A/N: I don't own Sherlock or any characters
Dear Sherlock,
My therapist told me that writing down the words that I couldn't say to you would be therapeutic for me. Help me get over…the accident. It's been over a year now. The flat is tidy for once, no strange experiments on the kitchen table, or body parts in the refrigerator. It's quiet. Too quiet. I turn on the telly just so I don't feel so alone all the time. I think I hear you sometimes, playing violin at 3 in the morning, or muttering to yourself as you work on an experiment. I'll turn to look, and you're not there. Some days…. I just can't. This is stupid, writing letters to you. You would think it's dull. I couldn't even to get you to read my reminder notes around the flat, or my blog for that matter. I miss having you around.
John sighed. What was the point in writing a letter that Sherlock would never read? Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson were worried about him. He could tell from the looks they would share when they thought he wasn't paying attention. He watched his best friend jump off a building; didn't they realize it was going to take time for him to get over that?
He sighed again. He folded the paper and put it in the envelope. Stood up from the kitchen table and grabbed his coat, headed down the stairs, and hailed a taxi on the street.
This was the worst part. The headstone. The grave. The smell of sadness and loss. A couple were a few rows down dropping flowers off. The woman was crying while the man just held her. John looked back at the dreaded plot. This wasn't the first time he visited the grave, far from it. It just never got better which each time. Even Molly and Mrs. Hudson stopped coming to visit. It was just John, it was always just John. He brushed some fallen leaves off the top and around the base of the stone. Gently, he placed the white envelope on the ground, leaning against the tombstone. Smiling at thinking how melodramatic he was being and what Sherlock would say about such a sentimental gesture.
He patted the top of the grave absentmindedly.
" I'll come by some other time and tidy up a bit. Get rid of these leaves, trim the grass, I don't know. I met this woman at the surgery and well, we're getting dinner tonight. Nothing serious. Lestrade keeps trying to give me cases to work on, trying to make it normal. I don't know if I'm ready yet."
He wipes his hands on his pants and with a nod at the tombstone turns and walks back down the row.