Disclaimer: I own no part of the BBC Sherlock empire/franchise/fandom and am making no money off of this.

A/N: I've been having a real weird, kinda hard time in my real life and I've been lacking inspiration for writing (anything that wasn't a co-write). I'm sorry to have disappeared as a solo writer for a bit, but hopefully this will have broken the dam and I can get inspired again. I forgot how good it felt to complete a fic.

While the idea was born from a line in Hamilton the Musical (and kind of quotes that line), it has no other similarities to the musical.

I hope you enjoy it.

I returned late one evening from a home visit of one of my clients to find Holmes missing, merely a letter resting innocently on the table in his stead. It read:

My Dearest Watson,

I have been called away on urgent business. I'm afraid that there was no time to send you a telegram beforehand, so I do apologize for my abrupt departure.

A client stopped by today and told me of a most wonderfully intriguing case, but we had to set forth at once.

I am uncertain how long I will be gone for - if the culprit and local police force are agreeable, I should be back shortly. With that in mind, however, I shall probably be gone for quite some time. I cannot tell you where to come and fear that, even if I could, it would not be worth your time to join me.

I will keep you updated as much as I can regarding my return. I hope it will not be too terribly long.

Yours,

Holmes

Then added hastily to the bottom of the page was what appeared to be a last minute addition:

If you would be so kind as to flip the fingernail in the dish in two days' time, I would be most obliged. Do not touch it with your bare hands, mind.

I could not help the smile that came to my face upon reading the last addition, but my humor was short lived as I remembered the rest of the letter. It was not at all unusual for Holmes to be pulled away on business for weeks at a time, but I have always been there to accompany him.

With a heavy sigh, I replaced the letter to the table and moved to ask Mrs. Hudson for a late supper and cuppa. That night, I slept uneasy.

Two days later another letter from Holmes arrived in the mail.

My Dearest Watson,

Just as I feared, all other parties involved in this case are either uncooperative or imbeciles. I have no one to run my theories past without you here and I long to invite you to join me, but still feel it is not worthy of your time and that it would be selfish of me to do so.

There was an aching in my chest to read this, as I felt a physical pull to be near him and help him in any way that I could. I longed for the invitation as much as he longed to extend it.

Maybe if I write to you of the details it will mimic you actually being here. The case concerns the murder of the lord of a house in a not-too-distant land. It does not matter whom or where, precisely, so I shall not say lest this letter is intercepted.

You see, the lord appears to have died peacefully in his bed, but his room was in utter disarray, as though a great struggle had occurred. His wife was in the library, trying to stay awake while reading a novel, and all the household staff were asleep in their chambers - save the lady's personal hand maiden who was in the kitchen preparing tea for her mistress.

The bedroom door was not locked and he appeared not to have a single person with any ill will against him. There was a brief matter with

My dearest, Watson! Even from far away you seem to clear my mind and help me to focus. I may be home soon yet!

Yours,

Holmes

Oh, I nearly forgot to request: would you be so kind as to safely dispose of the fingernail I had you turn? I fear I will not return home in time to see that experiment to its end and will need to start over.

I was unsurprised when I saw his explanation come to an abrupt end, for that is precisely how he would act in person. What made my breath catch in uncertainty was the unusual comma in the middle of a completely ordinary phrase.

He had always opened his letters with "My Dearest Watson", but towards the end of the letter - directly after his breakthrough where I knew his mind to be no longer focused on the task at hand - he had written "My dearest, Watson" instead.

The comma, as every educated man such as Holmes and myself knows, is used as a breath of sorts for the reader. In this context, I was no longer the dearest of Watsons, but his dearest whose name is Watson.

I am uncertain how long I simply stood stock still due to shock, but by the time I could force my body to move once more, I had convinced myself that it was a simple grammatical error. It meant nothing.

The next day another letter arrived.

My Dearest, Watson,

He started, and I cursed that infernal comma. That makes twice now, but I have seen many a man make the same, meaningless error many more times than two before.

While composing my previous letter I discovered a crucial detail, but I fear that it has turned out to not be enough to bring this case to a close. I do adore problems that keep my brain occupied by not being so incredibly obvious, but at nearly a week I am ready to be done with it and back at Baker Street with you by my side.

At this point, I am so close I can practically taste it! It is maddening and I just wish [illegible squiggle]

There was an incident with the wife's former suitor which I thought would lead me to the answer I so long to have, but it did not quite add up properly. The window was locked and the home had not had any callers in weeks.

It has to have been someone in this very house, on this staff or the lady or

Yours,

Holmes

Over the course of the day, I briefly sat with some potential clients taking down basic information for Holmes to review upon his return. There are two cases I am sure he will dismiss as uninteresting, but there is at least one promising one among them.

When not actively engaged in such a fashion, my mind would incessantly return to the idea of that comma. As a learned man I wished to wave away the nonsensical feeling that it meant something, while at the same time the writer in me wanted to believe in its literary value. I was a man at war with himself, and uneasy for it.

A combination of the appearance of the first comma and my friend's extended absence had my sleeping pattern imitating his own. I had barely slept in nearly a week and found myself pacing the flat in agitation when I heard the front door open. I ignored it, assuming that it was yet another potential client seeking the help of Sherlock Holmes, who was still absent. I was then, however, pleasantly surprised to hear Mrs. Hudson speak to the new arrival as none other than Holmes himself.

I stopped my pacing and stared at the door expectantly with bated breath. My heart began hammering in my chest at the mere thought of seeing his face, and I hated to dwell on the implications of that fact.

Holmes entered the flat looking worn from travel with his suitcase in hand. Upon meeting my gaze, his entire manner became more relaxed as a smile overtook his face.

"Watson," he greeted almost in relief.

"Holmes," I nodded in return, unable to keep the smile from my own face. He was home at last.

After a few more moments of simply staring, reveling in being reunited, Holmes took himself and his suitcase to his bedroom. I followed out of instinct, possibly unwilling to let him leave my sight again so soon. As I watched him unpack his things, leaning against the doorframe, my mind inevitably went back to the comma, causing my stomach to flutter.

"Are you quite alright?" Holmes asked in concern, and I was shaken to realize that I had not even taken notice of him moving back towards me.

"What?" I asked ineloquently, trying to hide my thoughts from the detective.

"You look," he trailed off, in search for the right descriptor, "sad."

I shook my head, "No, I'm alright," I told him with a smile, but it was not genuine and I knew that he could see that.

Holmes stepped closer to me; merely an intimate distance separated us now. It was not uncommon for us to disregard personal boundaries, but with my mind currently hung up on an incriminating comma, it was closer than I was comfortable with.

"Tell me what is troubling you," he requested softly, showing only genuine concern for me.

I looked up slightly, into his eyes, and shook my head again, "I cannot. It's impertinent, improper, and quite possibly indecent."

"My dearest Watson, there is nothing you could say to me that I would judge you harshly for. I know the good man that you are; there is no danger here."

My heart leapt at the endearment and I knew that I could not continue living like this, ever wondering if there was maybe something more between us than friendship.

"On the contrary, I fear that there is incredible danger in what I am about to ask of you."

Holmes looked incredibly confused, as well as concerned, "Good lord, what is it?"

I took a deep, fortifying breath before forcing myself to push forward, "I have found myself, over the past few days, plagued by a question."

"If I can help ease your mind, I certainly will," he assured me with great honesty.

"In two of your letters that you wrote to me while away, you inserted a comma in the middle of a phrase, and it changed the entire meaning. I need to know if it was intentional."

He appeared to be thinking back to his letters, attempting - as always - to use his incredible mind to solve the issue himself without aid. His face settled into one of understanding and he repeated, "My Dearest," and took a breath before finishing, "Watson," confirming in two breaths what I had not dared to hope for.

"That is the one," I confirmed with a nod.

"Would it alarm you to know that it was intentional?"

I thought about it for a moment, but I had already discovered the answer over my endless fretting of the past days, "No."

"Would it alarm you to know that, in my mind, that comma has been there ever since my return after faking my own death?"

That did catch me off guard, "Why, I had no idea it had been that long!" For it had been years since his return.

He smiled a bit sadly, "It feels like an eternity. I find myself barely remembering a time before your involvement, and even less will to do so. I am a man who distances himself from others because it is easier to assess situations with an unbiased mind, but I have never been able to deny the pull I have towards you," he stated with more confidence than I think I may have ever felt outside of a battlefield, though I could see the trepidation in his eyes, entranced as I was with looking into them.

I watched as he stepped yet closer to me, unsure but trying to appear brave, and my heart raced as my eyes landed on his lips in want instead. I looked back to his eyes when he began to speak again. They looked a bit more certain now.

"You are everything to me, and I daresay that I am in love with you."

As improper as it was - equal parts folly and blind madness - I reached up to kiss him then. I caught him a bit off guard, this man who misses very little, but within moments he was pressing his mouth firmer to mine as I felt his hands on my back pull me closer.

It was chaste - if such a forbidden action can be considered such - and over far sooner than either of us would have preferred, I like to think. We separated and stared cautiously into each other's eyes, judging whether the other deemed it a mistake.

"Alright?" Holmes asked, uncertain.

I smiled.

"My dearest, Holmes," I began and thrilled to see his entire body relax, his eyes soften, "I rather fear that I am in love with you in return."

And then he kissed me.

A/N: As always, I would love to hear your thoughts via comment or constructive criticism!

Follow me on Tumblr at goddess-of-the-night04 for an easy way to keep up with any new stories from me or just to chat; I'd love hear from you :)