Dear Sherlock,
This first letter might be a bit of a muddle. I haven't been well, you see, so I hope you'll forgive me if I ramble a bit. I can't write about you on the blog any more. People were pretty horrible after the press turned on you, but I still need to write. You used to hack my email all the time, so I'm writing to myself just like I used to when I was angry with you, but not so mad I wanted to row, but I still wanted you to know how I felt.
I've seen a lot of death. I'm a doctor and I've been a soldier. It's a hazard of the profession. Both professions. And although sometimes the deaths have been hard, I've managed to cope.
Not this time.
I heard you say goodbye. I watched you jump. I saw your body in the morgue afterwards. I stood at your grave and watched your coffin being lowered into the earth.
I still can't believe you're gone.
I know if I tried to explain this next part to you you'd have a go at me for indulging in blatant sentimentality, but I can't help that. If you were really dead, I'd feel it. There'd be a piece of myself missing. A hollow feeling in my heart. But there isn't. Yes, I'm numb. But that's because I've spent days drugged up to my eyeballs. They only let me out of the hospital so that I could go to your funeral. Evidently they thought that would help me accept.
They were wrong.
I did get one thing out of it. After the service, I walked straight up to Mycroft and knocked him flat. He had bodyguards with him and they wanted to make something of it, but Mycroft, after he dusted himself off, waved them away.
See, he knew just as well as I did that all of this was his fault. He was the mole who fed information about you to Moriarty in exchange for a master computer code that would unlock everything.
Dumb bastard. Even someone like me knows that's a bunch of bollocks. But Mycroft's like you, he wants everything to be clever, so he bought into the story, hook, line, and sinker.
And you paid.
I knew. I called him on it. But it was too late and things were in motion. I should have told you though, and for that I am sorry.
I miss you.
John
Dear Sherlock,
Today wasn't a good day. None of them really have been. But today Mrs Hudson and I went out to visit your grave. They erected the tombstone. Granite. Very understated. All it had was your name. No dates. No family information. No pithy quotation to be remembered. I can't make up my mind whether you'd approve or not. I can't help feeling that you'd be annoyed by the lack of detail.
I've moved out of Baker Street. It's too hard. I keep expecting to see you sprawled over the sofa or hear the sound of your violin. I can't believe I'm saying this, but I miss your damn violin.
Play something for me, Sherlock. The silence is driving me mad.
John
Dear Sherlock,
Maybe I shouldn't tell you this, but I fell into bed with Molly Hooper. It was a grief thing. She's been so kind, checking up on me and making sure I get out and have a meal, sort of like what I used to do when you'd get down in the dumps. Remember? You'd snap and snarl, and tell me to go away, and I'd just carry on until you'd put on your coat and get into the cab just to shut me up.
I've been like that with Molly. And she's had the patience of a saint and the determination of a sergeant-major. I don't think you give her half as much credit as she deserves, Sherlock. She might be meek and quiet on the surface, but that woman has depths.
Anyway, we went to dinner and then back to mine. I'm not sure how it started. Too much wine and too much grief, I guess. Next thing I knew we were kissing and then one thing led to another.
I felt horrible after. Not that the sex was bad, I just... I don't know. I felt disloyal. I hope you'll forgive me. But I've been so lonely without you.
John
Dear Sherlock,
It's been three months. Three bloody months. If this is a joke you've overplayed it. If there's some other reason you're staying away, I wish you'd give me a sign. I can help.
Please, Sherlock, let me help. Whatever this is, we can fix it together.
John
Dear Sherlock,
It's been six months. I guess this is for real. You really are gone. I miss you. There are so many things I should have said to you when you were here to say them to, and now I never can.
You knew I thought you were brilliant. Too clever by half most of the time. You also knew that I thought you were infuriating. Insufferable and rude. But I didn't care. Okay, I did care when I knew that it would come back and bite you on the bum. I did try and protect you from yourself on those occasions, but I did understand that you had your own way of making your way through life, and that as crazy making as you could be, you would never change.
I tried my best to accept you as you are. Were. Damn it. As you were. I hope you know that when I came down on you it was because I cared. It hurt me to see you get hurt because you didn't march to society's drum.
You made such a difference in my life. Did you know that? Before I met you I was such a mess. I was lost. I was lonely. I was broken.
Now you're gone, and I'm broken again.
When I was with you I had purpose. My life had meaning. I wasn't just one more invalided veteran trying to fit into a society that wished it could politely ignore him. Living in your world gave me the excitement I'd grown to crave and helped me channel feelings that civilians couldn't ever understand, nor should they. I don't think I ever thanked you for that.
I know I need to do something to come to grips with my grief. I saw Ella, my therapist. She's recommended a support group. I'm going to a meeting tomorrow.
Wish me luck,
John
Dear Sherlock,
I went to the support group. I talked about you. About me. About us. Everyone assumed I was a widower and I didn't bother to correct them. In a way, it was comforting. Like before, when everyone assumed I was gay just because I was with you. But as I sat there, listening to the other members of the group tell their stories, I realised something. God this isn't easy, so bear with me.
If you were with me, what I'm about to say would make you deeply uncomfortable. Hell, it's not doing much for me, and I'm the one who had the epiphany.
I think you were the one great love of my life.
There have been women, so many women, and a lot of good times. Even though I tried to make more out of where those relationships were headed they always seemed to boil down to sex and a few laughs. I was always looking for something and not finding it, so they'd fall apart and I'd be off to the next.
It wasn't like that with you. God, this is so hard to explain. When I was with you, I didn't feel like I was trying to lose myself. I felt like I'd finally found the man I was supposed to be. You completed me, Sherlock, as maudlin as that sounds. I finally felt like I'd found the missing half of me I didn't know I'd even lost until I met you.
I knew this was going to be awkward. But don't you understand? That's why I can't accept your death. How can I accept that I've lost half of myself? How am I supposed to do that, Sherlock?
But I have to go on because I'm still here and the world is still turning. But damn it, just because I have to, doesn't mean I want to.
I love you, Sherlock Holmes, and I always will.
John
Dear Sherlock,
Hell, this is awkward. I've been going to the grief support meetings for two months now. I suppose they're helping. At least I know the people there won't judge me for missing you the way I do.
After today's I asked one of one of the other members, a woman named Mary, if she wanted to talk more over a coffee. She's been really lovely since I joined the group and today had been a rough one for her, an anniversary. Not a big one, like her wedding. A little one. The day they bought their first car together. It's the stupid things that get you when you don't expect it as I've learnt too well.
She's nice. She has a lovely smile. I think you'd like her.
/file ends