Put down here on paper, it seems truly monstrous. To marry a woman whose main attraction is that she will not live very long… when it is stated so, it does seem an act of immeasurable vileness. While I was forming my plans this afternoon I wrestled for many minutes with the ethics of the thing, for I would not happily compromise my honor even to save us both from gaol. But then I considered it in a different light. I can and will see to it that Mary's last years are more happy than they would have been had we never met. I have vowed to myself that I shall always be a good husband to her. I shall be kind. I shall be loving. I shall be loyal. And, as a doctor, I will be able to do something to ease her suffering at the end. Most of all, she will not be alone as her life fades away. It will be a mutually beneficial relationship.
And at the end of it, in some few years from now… I will be free. I will be free to return to you, to our rooms in Baker Street, and to our bachelor existence. And no one will ever look twice at us again, for I will be the poor young widower, and you the heartless reasoning machine.
Just before I sat down to write this letter, I sent Miss Morstan a telegram, requesting the honor of calling on her at eight o'clock tonight. I have been in communication with her these last few months while I have been writing up her case, and our relations have been quite friendly (in truth, I have had some little trouble deflecting her increasingly blatant flirtations). Perhaps it is very arrogant of me, but I do not doubt my ability to win her hand. I do not doubt it for the same reason I did not doubt that I could convince Jones--because I must not fail. Besides, I have a way with women. By ten o'clock, Miss Morstan will be my fiancée.
I had hoped that I might speak to you before I see her, but the hour grows late and you have not yet returned. It would have been nice to have a few moments alone with you beforehand, but it seems that it was not meant to be.
It is possible that I have already lost you. Perhaps you are disgusted with me and my talk of love. Perhaps you think me perverted, wrong, foul, unnatural. But I know that your ideas of justice and of right are somewhat more flexible than the law's, and, remembering what you said to Jones of victimless crime, I think I need not fear on that account. On the other hand, I still have no reason to expect that my passion will ever be returned. I love you with everything I am, Sherlock Holmes, and I cannot go off to my fate without telling you so, but all I ask of you is that the friendship that you feel for me should endure. I am sorry to leave you. I will, I promise, return, if ever you should ask.
And if… I hardly dare express it…if that emotion that I saw in your eyes was more than bewilderment, more than confusion, more than betrayal that I should tell Jones of my imaginary betrothal before you…
I am leaving now, and when I come back I will belong to Mary Morstan. Until the day of her death, my first obligation will be to her. But at the moment that my marriage ends, I will be yours, as I have been until now. And if that emotion in your eyes was truly something like love, then perhaps…
Perhaps you will be glad to know it.
I am, my dearest friend,
Most sincerely yours,
J. Watson