Dearest Sherlock,
"Are you happy?" That is the most difficult question to answer. I alway answer yes, for a multitude of reasons. I have friends. I laugh. People would worry if I said otherwise... Or think I was begging for attention. I mean, my life isn't as bad as it could be. I don't have a ton of problems. It could easily be worse. But then, occasionally at night when I can't sleep, likely thinking about you, I start to cry. I suddenly question everything and everyone I have ever cared for. Did they truly care for me back? If so, why did they leave...without me?
And my dearest Sherlock, I know this is your doing. You left me to fend for myself and for the people we love. You left me to pick up the pieces of John's broken heart, left me to console Mrs. Hudson after she lost, what she considered to be, her son. What about Lestrade? Believe it or not, he did care about you. He still believes in you, by the way. Anderson and Donovan have actually been nice to everyone. They actually showed up one night at 221B. They apologized to John. He cried. He told me over coffee the next day that he desperately wanted to hate them, but he couldn't. He still believes in you. He knows that there was a reason behind what you did. So, I am left with the question.
"Are you happy?" Can I truly answer that? I cry, such heartfelt tears, so often. I miss you, Sherlock. I wanted to come with you. I hate not knowing when you will be back...if you'll be back. I love you and I want you to come home. I know you can't- not yet, but that doesn't stop me from wanting you too. I'm trying to keep your memory alive, trying to convince John to move on, helping Mrs. Hudson bake cookies, and even going to Scotland Yard occasionally. Sherlock, hurry home, love. We miss you.
Jessica Abbot