London, 17th July.

Two years ago I had a psychotherapist who told me that I should have written a diary, because it would have helped me to get past the trauma of having been shot in Afghanistan. She said that I should have written down everything that happened to me. Back then, nothing happened to me. Back from Afghanistan I had nothing: not a proper house where to live, not a wife anymore, not a single friend worth mentioning, not a job. I was broken.

One day in June, I'm sorry but I can't exactly recall the date, I met an old friend in a park who offered me to teach organic chemistry at the university where he had just been appointed vice-chancellor. I refused, because I was sure I wasn't the right man for that job. I'm a doctor, not a chemistry graduated. But Mike, that's the name of my friend, insisted. I still don't know why in the end I accepted or how Mike had been able to persuade the faculty to hire me. It remains a mystery I'm not really sure I want to solve. Anyway, I happened to become Professor John H. Watson.

It wasn't a big change, I thought that the job would have been boring and that I would have been tired of it in a very short time.

But then I met Sherlock Holmes and my life changed.

Sherlock Holmes was an insolent student, who had no respect for my job as a professor and no respect for me as a human being. He was egocentric, arrogant, disrespectful and insufferable, and I was certain that it wouldn't have come anything good from that young man.

And in five days I'm going to marry him.

Yes, I'm going to marry that insufferable, arrogant, brilliant, gorgeous man I'm totally in love with.

How this happened, I can't quite remember. To me it looks like I've been in love with him since the day I was born and if I try to remember how love was before him, I'm sure I've never fallen in love with someone else in my entire life.

I have been married once, before Sherlock. Her name was Janine. I loved her, or so I thought. Yet, if I look back, I can't see this kind of love. I can't see the need of having her beside me for the rest of my life, I can't see me struggling because she's breath-taking, I can't see myself loving her. That's it.

I thought that I loved her. I'm pretty sure I didn't love anyone except Sherlock.

"What are you doing, John?"


"Writing what?"

"A diary."

"What for? Have you the vain desire of becoming a writer? If that's so I ought to tell you your writing isn't compelling."

"You're always you, aren't you?"

"Of course I'm always me. I don't change overnight."

"Love you, insufferable."

"I know that. You're marrying me."

I got interrupted by my soon-to-be husband, who, I daresay, hasn't changed in the slightest in his egocentric, arrogant manners. No, I would be lying if I said that. Sherlock is the same, obviously, one can't completely change. Nevertheless, when I met him for the first time, he was icy cold and he tended to hide his emotions under an iron curtain of apparent indifference. Sentiments, feelings: he seemed to have none. Moreover, he seemed unhappy.

Now he has learnt to live with them, to show them, to not fear them anymore. He says that it's my fault when he wants to tease me, but when he's in the mood he just says 'thank you'. And I'm sure he means it wholeheartedly. Weren't it the case, we probably wouldn't get married in five days.


"What's that, now?"

"It's four-thirty. We need to go the tailor at five! Hurry up!"

I have to stop writing. Sherlock has just remembered me that we should be by the tailor by five o' clock and I don't want to be late.

John Watson.

"Coming, love!"

"You'd better do."

As always, John Watson is extremely inaccurate in his writing. He has left out most of the story of how we met, of how he fell in love with me, of how we are going to get married. I'll scold him later for that.

By the way, I think that I should mention that my name is Sherlock Holmes and, apparently, I'm the man who's going to marry him.

I've taken this diary while he's out doing some shopping to see what he was writing on it and I thought that dropping a word on it wouldn't have hurt anyone, especially because I'm going to be more accurate in describing how we have met, since he has skipped almost everything, writing only about the sentimental part of our journey together. John has yet to learn that sentiment obfuscates his reasoning.

Two years ago, it was a dull mid-September morning, I was running through a park chasing a criminal, followed by the DI Lestrade and a man holding his umbrella was in the way. I stumbled upon him and was about to kill him because he was preventing me from reaching that thief (for future references, I caught him in the end).

Then I had to go to the boring, dull, tedious university. It had been my brother, Mycroft, who had forced me to go there. I was ready to face another useless and pointless lesson with the new organic chemistry professor. I couldn't be bothered. The professor happened to be the same man I had stumbled upon that morning and he had a name: John H. Watson. And he was evidently a doctor back from Afghanistan three months earlier with a psychosomatic limp and a wounded left shoulder, not an organic chemistry professor.

His lesson was as boring as I had thought and I found that it was more interesting to sleep instead than following his monotonous professor's voice. But the man John Watson, I have to admit, was far more interesting than the professor John Watson. I still don't know what happened back then. John has aforementioned that I wasn't any good with sentimental stuff and he's rather correct in that, for this specific reason I have probably misread my interest in him that September.

It was for unknown reasons that I wanted him to come with me to a crime scene. I had never done that before him. It was for unknown reasons that I felt broken when he told me that he didn't enjoy what we had just done, although I was completely sure that he did. It was for unknown reasons that I wanted to see him two weeks after. It was for unknown reasons that I wanted him beside me while chasing a burglar in North Harrow. It was still for unknown reasons that I found the urge to apologise to him when I did something wrong.

Everything was for unknown reasons. Until I discovered that I loved him.

No, that is wrong. At first I only discovered that I liked to be with him, it was only months after that, when he saved my life, when he demonstrated how much he cared for me, that my last walls crumbled and I finally decided to follow my heart, not always my brain.

I should hate him for this. But I can't. He has done what I had asked him to do: he has taught me how to dream. And I love him for that.

See? Sentiment. It has already made me skip most of the story of the two of us. And it's a very interesting story. But every time I think about it, I find it hard to concentrate on details and such, because all I can see is how I loved him, and how I love him more and more, and how I will always love him.

And that's the reason why I'm marrying him.

"Sherlock! Is that my personal diary you're writing on?"

"Mmm…think so."

"Why the hell are you writing on my personal diary? Haven't you got the slightest idea of 'privacy'?"

"We're going to marry in five days, John. I think that privacy is well beyond that. And we have been living together for one year and two months and we've been having a rather good sexual life. So I don't know about what 'privacy' you're talking about…"

"Don't do that wicked grin, Sherlock…"

"I'm not grinning wickedly…"

"Yes, you are. And I'm going to snog that grin out of you, now."

And I love him. Seriously, I do.

Sherlock Holmes.

"Stop writing!"

"Stop kissing me!"

"Did you really mean that?"

"Don't you dare to stop!"



"Love you, Sherlock."

"Love you, husband."


"Aren't we married already?"

"I see no ring on my finger."

"Pity. Are we going to change that?"

"Think so."

London, 18th July

Four days to go. I don't think I will survive the anxiety and the pressure. Yesterday I said that nothing had happened to me before Sherlock, but at the moment I'm quite aware that nothing has ever happened to me before this wedding. Because it's madness.

I'm so happy I could just dance the whole day around the house, in the streets, shouting out loud how I love Sherlock and how everyone should envy that I'm the one who has got to marry him, not them. Because it is a privilege and an honour.

Why is that, one may ask. And I have been asked, constantly. I have been asked about it by my sister, I have been asked about it by Lestrade, I have been asked about it even by that annoying brother Sherlock has, Mycroft.

It is a privilege and an honour because he's Sherlock, mainly.

He's the most gorgeous, intelligent, clever, brilliant, stunning man I've ever met and I'm the luckiest man on Earth to have him by my side. He has made my dull days shine bright, he has made my life a better one, he has made me understand myself more than anyone else and I'm so grateful for that.

Even when I look at his writing just above mine on this page, my heart jitters with joy, for I know it's his writing and it's near mine and it's us. And there doesn't exist anything more beautiful than this in the whole universe. Am I too much sentimental? Sherlock would say that. But, really, I'm so happy that my mind refuses to cooperate in formulating coherent thoughts, except those where I see me and Sherlock forever happy, side by side.

"Are you still writing on that diary?"


"Oh, god."

"May I remember you that you've written on this too?"

"It was a moment of weakness."

"Yes, yes. 'I'm the private detective Sherlock Holmes and I'm better than the rest'."

"Of course I am."

"Aren't you too much sure of yourself?"

"Confidence is the way to survive."

"And do I love you for that?"

"Yes, you do."

"Yes, I do."

I had to stop once more because Sherlock interrupted me. And our small chat has suddenly reminded me that there are other big changes beside the marriage.

First: I don't work for the clinic anymore.

Yes, I know I've skipped the whole story about the clinic and my job there, but it's rather unimportant. Let's just say that I've worked there until the last May. It was a very good job which has allowed me to earn a good amount of money, but then things changed. And how couldn't they?

In January, while Sherlock was doing another exams session (I had promised him that I would have married him only if he had graduated), he told me that he wanted to pursue his career as private detective after the graduation. I thought it was a great idea. Sherlock is marvellous at deducting and the world needs someone like him.

So, while he was completing his graduation thesis, he also took a private detective license.

He, then, graduated in May with the highest marks and a praise from every single professor of the university, even that annoying Sally Donovan, who couldn't quite believe her eyes when Sherlock not only topped in every subject but prepared a thesis that would put to shame almost every chemist out there.

Second change, which is a direct consequence of the first: I'm Sherlock's partner in his job.

We work as a duo and I love my new job. We've already got three clients in June and I think we'll be having more and more as soon as the rumours about the 'Talented Mr. Holmes' (our first client nicknamed him that way) spread throughout the city.

Lestrade still asks for Sherlock's help with the cases too and he's thinking of making him an official consultant of New Scotland Yard. Sherlock isn't quite sure about how he feels, but I'm working on it to make him understand that it would be a great improvement for his private career too. I think that I've sounded convincing enough because he has started to ruminate about it.

"John! Put that pen down, Mycroft wants us in his office. Don't ask me why, because I'm pretty sure I'm going to murder him."

"You won't."

"Give me a reason why I shouldn't."

"Wedding in four days."

"Good reason."

"Thought so."

Big Brother Mycroft has summoned us. We have got to go.

John Watson.

I see John has written more on this 'thing'.

And I also see that he has been inaccurate one more time. He's surely not the luckiest man on Earth. Hey! Who else would say that he's lucky to have me? I'm arrogant, selfish, egocentric, moody.

Yes, I might be clever and brilliant, but it's not enough to make me a good person. Therefore John is completely incorrect when he says he's lucky to have me, for I can't think about a biggest misfortune than that.

Moreover he can't be the luckiest man on Earth, because I'm the luckiest man on Earth to have him by my side.

I try to demonstrate that to him every day, although I know I'm not really capable of that. He should deserve more than this mass of black curls and skinny bones who badmouth everyone around him in a one hundred metres radius. What have I done to deserve such a lovely person?

John has suffered my everything: from the days where I don't speak to the days I speak too much. He has suffered my rejection when I thought that I wasn't the right person for him (and I do still think that, despite the fact that we're going to marry), he has seen the worst of me and still wants to be with me. I think he's mad. Insanely mad. Or a saint. Saint John Watson. It sounds rather correct, doesn't it?

I'm the luckiest man on Earth because when he smiles the world becomes a better place, I'm the luckiest man on Earth because when he kisses me my heart goes in heaven, I'm the luckiest man on Earth because when he holds me in my arms I can see the stars, I'm the luckiest man on Earth because he's John Watson and there's no other man in this universe that can substitute him.

"Sherlock! You're writing on my diary once again!"

"Am I? I thought it was a random notebook."

"Don't do the 'what have I done, I am innocent' face, because you know that it doesn't work!"

"You're smiling and you don't sound threatening."

"Let me see what you have written!"

"No, don't!"



"This is…lovely…"

"Is it?"

"No, I'm joking."

"You'd better be, because it's not lovely, it's the truth."

"Can't truth be lovely?"

"Truth is a fact. It's not lovely at all."

"I find it lovely. A lovely truth."

"Very, extremely incorrect definition."

"It's so lovely I think I'm going to marry you."

"Aren't we going to get married already?"

"That was supposed to be sweet, Sherlock."

"Oh. Right."

"Will you marry me, then?"

"I should think about it. I don't know, maybe we have to wait…"

"How much?"

"Would four days be enough?"


Yes, I'm definitely sure that nobody can substitute him. And he's mine. Can you actually believe that?

Sherlock Holmes.

Don't listen to Sherlock. I'm the one who's still amazed knowing that I'm going to marry him. And I love him, love him, love him. I'll never get tired of saying that.

John Watson.

He will.

Sherlock Holmes.


John Watson.

St. Mary, Scilly Isles, 21st July

One day to go.

You may have noticed that my actual location has changed. We're not in London anymore since yesterday, because the wedding will be officiated at St. Mary's Church. We have decided the location together.

The Scilly Isles are the place where we have spent a wonderful week during last year's summer and another wonderful week last January.

Sherlock says he hated the place before I came here with him and he also says that now he loves it because of me. Hence he was the one who has suggested St. Mary for our wedding. And I've gladly agreed. To be honest, I have more than gladly agreed. To say it in Sherlock's own words: "Stop saying 'yes, yes, yes' jumping around the flat!".

He'd never admit it, but he was smiling too when he did suggest this.

How do I feel now?

"John! What are you doing?"



"Yes. I thought it would be a sweet thing to write a diary about us. Do you like the idea?"

"I love the idea, but right now I'd love to have a walk with my...husband."

"Oh. I thought you were still scolding the catering staff."

"I've just finished."

"So you were scolding the catering staff!"

"Obviously I was. They got everything wrong!"



"Really, really?"


"Are you nervous and are you blaming people for that?"

"I'm not nervous, I'm perfectly fine!"


"I am NOT nervous."

"And I'm the president of the USA. Sherlock, it's perfectly fine to be nervous."

"Is it?"

"We're getting married tomorrow. I am nervous, Sherlock. It's normal."

"Oh. So it's not uncommon? "

"Not in the slightest."

"Fine, then. I'm panicking."

"So am I. Walk together?"


So where was I? Oh yes. How I feel.

I'd say: nervous.

John Watson.

Nervous isn't a satisfying explanation. I'm burning. I've never experienced this level of fear and panic in my entire life.

By the way, it's Sherlock here. And yes I'm panicking.

Tomorrow I will marry John and John will marry me. I'm happy and I'm panicking. Does happiness generate fear? Because I'm well aware of this at the moment. Very, very well aware. John says it's normal, that he's panicking too, but he seems calm.

He says he isn't.

He does seem calm.

Am I losing my observation skills? Because it looks like that.

"Sherlock, stop it now!"

"Stop what?"

"You're fidgeting!"

"I'm fidgeting because I'm nervous."

"I know you are. I'm nervous too."

"You seem calm."

"I'm not even remotely near the word 'calm'. I could breathe fire right now."

"So could I."

"Come here."


"A hug?"

"Oh. Ok."

John Watson's hugs. The best in the whole universe when it comes to calming people. And they are private propriety of Sherlock Holmes. I'm slightly calmer now. Tomorrow is the Big Day. And I've never felt so alive. Love you, John.

Sherlock Holmes.

Love you too, Sherlock. And always will.

John Watson.

William Sherlock Scott Holmes

John Hamish Watson

Are proud to announce their Wedding

On 22th July

St. Mary's Church, St. Mary's Island, Scilly

Till Death Do Us Apart.


And here it is, this is the end!

Weirdly this last chapter comes out the same day of my birthday...I hope you enjoyed this journey with me through the whole story and I hope you loved it as much as I loved writing ot down! Thank you all for your support!