He stared down at the paper in front of him, reading the words that were scrawled in beautiful cursive writing. Ball point pen, black, he could tell. It only added to the whole thing. The paper was perfectly pressed and smooth, and it was thick and expensive paper. His fingers spread over the words, feeling the indent that they had made, and then reread the letter for the third time. For the first time in his life, he was having trouble comprehending it.
You probably won’t understand why I’m leaving this letter, and you won’t think that it’s clever, but at least I can laugh about it a little bit. Smartest man in the world and you still don’t understand me.
I want you to know that I was happy. I really was. I’m not leaving because of that. It goes deeper than that, and I think that’s where I lost you along the way. Because you can be happy and unhappy at the same time.
I can’t continue on loving someone who will never love me back. And yes, I’m talking about you. I love you, you crazy, insane, brilliant man. I don’t love you as a friend. I love you more than that. But the thing is, you may have known that, somewhere in the back of your mind, you just didn’t realize what that meant for me.
I can’t stand by and watch you self-destruct. You will hurt yourself eventually, but you don’t even care how I feel, or anybody else. I’m okay with you hurting me – I’ve gotten use to that, and really, it doesn’t bother me. It’s who you are, and that’s okay – but watching you hurt yourself is the worst.
I’m going back to Dublin to see my brother. I don’t know their address, but you can give me a ring once in a while. Just, not too much, okay? I need to try to get over you. You’re sensible. You’ll know what I mean.
Love, Emma.
p.s. Don’t you hurt John, either. He loves you enough for the both of us.
Sherlock stared at the paper, the words finally sinking in, hitting home. She was leaving. The little blonde woman who had been around for months now was suddenly gone, and even though he hadn’t seen her in an hour, he could still feel her absence pulling at him and nagging. He put the paper down, careful not to disrupt anything about it. It was almost like a little piece of her. Everything about it reminded him of her. The simplicity of it, yet the beauty underneath that. The tone of the letter. He traced her name with his fingertip, thinking to himself.
What was he to do? Yes, he had known that the woman had been fond of him. But to be so fond that she would not stay? It was a concept he could not fully comprehend. He recalled her words of not wanting to see him self-destruct. He had never thought of his behavior that way, though yes, he did know that he did much damage to himself. He just didn’t care. It didn’t faze him. It had fazed her. Why, though? The fact that he couldn’t come up with a good answer frustrated him to no end.
In fact, that’s what the small Irish woman had done the minute she stepped foot into his life.
''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
“Who are you?” Sherlock spluttered. The woman in front of him cocked an eyebrow and tucked her jacket closer around her, keeping him from seeing the piece of evidence she had just stashed in her pocket inside her jacket.
“I already told you, I'm on your side.”
“What right do you have to take that piece of evidence? I need that. Immediately.” Sherlock said, trying to regain control of the conversation. Much to his surprise, the woman laughed and tossed her straight blonde hair behind her with one hand. Much to his dismay, he hadn’t been able to stop himself from noticing that she was attractive, with small features and large green eyes. Her hair was perfectly straight and obviously naturally blonde, and she kept one side tucked behind her ear. He had noted that she was slender and little, probably only 5’1 or 2; height wasn’t his best subject. He would have to study that.
