Dear Sherlock,

I know you won't get this, being dead and all, but I just want to write down everything that you've put me through in the last three years. Just to get it off my chest. Help me tie off loose ends and move on, without having you in my mind. I have to let you go. Even though I can still hear your words, your voice.

Year 1

I remember having a conversation about you with Lestrade:

"You know he's was never a real person." Lestrade said behind him.

I never believed those words.

"He was just a machine, in the form of a person. We all knew this is how it would end."

I shook my head, knowing Lestrade was already out the door by the fading of his footsteps.

"He was the most real person I knew." I whispered to myself.

I still saw my therapist. She said it would be over soon, the mourning. She said I should move, get a new place, but I never bothered. I have enough money to stay in the flat. My family sent me some, and Scotland Yard chipped in after your death; even your brother sent some! Mrs. Hudson lowered the rent as much she could, which I thanked her greatly for. So there really is no reason to move.

I only knew you for the shortest time; as soon as you were in my life, you left. Well, that's what I get for living with a sociopath.

It was hard to focus on my job. Being brought back to your limp, lifeless body every time I saw blood. Every ambulance that I hear, every gurnie I see.

I've been needing my cane. I now take it everywhere I walk, but I don't do much of it. I take a taxi to work, where I sit most of the time, going over documents, then a taxi back home.

I still go to Angelo's. Same place we sat. All I order is black coffee. I stay there, staring out the window until the coffee got cold, watching for your familiar face walk by.

Remembering all the times we've ever touched. The short, brush of hand or arm. The feel of your coat. I still have it; that coat. I drape it over my body when I'm cold, try and breathe in any lingering scent there is. But the scent is long gone, covered up by my own scent, never to return again.

I've ended up sleeping in your bed. It happened about 2 months after. It was late, I was exhausted from work, and couldn't find the energy to take the stairs. The first time I opened the door to your room, there was your scent. Everywhere. The strongest it was in the whole flat. I had been ignoring your room for the 2 months before, trying to see if the memories would fade before I had to go in. But they didn't. I got punched in the face with memories. I couldn't do anything, too in shock. I had to close my eyes and take a deep breath, reminding myself that you were not there. I heard the faint sound of a violin as I drifted off that night.

People kept saying you were a fraud, a lie; pushing the newspapers in my face until I couldn't handle it. I would always hold my ground, saying how you were better than them all put together, better than me. But you weren't, were you? You always held onto your sadness, keep it bottled up tight, keeping your composure for a lot longer than most people.

Every time I drift into sleep, I would always hear the same words, the only indication that you were real, the words taunt me, swallow me up until I am nothing. Goodbye, John.

Year 2

Sometimes when I get home, I sit in your armchair. I just sit there. Occasionally I would heard distant police sirens and think to myself that you'd already know exactly what it was and we'd be out the door in an instant.

I've kept your things. Your old friend, the skull. Your violin, in its case. I sometimes simultaneously stare at them, not noticing; lost in thought. It happens less and less now, though. Sometimes I subconsciously runs my hands over your things while walking around our my flat. Of course I makes that mistake, too. Where I say something as though you are still there. It doesn't happen as often, but enough so the rip in my heart still throbs.

Your scent dwindles more and more each day, a little more of you, forgotten.

Whenever I hear the floorboards creak, I always wish, always hope, that it's you. I picture you, walking back from a crime scene, all dirty, and it bring a smile to myself. I look to the door, wondering why I haven't heard your footsteps on the stairs. Then I remember. And it's just Mrs. Hudson, going into her flat.

Sometimes I think I see you. Walking in the crowd. The odd one out. I always looks for your brown curls, bobbing as they move. I try to stay away from crowds as much as I can. Taking to alleyways instead.

I've stopped talking to Lestrade and everyone else, not wanting to continue without the only consulting detective. MY consulting detective. It just doesn't feel right when I'm there, and they don't need me there anyway.

I re-read your notes both on your computer and on paper over and over. Not making sense of over half of them, but memorizing the way of your writing, the style of your handwriting.

Year 3

It's the 3rd year. 'Anniversary' if you want to call it that. I slowly walk up to the gravestone, dreading every moment. I run my hand along the letters, having done so many times before. Every time I go to your grave, I always wonder if you were ever happy. If you had a happy life. Or if it was just another mask every time you had smiled.

You were the better part of me. You'd keep me grounded. I would have gone on every single case, been next to you with every single experiment, not question a single thing; as long as it meant you would be here. Even if just for a day, hour, minute-I would give anything to have you back. I still believe in miracles.

You'll always be with. I'll always be with you. Forever.

Goodbye, Sherlock. Rest in peace.

With all my heart,

John Watson