MirabileLectu

It had been placed there years ago, tucked into an unobtrusive spot where it would be easily missed. The paper has begun to yellow with age, fading from the stark white of its youth into the mellowness of old age as the years come and go around it. Seasons turn, the world revolves, and a simple note tucked into a plain envelope continues to lie in an empty flat, unseen and unread by the one it was meant for.

The one who wrote the note knew, deep down in the soul that ached with the pain of loss, that this would happen. He knew, with the relentlessly logical mind he hated at times like these that his note would sit and slowly crumble to dust with its words never seeing the light of day. But some things must be done even the face of their futility, no matter how illogical or nonsensical they were. And so the note was written, carefully penned in black ink as a heart was poured out onto a page, and it was left in a darkened room to rest in the shadows.

The flat was long abandoned, drained of the warmth that had once filled it and left to sit untenanted and empty when the last resident had fled never to return. Dust settled on every surface, silence lay thick as a blanket, emptiness stretched and grew to fill every corner and stand as sharp counterpoint to the muffled world that still turned outside. All that is left now is the note, and the picture that lays with it, a testament to a time that had ended and the lives that had moved on. And with them, unread and unremembered, a secret too great for words and too painful to be kept, a secret forgotten in a dusty envelope.

-

John,

You will never read this note. I am not enough of a fool to believe that you shall ever hold this paper in your hands, but I am apparently enough of a fool to write it still, and to hope. For that is all I have left, is hope, that most absurd and irresistible of emotions that I have so often derided in others. Even though you have left the flat, likely never to return, I will leave this here for you on the smallest chance that you may perhaps one day stumble upon it, and know why I have done the things that I have done.

I cannot ask for your forgiveness. I know that it is something you can never give, and so I will not beg for it with excuses or denials or empty platitudes. Should we ever meet again, a thing I truly doubt, I do not expect you to welcome me with open arms after what I have done to you. But what I have done, I did for you. All of it, all for you. To save you. I owed you that much - I hope that you can understand that.

I must leave now: London, England, my life, I must leave it all behind. Time is pressing, and there is much to do and nowhere near enough time for it to be done. But that has always been the way for us, hasn't it? So much to accomplish, so little time to do it. And so much left unfinished. I suppose that is the true reason for this note that you will never read - the last thing I must do before I can begin the great work that will take me away from you. The secret I hoarded close to myself, too afraid and unsure to ever let it see daylight. And it will not even see daylight now, locked up inside an envelope that will sit unread for twenty years or more. But it must be said, even just as black ink on white paper, it must be said.

I love you, John. I always have, ever since the night when you gave me the first sincere compliment I had heard since I was a child, since the night you killed a man for me and saved my life in more ways than you could ever know. I love you with all that I have, with all that a damaged heart like mine is capable of giving. And I shall love you for as long as I shall live, even if you have forgotten me. I'll wait for you, John, and the forgiveness you cannot give me. I ask you to believe that I love you, and that it was all for you. And know that I am and always will be

Very sincerely yours,

Sherlock Holmes

P.S. I have enclosed your favorite picture of the two of us, the one from the absurd Scotland Yard party thrown for Lestrade last year. I cannot bear to look at it much longer, and so I leave it here for you, should you ever find it. Keep it well, John. Maybe one day we can share it together once more.

Live well, John.

(Inspired by the song 20 Years by The Civil Wars)