My dear Watson,

Hey people. This is just a little something I cooked up. I thought it would be really cute if Holmes showed a bit of his sensitive side. This is kind of like his confession to Watson.

My dear Watson,

The night grows late and you, my dear friend, are slumbering away peacefully while I remain awake. I do not know what compelled me to take up my pen on this night of all nights. And what has driven me to finally reveal the truth to you. Perhaps it is your recent discovery of my daughter, Ellen. Perhaps it is something much more. I do not know. But my mind cannot rest until I lay this account down on paper so that I can assure myself that someday, someday, you will read this and know that I trust you wholly and completely. Never doubt that for a moment. In the years I have known you, we have become very close indeed. In fact I would probably say that you are, have been, and will continue to be my closest and most intimate friend in all my years. But there are certain things I am simply not ready to face and some that not even Mycroft know. And those are the facts that I lay before your eyes on this cheap scrap of paper.

Perhaps I should start at the beginning. I was born in London, on a dark foggy night in January. You know that my brother is seven years older.

My father was a brilliant man, for his class. He was the one who first sparked my interest in crime. He would read the newspapers every night and concoct his own theories about whatever scandal had hit the papers that day. But my powers of observation and deduction come from my mother. She could glance at you and know more about your personality and habits than your wife. She was tall and beautiful, with a higher air. We never spoke of grandparents or relatives on her side, for they had disowned her for marrying a man far below her station. My parents were not very well off, but we got by. That is until a wave of sickness invaded our neighborhood. Both my parents were killed. I was very small, about six or seven. Mycroft and I were sent away as soon as possible from that horrible place which up until then had been a prospering city block and was and still remains a ghost town. We had an uncle who lived in northern England, but he refused to either send for us or do anything. So we were sent to an poorhouse.

It was a dark cold dreary place, with rats and the filth of human kind leaking from every corner. Needless to say, we were miserable here. Mycroft, I think perhaps, felt it his duty to protect me, as I was still very small and he, the elder. He tried to keep me from exploring. But you know so well that is near impossible. It was a horrid place. The morgue and graveyards were our playgrounds. Perhaps this is the reason the dead do not bother me so much as it does others. I was but a child when I saw more death than one should ever care to see. And when you are that young your mind is molded and you are, through the years, transformed into the man you become. After almost a year in this hell, my uncle finally came to take us back to his home, but for some reason then decided to remain in London. Mycroft and I wanted nothing less than to leave London forever.

We moved to the west side, a place that before we had rarely seen.

He was married. A cold hard woman. She was indeed. I do not believe she has said one kind thing to me in all the years I have known her. Instead of helping to raise her sister's sons, she amused herself by attending parties and other social gatherings.

Needless to say, Mycroft and I were more or less left to ourselves.

We were sent away to school as soon as possible. I went to boarding school in Yorkshire. A harsh, desolate place with the wind howling across the moor at night and reminding me of the cries of all our neighbors as the carts came to take the dead or the screams of the dead and dying in the poorhouse.

I graduated with top marks and went on to university. It was there I met Musgrave and Trevor among others.

I spent only two years there. Afterwards I felt no need to stay. There was no more I could learn. Mycroft had made himself a fine job in the government as you know. And it was around this time that he founded the Diogonese club. Needless to say, he was not in want of money. I, on the other hand, was. In those first few years, Mycroft paid for everything. He paid for my room and board, my meals, everything. I was in a state of confusion. I knew what I wanted to do, but had no idea how to go about it.

Then I began to think about the crime business. I wanted nothing to do with Scotland Yard. But I needed problems. I needed puzzles and mystery. My brain was begging to be pushed to the limit.

It was then that one of my old college friends brought to me this strange little mystery. It was quite a simple problem. But it sparked my mind. I decided then and there, to enter the line of work in which I am now quite happily employed. Private consulting detective. The only one in the world. At first word was spread through my friends and my brother sending other acquaintances with problems the police either could not figure out or could not know about. Some of these I solved, some I did not.

But I managed to make an honest living, enough so that I could supply my own wants and need not rely on Mycroft. It was about this time I met Samantha.

Samantha Marshal. Beautiful, charming, smart, talented. A perfect woman in every way. We met through her brother who brought quite a singular little problem my way. We became strongly attached to each other.

I seem to remember telling you once that I had never loved. That is true. Oh, I believed I was I in love, as did she. In fact we were so convinced of the fact that one night we crept away and married in secret. Her family had forbid it, and did not approve of me at all, because of my lower stature to her. But we ignored them. We fled to a small corner of London where we could live undisturbed, not lavishly, but comfortably.

It was in the space of a few short years that we realized our mistake. When the physical attraction ended, there was nothing. We began to fight, but neither wanted to admit we were miserable. This went on for quite a few years until about twelve years ago. We had been married for almost four years, when Samantha announced she was pregnant. Our marriage had reached an all-time low. We could hardly stand the sight of each other. The fact that she was carrying my child, made her hate me all the more.

Ellen was born nine months later. Two days after her birth, Samantha filed to end our marriage. I agreed. On our last night together Samantha made the mistake that is costing her even now.

I do not know why she decided to do what she did; I can only supply the facts.

It was late, about two or three. Ellen was crying as babies often do. I got up to find her not in her crib. I searched listening for her crying.

I found Samantha in the kitchen holding the baby. I asked her what she was doing and she looked up startled. She said she was only feeding her daughter. But something did not feel right. She had not touched the baby since the day she was born.

As she turned round, she dropped something. It fell to the floor. I stooped to pick it up. I was shocked to see that it was a needle. I held it up and was even more horrified when she pushed a bottle out of my sight. I snatched the child from her arms and grabbed the bottle. It's label read as an arsenic poison.

As I stared at the small brown bottle, I did not notice her reach behind her. I turned to see her holding a knife. She lunged at me. I managed to step aside, but not fast enough to avoid a cut on the arms. She struck again and again. Some times she struck true, sometimes not. At the end I had several wounds, though none very serious I thought.

The last time she rushed at me, I tripped her and she fell to the floor. I took my chance and fled into the street, my child still clutched in my arms.

I ran, not knowing or caring where, just away from that madwoman. Somehow, come daybreak, I found myself at Mycroft's doorstep.

I dare say that must have been a shock to wake up to. I was taken in and laid on a bed while someone went for the doctor. Mycroft told me later how shocked he was when they discovered the truth. The knife-edge had been dipped in the same poison as Samantha was trying to inject into Ellen. I do not remember much about this time. All I remember are the strange and horrible dreams the drug induced.

Ellen was taken care of by Mycroft's landlady. I lay in such a state they feared I would not live.

I must inform you that Samantha was arrested shortly afterwards. They waited to have her trial until I was better

After two weeks, but seemed like two years to me, the fever broke. I was getting stronger.

Samantha was sentenced to fifty years for attempted murder. As you know, she escaped recently.

After the trial, I vanished with Ellen into the dark recesses of East London. I wanted only to escape, and escape I did. We lived in a small flat, those were the days where I did my more unusual jobs, the boxing to name one. Do you know, it's odd. The neighborhood in which we lived was a dark filthy place, with rats crawling in every corner. But there was a feeling of happiness and comfort about the place. The people were quite content with each other and their stations in life. They came to accept both Ellen and myself as members of their community. We still are, though we left it years ago. But if you were to go into that neighborhood and say you were friends with Sherlock Holmes, you would be welcomed with open arms.

When Ellen turned four, I realized I could not keep her locked away in the dark cold world. She needed an education, something I could not give her. I had to plead with Mycroft to furnish the funds to send her to school. I insisted that it be a London school, and that is how I found Miss Minchin's. I disliked the lady, but the school had a reputation and so it was there that Ellen went. I dare say, she hated it at first and begged me to bring her home. But I refused telling her it was for her own good. Well, I couldn't very well tell her I wished her to come home too. Not I. She soon took on the cold calculating manner in which she and I share. Oh she made several friends, most of which you met on that little adventure. But they were to her as you are to me. Faithful and loyal.

I resumed my career and it was about this time I met you and we came to share these rooms in Baker Street.

I must admit when I first met you, there was something that sparked in me. I do not have many friends, nor have I ever. But you have become my truest friend. I could not ask for a better one.

I cannot tell you just how much it tore me, when I watched you from the falls and saw you turn and walk away. I wanted to call out so much, all my instincts and my heart begged, but my mind refused. Perhaps it is for the best.

That is, my friend. My life. It is an uneventful one for the most part. And not the longest one either. But there it is.

One more thing. I do appreciate your writings. More than I will ever say. They are written well, and I must confess do keep me quite interested until the end, even though I know what is going to happen.

These are the words I can never say to you, my dear friend. Perhaps one day, I can give this to you and you can truly understand. But until then, I remain

Most sincerely yours

Sherlock Holmes.