To Sherlock,
I don't know why I'm writing this letter, it seems stupid. My Therapist says it'll help make me better. I don't see how. You made me better, Sherlock. Do you remember? Hell, of course you remember. That first case we solved- The danger stopped my hands from shaking, and you noticed my limp was all in my head. The problem is that you're gone, Sherlock. And no one can fix that, except you.
I went down to the Station yesterday morning; Lestrade wanted to see me. He wanted to know how I'm coping- He's taking it hard too. We sat down and had coffee, neither of us spoke much, but it was the best therapy I've had since... What happened.
Why did you do it, Sherlock? Why? You could've gone to Mycroft for help if things were that bad, couldn't you? He's still your brother, Sherlock. He loves you. I'm sure of it. Even though he did tell Moriarty everything about you. People still believe in you, Sherlock. I went out the other day to the gym- crazy, I know. But I looked out of the Taxi window, and there it was; a massive picture of you, spray painted on the brick, with the words, 'Believe in Sherlock'. What's more amazing is that I didn't do it; there's at least one other in London who believes in you. About a week after this, Anderson set off to clean up the graffiti. Lestrade stopped him, and told him there were more important things, like crimes to solve.
Donovan still thinks you did it; even though the crime in London has gone through the roof since you fell. I thought this was proof enough to clear your name; she thinks differently. It's a shame really, I was always told not to hit girls.
Anyway, I guess my therapist was right, this has made me feel a little better. It feels like I'm talking to you again. But, you can't reply. And that's what hurts most. Every night, I wish, Sherlock, that you'll come bursting through our door, asking me to pass you your phone even though it's in your pocket. I miss you, Sherlock. I will until my end. My fall. I love you, Sherlock.
From, John.
Sherlock closed up the paper, and rubbed his eyes. His cheeks were wet; soggy with tears. He had always been so good at keeping his emotions at bay, to feel nothing but excitement when looking over a lifeless body. It was for this reason he was 'dead'. Sherlock took John's letter, and pressed it down onto the machine. It whirred loudly, Sherlock didn't seem to notice, both Mrs Hudson and John were out. Sherlock brought the original piece of paper and set it down where it had been. He then took the copy he had made, folded it gently, and placed it in his pocket. Sherlock grabbed his umbrella, and turned the collar of his coat up, before walking down the stairs and leaving the house.
