I neither own nor profit from any of these characters; they are the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and the BBC.

If you see something that you think ought to be changed or improved, please feel free to let me know, if you'd like. Constructive criticism is always welcome.

Special thanks to ImpishTubist and Catch18 for having read this over for me. While awesomeness comes from them, all of the "argh" bits are my own fault.

De-anon from kinkmeme prompt:

"L/S, Reichenbach epistolary prompt: All through the Hiatus, Lestrade keeps a diary in which each entry is addressed to Sherlock. He doesn't write in it every day, rather on anniversary dates (their first meeting, their first case, birthdays, etc.) The last entry is written by Sherlock."

11 May

Sherlock.

It's a week since John got back. Do you know why I'm telling you that? Because I want you to know exactly how long it's taken me to get to the point where I'm only furious with you and not so utterly livid that if I could, I'd come over to Baker Street and shake some bloody sense into you myself.

Have you got any idea, Sherlock, any at all, what this is doing to John? Did you stop for even a moment to think about the effect your bloody stupid decisions would have on other people? John hasn't said a word to me, not one, since he got off the plane and told me you'd gone.

That's how he said it, too, you know. "He's gone," all hollow-eyed and like the words barely fit out of his mouth. I was there, Sherlock, waiting for you, waiting for you to get off that plane behind him and make him send me a text to let me know you'd both arrived, waiting for you to make a fuss in the customs line by deducing things about the officers, like you always do, don't deny it, I've watched you. I was waiting for you, and you didn't even have the courtesy to warn me.

What the bloody hell have you done to me, Sherlock? I've written letters like this before. They make you do it, you know, if one of the officers in your unit is killed in the line of duty. Grief counselling for everyone, and you have to draw pictures, and you have to write letters. Waste of time, stupid, stupid waste of time, and yet here I am, and here's your letter, and d'you know what, Sherlock? This is the third letter like this I've written, and I'm supposed to tell you how I feel about what you did, and I'm supposed to tell you it hurts and that I understand why you did it and that you were the best consulting detective I've ever had and a load of other bollocks that means absolutely nothing but will keep them off my back and let me get back to work. But I'm not, because all I can think of to tell you is how absolutely fucking furious I am with you for what you've done.

Is that normal? That's not normal. I think I'm supposed to cry over you or something. It's not like you were just some officer who happened to work on the same floor as I did – but then again it's not like you were ever normal either, and the only way to survive you was to

fuck, I've done it, haven't I? Started using the past tense.

I swear to God, Sherlock, if this turns out to have been some sort of fucking joke, I will tear you limb from limb. I will. Don't even begin to imagine I won't.

Why the hell didn't you tell us?

18 May

They had a funeral for you today.

Why am I writing you another letter? I did the one they made me write. I don't need to be doing this anymore.

Truth is, though, I went to your funeral. Memorial, really. No body. And d'you know what? No one there knew you at all. Not one of them. Your landlady, she talked about you; she loved you, you know, but she didn't know you. I don't even know who the others were (your brother came; you wouldn't want to hear about that), but they didn't know you either. John would have, but he didn't come. Said he didn't want to look at all the people who only came because they thought they were supposed to. He was right, I shouldn't have gone.

We all make mistakes.

I'm still angry with you, but I'm angry with all of them as well. They had no right to be there. They didn't know you.

World's full of bastards.

2 June

Sherlock, I'm tired.

I saw John today and we just sat there and looked at each other. He's tired too. He hasn't packed up any of your things. And whatever the yellow stuff was in the big flask, it's green now. Does that mean anything to you? Is it poisonous? It's probably going to explode and take out half a city block one of these nights, isn't it?

We don't talk about you.

15 June

Do you remember what today is, Sherlock? Today is the day I found your bloody stupid arse face-down in a pool of your own blood. Today is the day I picked you up and cleaned you off and you wouldn't let me take you to the station and you tried to do a runner and you fell, of course, because what idiot tries to run in that state? You, because for a proper genius, you're the biggest

I took you home, do you know what that could've done to my career if anyone'd found out? Of course you do, you know everything. But you didn't care, did you, just left a mess in my living room and bloodstains on my couch – they didn't come out, you know, they're still there – and vanished.

And you solved a bloody case while you were at it. While you were high.

Jesus Christ, Sherlock, how many times did we do that before the time you wouldn't wake up? How many times before I had to take time off work, vacation time, Sherlock, that I was supposed to be spending on a motorcycle trip or fixing up the flat or damn well anything but trying to pull a complete damn stranger out of some of the worst withdrawal I've ever seen? What were you even on, Sherlock? I never asked, but I know it wasn't just the cocaine. I was with the drugs squad for years, I know what cocaine withdrawal looks like.

You know what? I don't even care. I don't want to know how many times we did that. I don't want to know how many times you ignored everything I said and went off and got high and put rusty fucking needles into your skin and don't tell me they were always clean because I saw you, Sherlock, and there were times when you had no idea what you were doing. I don't want to know how many times I told you never to show up to my crime scenes like that again and yet you'd come in anyway completely bloody chalked because you didn't care, Sherlock, about yourself or about me or about the fact that it was both our lives you were destroying.

I don't want to know how many times I had to save you, Sherlock, because it wasn't enough.

7 July

You solved your first case for me clean today, years ago. I mentioned it to John and he said he didn't want to hear about it. He still doesn't talk about you, you know. Come to think of it, neither do I.

John doesn't talk about you because – well, because what the hell would he say? "I had a flatmate once, he's dead now." What the bloody hell is he supposed to do with that? And all he had from you was a bloody letter telling him you knew ahead of time and didn't tell him.

You absolute bastard.

I don't talk about you because who is there besides John? "I had an annoying git who solved cases I couldn't once, he's dead now." And then I get sectioned, right? I didn't even get a letter.

Not that you'd have sent one, but it makes me seem even madder for writing this, doesn't it? Sod it, I don't care, it's not like anyone is ever going to read it. I may as well finally take the chance to get an uninterrupted word in.

Do you even realize what you've done to us? We could have helped you, you know. John's twice the shot you are and I'm not completely useless, whatever you may have thought. You could have asked us for help. You could have let us stop you.

Do you even understand that you had friends?

4 August

Three months.

I called John in on a case for me the other day. Medical advice. I know I've got a whole team for that, but they – well, you know, you never worked with them either.

He came, gave me a cause of death, used some of the most colourful language I've ever heard to tell me exactly what he thought of my having called him in the first place. I offered him a job.

Thought he was going to hit me, but he said yes instead.

I still get all the cases no one else wants to deal with. Case-closed record and all that; they think I'm good at this, Sherlock. They think I have some kind of, I don't know, they think I can do this. They have no idea. This cloak-and-dagger thing was all fine when you were here, you know, but

damn me, Sherlock, damn it all to hell, I should have told everyone.

Now what? Excuse me, commissioner, sir, but I can't do my own bloody job. I haven't got my crutch.

I was a police officer once. A detective, even. Detective Inspector Lestrade, that used to mean something. You'd have scoffed if I'd ever pointed that out to you, that the Met has ranks and that I actually worked my way up through them, that the work I do is actually worth something, or used to be. Of course no one could do what you did, but we did keep the odd criminal in check before you, you know. And then you walked in – stumbled in drugged up and had to be detoxed, but really, who's counting? – and

sod it, Sherlock, this is a stupid letter and I can't say what I bloody mean. Whose idea was it to make the English language so damned useless?

What I mean to say is that you left John without the only life that really mattered, when you left, the bits with running and shouting and taking stupid, ridiculous risks. What I mean to say is that you left the Met, you left us, without our best man, and thank God no one will ever know I said that, because there'd be enquiries and awkward excuses and ruffled feathers and – well, basically, it would be just like you'd never left, except that there wouldn't be anyone behind bars after all the fuss.

What I mean to say is that John is not the only one who is

9 September

I had a birthday yesterday. I assume you would have known, the number of times you pickpocketed me for my wallet. D'you know I forgot about it completely? Sally Donovan usually says something, but – I think I scare them now.

They used to look up to me, before you. Maybe even after you showed up, a little. They don't look up to me anymore, and I don't blame them. They used to have a DI; now they have this, this useless shell of an authority figure who doesn't have his consulting detective anymore and so now he's calling in half of bloody London to solve cases because he's desperate and useless and why the hell did I ring John when I needed a medical opinion? The Met has an entire department of forensic physicians, but I'm sinking, Sherlock, I've got nothing to hold onto and the cases aren't getting solved and the killers aren't getting caught and the only person sinking with me here is John.

I'm sorry for dragging him down.

What do you care, anyway? You won't be needing him anymore.

In case you couldn't tell, I spent most of yesterday – after I remembered about the birthday – in the company of a bottle of Bowmore. Don't you dare question my taste. If you want to sniff at my choice of drink, come here and bloody well do it to my face.

I'm begging for insults from a dead sociopath.

Jesus, what kind of sorry bastard have you made me?