Hello, Sherlock. I don't know why I keep doing this to myself, you're not going to answer. You're never going to answer again, and I've entertained the thought that you would for far too long. Right now, Mrs. Hudson is pounding on the door, begging me to let her in. I've not left the flat in months and she's worried. Although I've tried several times to go outside, I couldn't stay anywhere for too long as I found my visions returning. They're not as vivid as they used to be. You're not standing in front of me, telling me that you're still alive. You just stand there and watch me, turning away when I catch your eye. Several times I have caught glimpses of your retreating form. I chase you, screaming your name only to reach a dead end each time.
They are all concerned for me, but they are reaching the point where they have realized that nothing they can do or say will help me. If I were them, I'd have given up long ago. It's been nearly three years since we last spoke - truly spoke, not in one of my visions. Sometimes I lie in bed for days, not eating, not even sleeping. And when I finally muster up the energy it takes to move from the bed to the sitting room, I always wind up on the floor in crippling agony at the sight of your chair. The chair that you should be sitting in now, asking for another case and telling me how bored you are.
I've not paid rent in months. Mrs. Hudson has been very lenient of that fact for now, but I suspect she will be kicking me out soon. I don't know what I will do when she does. I haven't even touched your things since you left. I couldn't bring myself to, despite the pleading and begging from the others, insisting that I let it go. I can't let go. I've tried and I've failed and I've tried again. Nothing will ever make this better. I've reached my breaking point. I'm done hoping that you're still alive. That you'll show up one day and all will be back to normal.
I loved you, you know. Though I'm sure that you had managed to figure that out on your own, one of my biggest regrets has been that I never had the courage to tell you, and now it's too late. I'm sitting here, Sherlock, with a gun in my hand. I've reached my limit. I don't know if I'll see you again, but I now realize that this is the only chance I have for that to happen. If it turns out that we don't meet again, that there's no afterlife to reunite us, I guess this is me finally allowing myself to say something that I have refused to say for so long...
Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes.
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