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April 23, 2012
Dear Sherlock,
Molly just told me. She finally broke down yesterday, crying and telling me about you. Of course you'd make sure I didn't know about your little plan. So my reaction would be genuine. In case it went wrong. Like it has. You've already been comatose for a week. Why won't you wake up?
Oh how you'd laugh at me now, pointing out how useless it is, me writing these letters. You never did understand the idea of sentiment, did you? But it's something I feel I need to do, even if you'll just ignore them afterwards. I'll write to you every day, Sherlock, until you wake up. That way you won't miss anything. All right?
April 24, 2012
Dear Sherlock,
You're so still and pale. Even thinner than you were before. At least your vitals haven't declined, right? But of course you know that. Anyways, the flat feels so empty without you bustling about. I even miss the smell of rotten flesh in the fridge, or the gun going off when you've gotten bored. I miss your playing, Sherlock. It's harder to sleep without you and your violin, playing far into the night. My nightmares have started to come back. Flashes of the war. But even more so are the memories of that day. When you fell. The crimson against your pale skin, your dark hair soaked in it. It haunts me, Sherlock. Please come back to me, prove the dark whispers of my dreams wrong. Prove to them you'll
come back, that you're still alive. That you're still mine.
April 30, 2012
Dear Sherlock,
Did you know that Lestrade still thinks you're dead? He comes by the flat almost every day to check up on me. He's a bit busier now, more tired and gaunt looking. It's become more difficult to solve crimes without you around, finding the smallest details and getting so much out of
them. He looks sad, you know. He cared for you, no matter what he said or did in those last few days, before the fall. He misses you.
Mrs. Hudson, too. She doesn't seem to know what to do, without you around to take care of. The flat is cleaner than I've ever seen it, probably because you're not around to tear everything apart again after Mrs. Hudson tidies up the place. I've told her, of course, that you're still alive. It would be wrong not to. She's hoping and praying for you too, Sherlock. Though I'm sure you wouldn't understand why we do that either, since it won't help you get better. Sentiment again, Sherlock. I'll tell you about it when you wake up.
Please wake up.
May 14, 2012
Dear Sherlock,
It's been so long. Almost a month now. Lestrade found out somehow. You would have loved to see him yelling at me, with tears on his cheeks.
Moriarty's lie is starting to crack around the edges. Little bits of information that don't make sense are showing up. Soon they'll all find out you weren't a fake after all. That'll be the day, hmm? Of course, it wouldn't matter to you. Though you probably wouldn't get many clients if they didn't realize, eh?
I'm tempted to ask Lestrade if he needs any help on some cases. He looks even more run-down than before, like he hasn't been sleeping. There's been too much crime without you around, I suppose. I'm getting bored, Sherlock, waiting for you. Don't make me start shooting the wall now, you hear?
The longer you take, the less chance you'll come back to me. So hurry up, all right?
May 31, 2012
Dear Sherlock,
The press finally found out. The headlines today screamed your innocence. Moriarty's lies are over, Sherlock. Now, just get better and we can start working on cases again. I helped Lestrade out a bit, trying to be like you. I've picked up a bit, you know. I've learned how to observe. Helped track down the killer, I did. You'd be proud. Maybe. I hope.
The weather is getting warmer, though I know you liked the cold better. You always looked a bit out of place in the heat, your long coat flowing about you. Speaking of your coat, I got it cleaned. It's waiting for you next to the bed. You look a bit strange without it, honestly. It looks empty without you.
Like I feel.
June 21, 2012
Dear Sherlock,
Before I start, just let me say I'm sorry. I started digging through your room, looking for some of your voice recordings. Experiments, observations, anything. It's just nice to hear you speaking again. I tidied up after I went through, though. I think I put everything back where it was. Mrs. Hudson moved some of your lab equipment into your room as well. Trying to clean up the kitchen. Also, she says sorry for having to throw out the arms. The smell was repulsive.
I think it's the first time I've seen the kitchen truly clean, without any of your stuff littered about. Mrs. Hudson also says shame on you for scratching up her table so badly.
It's been a while since I've seen anyone. It hasn't seemed like such a priority since you fell. Honestly, I haven't really missed going out with anyone. But I'm missing you.
July 3, 2012
Dear Sherlock,
I feel so useless. I'm a doctor- a medical man, you once said. But I can't do anything to help. It's taking longer and longer for you to wake up. Why won't you? The longer you take, the less chance you have that you'll fully recover. But of course you know that. Don't tell me Moriarty got to you, Sherlock. Sure, life can be boring, but it can also be such fun. Remember my first date with Sarah? What you called the 'best date ever'? That was fun. Don't give in, Sherlock.
The world needs you.
I need you.
July 14, 2012
Dear Sherlock,
Lestrade is finally getting a divorce. Funny, that. You helped him find out about that too. We all owe you so much, Sherlock.
Anyway, Molly's finally seemed to find the right guy after pining after you for so long. He seems nice enough, - hopefully not a psychopath - and honestly, I'm just glad you won't be hurting her anymore. You were so mean to her, Sherlock. You probably never noticed, but at least you realized how important she was to you before the fall.
I got a call from Mycroft the other day. I know, I shouldn't be helping him. You'd probably yell at me for doing so. But he told me that they'd found one of Moriarty's goons, a man named Sebastian Moran. He'd taken over after Moriarty killed himself. I'll be helping Mycroft deal with him tomorrow. I'll tell you how it goes.
July 15, 2012
Dear Sherlock,
I'm in the room just next to yours as I write this. My shoulder is killing me, but I promised I'd write. Funny how I'd forgotten how much a bullet hurts.
We tracked Moran down. A group of Mycroft's men and I stormed his hiding place. I got shot, the same shoulder. And they said lightning doesn't strike twice. At least I'd killed him before he could aim properly, eh?
I thought of you, Sherlock, while I was blacking out. It wasn't you as you are now, lying still in a bed, or you with your hair clumped with blood. It was you, with the bright eyes and bouncing curls. Your long coat billowing about your tall, slim frame. I wasn't thinking about myself, or Moran, or dying. Just you, and the smile you get when you're on an exciting case, when you find a clue or discover the last piece in a puzzle. Funny how death can reveal our priorities.
August 23, 2012
Dear Sherlock,
It's so silent. The criminals have been quiet. You're the same. I wish it wasn't so still. I feel like screaming, shouting for you to come back. I know even if you could hear me, you'd ignore me. That would be so like you. My shoulder's better. You're not. The unfairness of it all just makes me mad, Sherlock. And scared. It's been so long since I've seen your smile, that smile I pictured while the blood was running from my shoulder. Please come back. I need to see it again.
P.S. I've added a couple bullet holes to the wall. I've gotten bored without you.
September 5, 2012
Dear Sherlock,
The weather is getting colder. Sorry for taking your coat. I need something to remind me of you. It almost brushes the ground on me, and it looks far better on you. I know you'll shout at me when you wake. You love your damn coat.
October 8, 2012
Dear Sherlock,
I'm just going through the motions, now. I don't even care about anything else anymore. I quit my job a long time ago. Mrs. Hudson's worried. I've adopted your eating habits, Sherlock. How 'bout that? At least the balance on my card hasn't changed. Mycroft's doing, I'll bet. The cold doesn't bother me, the rain pelting down on me not soothing the burn I feel in my heart. I'm burning, Sherlock. Moriarty's burned a heart, sure, but not yours. The tremor in my left hand came back. It's shaking; my tears are blurring the paper. Come back, Sherlock. I can't handle going back to 221 without you anymore.
October 17, 2012
Dear Sherlock,
I've been visiting Ella again, my therapist. The nightmares are worse. I can't seem to sleep without seeing images of you, bleeding out on the sidewalk. My limp's back, you know. Lestrade looks worried, even more than before. He's still gaunt and tired-looking, and he said the same about me when I went to help him out with a case a while back. Donovan and Anderson were there. They wouldn't look at me. They almost seemed… sad. It made me even angrier. They don't know what it's like, grieving for you. Being broken.
I punched Anderson for you, Sherlock. I know you've always wanted to do that.
November 2, 2012
Dear Sherlock,
I saw someone leaving the hospital today. She seemed oddly familiar. The lipstick mark on your cheek only proved it. I thought she was dead, Sherlock. I lied to you that day, when I told you she was in America. Mycroft told me she'd been killed in Karachi. Beheaded. I'm sorry for lying.
Were you there, Sherlock? Did you save her? It seems like something you'd do, doesn't it?
What did she tell you, Sherlock? Did you hear her? Did she speak to you at all, or come only to kiss you goodbye? Did she say she loved you? I know she did. Did you love her back?
Please answer me, Sherlock. I have so many questions for you. Not just about Irene, but about us. So many questions. There are two that have been burning in my mind since I met you. Do I love you?
I think I do.
Do you love me?
November 22, 2012
Dear Sherlock,
I'm sorry if the ink is smudged on this letter. I've been crying again. It's Thanksgiving in America, but I've nothing to be thankful for today. Lestrade's been shot, Sherlock. He was on a case, and he got shot. He's a policeman; he knew it might happen, we all knew it might happen. That doesn't ease the pain. I can't help thinking how different it might have been if we'd been there. You could have stopped it. He'd still be alive if you'd been there; I know it. Oh Sherlock, why weren't you there to save him like you saved Irene? He cared for you, he did. Did you know that? I hope you do.
November 30, 2012
Dear Sherlock,
Greg's funeral was today. It was simple but beautiful. The whole of the police force was there. Mrs. Hudson and Molly came too. I saved a seat for you, Sherlock, next to me. I know you would have been there, if you could. It was raining lightly, like the day you fell. I used to like the rain, Sherlock. Now, it only makes me want to curl up and cry. I couldn't tell if it was tears or rain running down my cheeks, at the funeral. But are they really that different?
Mycroft showed up afterwards. He said he was there to offer his condolences, but I think it was more just to check up on me. Everyone's so worried about me. I can't blame them. I think I am a bit too. I don't know what to do without you and Lestrade, Sherlock. You two are about the closest friends I have. Molly's been a bit distant from me, since she met her boyfriend. It's been four months. I'm happy for her, though.
It's just Mrs. Hudson and me now. It's really unlikely now for you to wake up. Even less chance to fully recover. But you could do it, Sherlock. Beat the odds. I know you can. Please? For me? I feel so alone without you.
December 15, 2012
Dear Sherlock,
You've gotten worse. So much worse. Don't do this to me, Sherlock. I thought I told you to get better. You should listen to your doctor.
You're on life support. You don't have much time left, Sherlock. Sometimes I wish I wasn't a doctor, I wish I didn't know these things. Ignorance is bliss. How you'd scoff at that. You'd explain to me in fine detail how it's not, how important knowing is.
It's not the way I imagined you dying, Sherlock. The way I imagined us dying. Whenever I thought about dying, I always thought it would be the two of us, side by side, facing some criminal organization or murderer. I never even thought that we might be separated, could never imagine living in a world without you in it.
They found your phone, Sherlock. Found the recording of you and Moriarty talking on top of St. Bart's. How he told you that Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and I would die if you didn't jump. You saved us, Sherlock. Some of us in more ways than others. Not a bad way to go, I suppose, saving those you care about. But the worst part about this is you can't go down fighting. You'll just take a breath and be gone, your final words uttered nearly a year ago. I always thought you'd outlive death trying to get the last word in. Guess I was wrong, eh?
December 20, 2012
Dear Sherlock,
You're still here, as you know. Thank you.
It's nearly Christmas. Remember last Christmas, with Molly and Irene and you playing Christmas songs on your violin? I can still hear the notes ringing in the air as the bow slides across the strings. I miss it, Sherlock. I miss you.
December 25, 2012
Dear Sherlock,
Molly and Mrs. Hudson came to see you. We all left presents for you next to your bed. I bet you could deduce what they are in a second. Oh well. Merry Christmas, Sherlock.
December 27, 2012
Dear Sherlock,
You're still here, so am I. Literally. I've been sleeping in the chairs next to your bed. Don't worry Sherlock, I won't leave you. Don't leave me either.
January 6, 2013
Dear Sherlock,
First of all, Happy Birthday. You're 32 today. I bet you thought I'd forget. I'd never forget something like that, no matter how stupid you might have thought I am. If anything, you'd have forgotten.
It was strange. You looked so peaceful. They'd dressed you up in one of your nice suits. I made sure they put your coat on too, of course. You love your coat. There weren't many people there; not many knew you were still alive while you were comatose. But I made sure someone came and played one of your pieces. It was that piece you were composing after Christmas, after you thought Irene was dead. It was beautiful. Mrs. Hudson couldn't stop crying. I felt the same, Sherlock. Everyone there did. See? People did care.
Oh, remember your Christmas presents? You never saw them, but I got you a new scarf, and Molly and Mrs. Hudson both chipped in to get you a new violin. The violin is beautiful, Sherlock. You'll love it. The scarf is a bit more purple than your usual blue ones, but I thought it fit you. I put it on for you, and laid the violin and bow next to you before we closed the lid and lowered you down into the ground. You're lying under a tree, in a nice quiet spot in the cemetery. You'd like it, I'm sure. Peace and quiet at last.
Did it hurt, Sherlock? Dying? I hope it didn't; pain was the last thing you needed then. It was peaceful, your passing. One moment, you were beside me, the beeping steady, and then… it stopped. It was so quiet, Sherlock. I wasn't breathing either, for the longest moment, while my eyes and heart started burning. There it is again, Sherlock. Burning. He burned us, all right.
I wrote you a eulogy, Sherlock. I read it, even though my voice kept cracking and I had to stop a lot because the tears were choking me and blurring the page. Did you hear it, Sherlock? Were you standing next to me, listening to the words from my heart? I hope so. Mrs. Hudson told me to include the ending in this letter, my last to you. Here it is then.
"By the time I returned to the hospital, you were on the roof. Standing on the edge. You called me. Tried to convince me that you were a fake. That everything they said about you was true. I wouldn't believe it. I still won't. You were being forced to say it. Had to say it.
Then you jumped.
I owe you so much. I needed you. I still do.
But you're gone.
You told me once that I shouldn't make people into heroes. Said that heroes didn't exist and even if they did, you wouldn't be one of them.
Which goes to show. You weren't always right about everything."
My heart is so empty now, Sherlock. Moriarty's words from your recording on the roof of St. Bart's are haunting me. Life is so boring. It's all the same without you. It is the final problem, isn't it? Staying alive.
I'm there now, the rooftop. I miss you, Sherlock. There's nothing left for me here. I wrote a note for Mrs. Hudson and Harry, to everyone else we knew and cared about, who cared about us. The list was surprisingly short, for how many people we've met. It won't be as peaceful as your passing was, in your sleep. But it seemed right, you know. The rooftop where you spoke your final words being the place I write mine. Will I see you there? I hope so.
Goodbye and hello, Sherlock.