3. Sherlock| Letter Two
Dear John Watson
I thought I'd never write to you again. This strange, ghostly version of you that I pretend I'm sending these letters to when I fold them up and never look at them again. I don't have much time to write these days, anyway. Mycroft has a ridiculous plan that is probably going to work just as well as all his other plans seem to.
I shouldn't be writing to you now. If Mycroft were here, he'd tell me not to. It's probably unhealthy - these sorts of things often are. I feel like a teenage girl huddled over her diary; writing to some ridiculous crush with big blue eyes and a stupid complexion.
Sentiment is man's downfall, and I would be a foolish man if I ever scrawled my name over someone's heart. Thinking more clearly, I wouldn't be able to scrawl my name even if I wanted to, Mrs Hudson moves my pens around so much.
I wonder if you miss me? I wonder if you hate me? Do you hate me, John? Do you call me a fake and call yourself deceived? If you were sensible, you'd have got new friends by now. If you were a sensible man, you'd be laughing at my suicide over a pint.
You were never a sensible man, John Watson. It's what made me trust you.
Sensible men are all imbeciles and I hate them even more than I hate fools.