Dear Sherlock,

It's been 27 days. 27 days since you jumped. 27 days since you left me here.

I told Mrs. Hudson that I wouldn't go back to our flat, but I discovered that I can't bear to leave it. I stayed at a hotel for the first few days after… you know. But I missed it. That flat is all I have left of what I knew. Your empty armchair, your violin, and even your blasted skull – I just can't leave them. Everyone says that staying in the flat around your things will make it worse, but these are the only remnants I have of you. I'm not willing to give them up.

I've seen my therapist a couple times since it happened. She thinks that I need to remove all memories of you, and then perhaps I will be able to move on. She doesn't understand. When you died, I think I died too. When I was with you, gallivanting around and solving mysteries, I finally had purpose and meaning to my life. How could you take that away from me, Sherlock? What was so important that you had to die for?

Right – You were ashamed of lying to everyone. Well, I don't believe a word of it, and no one will ever make me believe it. I know you never uttered a lie to me as long as I knew you. Maybe you did this because someone forced you to, or you were trying to protect something… Maybe it had to do with Moriarty… I have no idea. I can't imagine what could possibly be worth you dying.

I know I never really said it, but you were my best friend. You made me feel alive for the first time in a long while. And now that you're gone, I…

I'm falling apart.

I haven't left the flat since I came back here. It's been weeks since I've stepped out in the sun. There's no point anymore. There's nothing.

Mrs. Hudson worries about me, of course. She does the shopping and still cleans up, bless her soul. She tries to coax me out into the world again, but I can't. I mentally and physically cannot do this, Sherlock. I've healed once, and that's because you showed up, but I can't do it again. Not on my own. Not like this.

I stopped going to see the therapist after she suggested I forget you. It's not just that I can't forget – I don't want to. Why would anyone want to forget the best times of their life? I know there were a lot of bad things that happened, like almost being blown up by Moriarty, but I would take it all back in an instant if you were still here.

I spend most of my time sleeping, trying to find you in my dreams. I look at a photo of you from an old newspaper every day, in fear that I will eventually forget what you looked like. In the photo you're wearing that silly hat you despised so much. Other than that, I just stare at nothing. Remember that poor wall you blasted holes in? Yeah, I look at that a lot.

Sometimes I think I can hear you whispering to me from the darkness. I know it's impossible, but it's still comforting. The imaginary whispers are the only company I have at night.

I keep hoping that one day you'll come barreling through the doorway and whisk me off to work on another case. Hell, I would even play Cluedo right now if you wanted to! We can change the damned rules.

I'm broken, and I think I always will be. There's no fixing me this time. My home is with you, and now that you're not here, I don't know what I'm going to do, Sherlock. I just don't know.

I know I've said this before, but please… for me… don't be dead.

No matter what, just know this; I will always remember you as a good man with a brain that often overshadowed his heart. I know you aren't a fraud, and nothing in the universe will ever convince me otherwise. That's my promise to you.

-John

P.S - There's something I wanted to tell you right before you jumped. I just couldn't get it out. And for some reason, I still can't. Maybe one day I'll be able to.

Note: I may turn this into a fanfiction if it's well recieved. So please review and let me know if you'd like a fanfic to follow up :)