A/N: Whoa, I'm back with yet another angsty Sherlock fic? Bet you didn't see that coming.
Disclaimer: Still don't own Sherlock. (Bet you didn't see that coming either)
Dear Sherlock
Dear Sherlock,
I don't know why I'm writing this. Ella said it will help me "face my ghosts" or whatever. Like she said my blog would help me adjust.
It wasn't the blog that helped.
This is pointless. It's not like you're ever going to read this. Because you can't. Because you're dead. Dead. Dead. Why can't I get that into my head? You are DEAD and there is nothing I can do about it.
You're dead and you're not coming back and I might as well accept it and move on.
So there.
Dear Sherlock,
Oh, look, I'm writing to you again.
Maybe Ella was right. But the last letter didn't help. All it did was make me want to rip it out and throw it at something.
Which I did.
Why?
Why did you leave? WHY, Sherlock?
You didn't even let me say it.
Dear Sherlock,
I think all this is accomplishing is making me angry.
Ella said that anger is part of "the process".
So, apparently, I'm supposed to tell you everything I'm angry about.
First, the fact that you jumped of a blasted building and MADE ME WATCH.
YOU MADE ME WATCH.
You called me, and told me you were a fake.
Why am I telling you this? You were there.
You were there. On the roof.
I looked up, and you were up there.
And then you...
I can't say it. I still can't.
You jumped.
There. I said it.
You're dead. You jumped of the roof of St. Bart's.
And it's alright for you. You don't feel anything anymore.
Though did you ever? Did you ever for ONE SECOND THINK about how your suicide would affect me?
Did you? Did it ever occur to you that after your death I'd be left to pick up the pieces?
I bet the thought never even crossed your mind.
Dear Sherlock, I'm sorry I got so angry in the last letter.
I don't.. it's just... WHY.
Why did you jump?
Why did you tell me you were a fake?
You can't be. You were REAL. I KNOW you.
Or at least I thought I did.
Dear Sherlock,
Visited your grave again. Talked to you there. I don't know why I keep doing it.
It just HURTS. Everything hurts.
Every little thing reminds me of you.
There's no milk in the fridge.
I've got to go get it.
Funny. Even now you don't get the milk.
I guess somethings don't change.
Dear Sherlock,
I think I've finally realized why Ella wanted me to write these.
When you stood up there, before you jumped, the last words you said were "Goodbye, John."
You didn't let me.
I don't think I would have said it; I was still in denial.
I still am.
But... I think... I think I can now.
Even all the times I've visited your grave, all the times I talked to you even though you couldn't hear me- I never said it. Saying it makes it final. Even more final than saying you're dead.
But I have to now.
Goodbye, Sherlock.
Your friend,
John Watson
finis