He had seen Sherlock Holmes exactly three times since the detective's death. The first had been when he was leaving Baker Street after visiting Mrs. Hudson.

"Found it under his bed, of all places." She handed him a cup of tea and patted his hand gently. "Only he would leave a note there. Only him..."Giving John a tight smile, she sat across from him at the kitchen table. "And it's for you, so I haven't touched it. Just brought it down, put it in a safe place. Called you, of course. God knows how he'd yell at me if I didn't give it to you."

He looked at the curve handwriting on the pale yellow envelope. For a man whose life had been otherwise extremely messy, Sherlock's handwriting was impeccably neat. There was no return address, no postage stamp in the corner to indicate he'd meant to mail the letter before...all that. John couldn't finish the thought. All that was still too fresh in his mind, too close for comfort, both in time and the flat above his head.

Harry had tried to get him to go to a relationship counselor. "It'll help you. You just need to realize he's gone and let your heart heal." She thought his trouble came from the lose of a romantic partner. "He was your boyfriend, John, but that doesn't mean it was your fault." Though she was trying to help, seeing another counselor wouldn't help him. They hadn't been romantic partners. Not that anyone believed him.

Without saying anything, he picked up the envelope and turned it over in his hands. Mrs. Hudson handed him a metal letter opener.

John, if you are reading this, then either I have been missing for a significant amount of time, or I am dead. No doubt you have moved out of the flat if it is the latter. John, in spite of himself, fought back a laugh. Tell Mrs. Hudson, if she has not already, to donate the equipment to a school, and the books as well. I'm sure you can help her with finding a suitable fit for them.

I suppose this is my will, as I don't have an official one. You've most likely found that out already. There had been no will filed, John knew that. But it is more than that. It is a letter to you, John. I once said I would be lost without you. That was a lie. I was lost without you. There was never anyone like you in my life. Mycroft was the closest person to me, and it was never more than a relationship of blood.

But my thoughts are getting away from me. Take care, dear Watson. Keep up the blog, if you can. Blog for me, John. For me

John felt a tear start to slowly roll down his cheek. He'd let the blog go untouched since the funeral. Writing about his now so ordinary life, after all they had done together, it was simply too much to handle.

P.S. Don't let her throw out the skull. He's a good person to talk to.

John laughed out loud this time. Mrs. Hudson started in her seat. "What is it? What did he say?"

John covered his mouth with his hand, remembering where he was and why he was there. "He says I should talk to the skull."

"Does he really?" Mrs. Hudson smiled as well. "Good thing I kept it then."

John's eyes returned to the bottom of the page. There was nothing more. "He didn't even sign it." He put the paper gently on the table.

"That's Sherlock for you. Writing from beyond the grave and can't even form a proper letter."

John looked around the kitchen, just for something to focus on that didn't remind him of Sherlock. He settled on the biscuit jar. "I think I see him, somethings. When I'm out walking, or in the tube, or hailing a cab. I see someone and for a moment, I think it's him." He cupped his hands around the mug, soaking in the warmth of the tea. "Just for a moment, and I think he's given me a miracle, that he's still alive, but then it's gone."

Mrs. Hudson sighed and drank some of her own tea. "I thought I saw him, at the funeral. Imagine that! Attending your own funeral and not popping up to let everyone know you're alive. And when the boards creak over head, I think maybe he's back."

"I wish he'd come back."

She patted his hand again. "So do I John. Of course, it must be harder for you. Sleeping on your own now, without him." John blanched and felt his cheeks turn red. Mrs. Hudson only smiles and keeps talking. "Can't even listen to the violin now. Used to love going to the concerts, you know, the cheaper ones down at the Academy." She pointed out the window, to the alley behind the flat block. "At least there's nothing strange turning up in my bins anymore. None of his experiments or burgers."

"No...of course not." John couldn't take the same enjoyment out of it that she did. He almost missed the body parts in the fridge. Would welcome them back if it meant getting Sherlock back.

"Molly calls, every so often. I think she just likes to talk, poor girl. We met at the funeral, you know. Didn't even knew she existed. Sherlock never talked about her. He broke her heart, being with you and all."

There seemed to be nothing more John could say. He said his goodbyes to his former land lady, put on his coat and placed the letter in his pocket. He thought he saw, as he took the steps down from the flat door, a tall thin man in a long overcoat watching from across the street. He looked a second time, searching the way they'd taught him in training, for the tiny little details that mattered so much. Then a lorry moved in front of him, between John and the figure that might have been Sherlock, and John lost him.