Authors note: I don't know how even came to this. I guess I always imagined John committing suicide after Sherlock's "death", and this is probably the saddest thing I've ever wrote. Sorry if there are any feels.

Sherlock? Sherlock, I know you're listening. You're probably just choosing to ignore me again, (nothing new there). Then again, I'm always talking to you since that day. And I hear you reply.

First things first, you bloody lied to me. You are not a fake, and I don't know why you wanted me to believe you were. You are brilliant Sherlock.

You were brilliant.

And then you jumped. You still managed to look so graceful, falling through the air. I'm glad there was a building stopping me from seeing you hit the ground. I don't know how I would have managed to cope.

When I finally got to you there were people preventing me from reaching you, but I needed to see you Sherlock. I needed to see for myself that you were truly dead. I told them you were my friend and they instantly let me through. I suppose they pitied me

I'm sorry. I never told you that I considered you a friend. I've even corrected you in the past when you've introduced me as a friend to other people. I regret that now.

It wasn't just you that died that day Sherlock. I've felt dead ever since. Though I suppose watching your best friend throw himself off a roof does that to you. You took a piece of my soul with you when you died Sherlock, a piece I'll never be able to reclaim. The thing is I think I knew deep down what you were going to do as soon as I saw you on that roof.

You were Sherlock Holmes. You thrived on the danger.

Everyone knows now you were telling the truth, that you weren't a phony. Then again maybe if they had listened to you in the first place you would never have jumped.

I think Anderson feels particularly guilty. He's gone a bit mad trying to convince everyone you're alive, and there have been sightings of you across the world.

Like you said his IQ isn't the highest.

I had to get out of that flat Sherlock, I'm sorry. There were too many memories, not all of them were particularly brilliant. Like that time I was kidnapped along with Sarah. Good times. It was too painful to stay, and I couldn't cope with the fact you would never burst through any of those doors demanding tea. I don't even speak to Mrs. Hudson. I've moved on from 221B Baker Street.

The thing is Sherlock, I don't know anymore. I don't know if I can carry on. I drink, daily. Anything to fill the gaping hole left in me, anything to make myself feel numb again so I can't feel any pain. I guess I was always going to follow in my sisters footsteps and end up at the bottom of a bottle. I just didn't think it would be so soon.

I feel like I'm drowning Sherlock. I struggle to breathe and I'm struggling to be heard. I feel like I'm clogged up and there are times when I just want to destroy everything in my house, and there are times when I just want to curl up and cry. I feel like I'm at crossroads.

There is one thing I do know though. If you won't come back to me, I guess I'll just have to come to you.

I can hear you shouting now. You're screaming at me, begging me to get off the stool. I can hear your pleads as I place the noose around my neck. Trust you to turn up again towards the end. I know you can probably see my hands are shaking, but I need to do this. I want to do this. I can see you in front of me but I know you're not real. Sherlock Holmes doesn't cry.

It'll be okay Sherlock I'll see you soon. Its just one little step and then we'll be together again.

The consulting detective and his blogger.