A/N: I think I should just accept the fact that any advent!fic I attempt will be posted a day late. I'm sorry, I was so exhausted last night I just did school work and slept. BUT NOT TONIGHT, FRIENDS. Tonight you get two for the price of one due to my epic fail last night.

Three years. It had been three, long, painful years.

He wasn't sure why, on tonight of all nights, he needed to 'write out his anger" as Ella had suggested.

"Maybe it's the spirit of the season," John muttered sarcastically, opening up a new document and starting to write.

Sherlock,

You complete and utter cock. What the hell have you done to me? I'm writing this letter to a dead man; and it had to be you. It's always been you though.

Wait a minute. I'm getting ahead of myself.

I'm pissed at you, in case you can't deduce it. God, now I'm talking about you in the present tense. I'm losing my mind here, now you're gone.

Goddammit, you could have at least told me what was going on. I could have helped. You gave Moriarty exactly what he wanted. I think that's what bothers me the most. You were always on the side fighting him, then you became like the bombing victims; reading from a damned teleprompter like a good little soldier.

That is not the Sherlock Holmes I remember. The Sherlock Holmes I remember nearly killed a man who hurt his landlady. The Sherlock Holmes I remember resisted arrest because he knew he was right.

I've started decorating the flat for Christmas. God, you'd hate it. Most of it's sentimental; ornaments my mum and dad gave me as a kid, fairy lights, that sort of thing.

It certainly looks more...festive in here now, but it doesn't feel right. Something is missing. Not even a something, a someone. The fact that we'll never have another disastrous Christmas party is making me more angry than I thought, because it reminds me of how unfair this whole thing is.

I want to tell you that it's your fault because you chose to jump. That you did nothing but prove Moriarty right, that you're ordinary. But it isn't your fault.

Not really.

It's Moriarty's fault. It's Scotland Yard's. It's most certainly Anderson and Donovan's fault.

I think some of it is also my fault. I desperately want to take back those last words. I can't. And I'm sorry for that.

I always will be,

John