Sherlock expresses his feelings in a rather rambly letter. Enjoy.
I am quite unable to fully comprehend this feeling that has spread through me. Like a forest fire, it runs rampant and wild engulfing everything in its path like my reason, my common sense, my cool and foremost, my ability to breathe or even function normally. This is an incomprehensible anomaly to me, for I would have never thought myself capable of reacting this way to anything. To anyone. I, the cold, calculating machine. The over-analyzing intelligent being would have never dreamed that I would fall prey to this sentiment. Love it is called. Love. The blind adoration of a human being. The weakest aspect of the human condition of which i considered myself free. And yet here it is. I am still uncertain regarding how I should refer to it. An illness? A curse? A blessing perhaps? It holds all the symptoms of an illness. I find myself unable to breathe or concentrate properly whilst you're around. My pulse increases and I noticed my body temperature rises slightly. For this I attempt not to make eye contact but in vain. My thoughts, my sentiments are still present, lying in wait for the slightest opportunity for me to embarrass myself, do something that might make me give myself away. And sometimes I don't even care. I want to run through London singing and shouting it out to the world. I want to tell you everything if not only so this torment of insecurity will end, for the miniscule shred of hope that I have that you will somehow return my feelings. I must tell you now I doubt you will. Oh yes, it is painful indeed and I am doing anything in my power to forget. I have tried to forget, telling myself that this affair simply could not be. You are to be married. And I know I should be more than thrilled about your happiness but I am not. I refuse to believe that all my chances, hopes and expectation could be shattered by one single set of words. „I do.“ Oh how I wish it were to me you were uttering those two words. That is precisely why we no longer live together. It would be far too difficult for me to control my emotions with you there, because I fear I would be unable to hold back and inevitably, catastrophe would ensue. I tried analyzing you. But you are a mystery to me. The slightest eye contact, however incidental it may be, makes my imagination run wild, so I cannot, you see, observe you with a trained and objective eye. I am wandering in the dark. And I know there is a way out. You are my way out but I am afraid to light the candle. I am terrified of the possible outcome. Strange isn't it? Me, terrified because of feelings. But it is exactly what scares me most. Not the villains I have to deal with daily, it is you I fear, who will end my existence. For I am almost completely certain that upon reading this, you shall deny me and I simply could not bear it. I could not. Would not want to. But as much as it scares me, fills me with dread, I must know. I must find a way out of this abyss of expectation, of doubt or I will go insane. And this is why I am writing this letter. This letter. Love letter. Love? Yes. That is what it is. And whether it be an illness, or a blessing, or mayhaps a curse, it is what I feel towards you. Love. I am quite certain it is an illness you see. And you, Watson are the remedy. You... John... are my remedy. And I love you.