Dear Dr. John Hamish Watson,
I have various and sundry reasons for loving you, not the least of which is because you are Sherlock Holmes’ best friend, and Sherlock Holmes is a god among fictional characters, making you, like, the Jesus of fictional characters or something. (The analogy kind of ran away with me there.) Also, you’re loyal, good with a gun, apparently irresistible to women and on occasion you look like Martin Freeman or Jude Law.
In addition to that, you’d satisfy my mother’s desire that, since it appears I won’t be making a success of myself, I marry a doctor, while at the same time annoying my mother because, really, you’re not that successful of a doctor, plus you’re always off gallivanting around with that consulting detective fellow.
In any case (heh, case), I’d like you to consider my proposal seriously, for these reasons:
1) I promise not to be jealous of the time you spend with your best buddy Sherlock Holmes as long as you promise to get me his autograph;
2) Or maybe, instead of his autograph, we could all three hang out? That would be nice;
3) Or if you’ve got something else to do, I’m amenable to solving crimes with the man while you’re busy;
4) And if that’s not cool, then could you just pretend not to notice when I follow you guys around London?
And 5) and most importantly: I will never, never write any slash fiction about you and Sherlock Holmes. I promise that so hard, Dr. John Watson, you just don’t even know.
Please consider me as a candidate for your second or fifth or whatever bride, Dr. John Watson. I do love you. Really. Just not quite as much as Sherlock Holmes.