Dear Sherlock,
I understand that you'll never read this, but I miss you. I really do. I miss the way I'd come back to the flat after work, and you'd be lying on the couch, staring up at the ceiling. I even miss finding the body parts in the microwave or in the fridge, because that was you. I miss the way you would throw your whole self into every case, and how you'd shoot the wall and cause Ms. Hudson to yell from downstairs. I miss learning something new about you, and you playing the violin and annoying me at all hours off he night. You probably never noticed, but I often caught myself staring at you wondering how there was someone here who thought like you do. And why you acted like you did. Sometimes, though, I wondered if you did notice me, thinking about you. If you did, I'm certain that neither of us knew what to say, or where the subject would have led. I found myself thinking of your hair, and your face or your movements when you were lost in thought. I miss working on cases with you...ever since you jumped I haven't done anything really. I've tried, but I just fall apart. I stayed up in my room for days, trying to imagine you back. I could almost hear your violin playing in the living room, and I ran down to find too empty chairs. It broke my heart over and over, and I felt myself dying along with you. I was going crazy staying in the flat alone, I went to see Greg, but Mycroft was there. I don't know, but I think something is going along there. Your brother has been especially kind to him. I've pushed everyone away, Sherlock. Even Ms. Hudson, and she has cried so much. I can hear her sobbing, and I want to help, but I can't. And I finally made it into your room. I hoped this was still all a dream, but you weren't in there sleeping the day away. You were still gone. The room was still empty, dust collecting where you should have been. It's time to wrap up this letter. And this is what people do, right, Sherlock. They leave a note?
John sealed up the envelope carefully, putting it neatly on the seat of Sherlock's chair. He had time. Ms. Hudson wouldn't be back for at least another hour, and when she slowly made her way up the stairs to check on him, he would be gone. His body would remain, but his soul would be wherever he was meant to go when he died. If he was lucky, it would be wherever Sherlock is.
He walks away.
It's Greg who reads the letter, and clears out John's body. Sherlock feels pain, real pain, and it's hard for him to enter the flat. He thinks of the times he almost returned, the ways he planned to surprise John when it was safe to do so. The flat is the same, and he can almost feel John here. The note, he crumples up, holding it against his chest.
If he had come back, John wouldn't be gone. And all that time apart, was nothing compared to a lifetime. And he knows that he can't bear it. He digs out the gun.
He stole it from evidence, because it seemed he should fade in the same way as John had. And if he was very lucky, his doctor would be waiting for him on the other side.
