This is short, I know, but it seemed the right length. Any concrit is appreciated!
Oh, that last letter had been examined over a thousand times.
On his return to London the first thing Watson did, after telling the whole story to his wife, was retire to his study and place the letter, carefully folded, into a drawer. For a short while he sat with his head in his hands. The grief threatened to entirely overwhelm him. Day after day he blamed himself, cursed Moriarty, and slept to the sound of waterfalls.
It seemed so very unfair that Holmes should have died without a friend at his side.
But the days went by, and although the grief did not lessen life continued. Mary was the one light in the darkness, and they had decided to try for a child. They had discussed with each other what the child should be called, and although they had not decided on a first name they had agreed the middle intials should be S.H.
And even as the days started to brighten, Watson would still occasionally reread the letter. He told himself he was merely paying tribute to a friend, but in truth he was looking for clues. He had for a while considered the possibility that there was a secret message in the letter, meant for him and him only, telling him this had all been a falsehood and his friend would shortly turn up very much alive. It seemed like the sort of thing Holmes would do.
But week after week and month after month Watson found no such thing. But one day, remembering his old friend's techniques, he ceased to read the words and instead examined the paper. He found a slight smudge at the bottom corner- as if the person writing the note had raised his hand to his face and found it wet with tears, but continued writing anyway.