Chapter Text
- Letter found under a lath in Sherlock’s bedroom, the name Sherlock is written on the envelope -
Sherlock,
I know you’ve already recognized it, so I’m simply going to get it out of the way now: yes, this is your handwriting. I, the person who’s currently writing this letter, am you. Only, I am a different you, from a different place or let’s say, universe.
Before you decide to throw this letter in the trash, because I know that’s what I would have done in your place, allow me to prove to you my identity. For starters, who else would have known you’ll notice the sudden cracking lath on your floor and immediately search for something underneath? Who else would have known that’s where you used to hide your secrets all those years ago?
But we both know any particular event in our life can’t be received as evidence, anyone could have somehow found out any of our secrets one way or another. So I’m not going to dig into our childhood and the days we spent hidden in the attic reading about pirates and adventures, or talk about the night we tried to run away only to come back home two hours later without anyone noticing.
No, to prove I am indeed Sherlock Holmes, I’m going to talk to you about John.
I’m going to talk to you about January 30th 2010, or more precisely about the night you spent lying awake in bed. That was the night you considered doing something stupid, or so you thought. That was the night you wondered what John would say if you showed up at his door and just said, You’re right, it’s all fine. Can I come in? That was the night you worried if he would move in with you, if he would like you, if he would stay. That was the night you let yourself imagine what could have happened. If John would have kissed you after dinner, the adrenaline still pumping through his veins and the memory of the man he just killed to save you still so very clear in both of your minds.
That was the night you realised John Watson had just upset your entire world.
That was the night you realised you were perfectly alright with it.
Only you, Sherlock, can know what went through your head that night. The same train of thought kept me awake too, all those years ago. But it appears that the events of the day that followed differed in each of our reality.
You can choose to believe me or not, and I’m going to give you the time I know I would have needed to make a decision before sending another letter. I promise to explain all there is to understand then. But before you make up your mind, let me tell you the only reason I choose to write this letter in the first place.
It’s quite simple in fact. You (we) deserve to be happy, Sherlock.
I know I am.
Are you?
Sherlock Watson-Holmes,
Sussex, Yellow Garden,
June 10th, 2045.