Hey Sherlock. Me again. It's been awhile since I wrote. But then, you wouldn't know.
You're dead.
Maybe you don't remember this. You probably don't. You delete everything in that big brain of yours except what's necessary, don't you? Even my first name. But that's okay. I don't mind, you know. You can call me just Lestrade. I'm really missing it.
Anyways, about five years ago, back when we first met, there was this case. Regular old hit-and-run. Eighteen years old, just a kid. You turned your nose up and said boring. So I went to the crime scene all by myself. And when I got there, there was this guy. The kid's dad. And that look on his face... I don't think I'll ever forget it. The victim was his only child, did you know? His only son. And when you looked at his face, you just knew his whole world was gone.
We solved the case. Without you. We're not that incompetent. We wrapped it all up, nice and tight, all in a day's work, right? Just like a million other cases.
I went to the funeral. Did you know that? Did you deduce it when I came back? Did I smell like candle and churchyard and death? Was there special dirt on my shoes, dust on my collar? Could you see I'd been crying?
I sat there the whole service and I watched that man cry in the row ahead of me. And I cried too. For him. Because I felt sorry.
But you know what, Sherlock? He was lucky. He. Was. Lucky. Do you know why? Because he can remember that kid the way he was. Because he had something to say at the funeral. Because he at least knows the son he is burying. I don't know who's body we found on the sidewalk outside Bart's. The real Sherlock Holmes - who was he? I don't know. I don't know who he was.
There's a funeral tommorow, and I don't know who we're burying.
They want me to talk, but I can't. I don't know what to say. I don't even know if Sherlock Holmes is your name. And I hate that. I hate what you did. But I can't hate you. Because whoever you were, whatever you did, you're still my son. I hate that too, and I wish I could hate you. But I love you, Sherlock, somehow I still do. And I want to believe, but... It's hard.
Hate,
Greg.