Dear Sherlock,
I don't really feel like doing this, but my therapist wants me to. There's no point, in reality. You're dead and you're staying dead.
Right now, I'm feeling angry about it. Angry that you cared so little about the people who love you. Angry that Anderson and Donovan are walking around happily when they drove you to suicide. Angry that you told me it had always been a lie. Angry that now I'll never know. Angry that a hopeful voice in the back of my head says you found a way to survive.
Because I know you didn't survive. I saw your broken body on that street. I checked your pulse, I think. I visit your grave every once in a while. You changed my life, Sherlock, and now I can't thank you for it. It's so damned stupid, all of this. I'm stupid, you're stupid.
I was once under the delusion that you loved me. Now I know you never did. You're cold, and the warmth of love would've burned you. Plus, you jumped. If you had loved me, you never would've done that. You would've thought of me and stepped away from the edge. You even said you loved me once. You whispered it on a case. You were deducing, muttering to yourself, and I heard it come out of your mouth. "I love John." I never said anything about it, but I thought maybe...nevermind.
I'm lost. I'm lost without you. I have nothing to do with my life, nowhere to go. You were everything to me, Sherlock. Then you threw it all away. It must've been real easy for you, to jump. It must've been really easy for you to only think of yourself and then dive towards the ground. It must've been easy, but now my life's harder than it's ever been.
In the war, I knew my enemy and I knew my friends. I knew who would shoot me. But now, the only person who wants to shoot me is myself.
John H. Watson