March 12th

It's been three days since you jumped. Since the jump, as I've begun to refer to it as. Much easier than reminding myself that you're dead. Is that how you do it? Blocking your emotions by convincing yourself that people are just objects, just inanimate beings who have no feeling? Is that how you became such a brilliant detective? Well, it's not working for me. You're still as dead as ever. Dead. Dead. Dead. It just doesn't settle in my mind. Dead Sherlock. Dead Sherlock. Dead Sherlock. How is that even possible? Dead Sherlock is an oxymoron, you can't be dead. Please don't be dead, Sherlock.

I'm echoing that little epitaph I gave at your funeral now. What was it? Something about miracles? I hoped you liked it. I certainly didn't enjoy delivering it. I was crying, Sherlock. Crying. Me, an army doctor plus all that I've seen in my eighteen months with you. Crying. What is wrong with me Sherlock?

You know, now that I think about it, I've realized: I never did see you truly cry. Why is that? How hard must it be to be an emotionless robot, Sherlock? Oh, never mind. I bet it wasn't hard for you.

I thought, that after living with you for over a year, I thought that maybe, I knew something about you. It seems that I was wrong. The Sherlock I knew would never jump off a four-story building. Why did you do it? You said that you didn't care what people thought of you. So why, Sherlock? Why?

I have to go. Mycroft's here. Says he wants some of your stuff. Wish me luck, Sherlock. This time, I'm going to sincerely try to avoid punching him in the face. Oh god, I hope he still has the bruise from last time. Wait, scratch that.

March 14th

5 DAF

Do you like how I'm dating my posts now? Five days after the fall. Do you even understand what that means? It means that you were my life Sherlock. You were everything to me, the center of my universe. And I mean that in the sincerest way possible. (No, I am not gay, Sherlock. You know what I mean.) You-I mean we, solved crimes together. We saved each other from danger. We wound up in Buckingham Palace, with you devoid of pants. It was always murder after murder , deduction after deduction, never a moment to rest. And I liked it. Or at least it would be much better compared to my life now. I feel like an empty shell, Sherlock.

March 21st

12 DAF

I visited your grave today. I brought flowers too. You probably wouldn't have liked them. But I don't care. Putting flowers on graves is what people do, Sherlock. Oh, I'm breaking down now. You should see me, I'm a complete wreck. I've gained four pounds since you jumped and I'm just sitting around the house moping. Mycroft keeps trying to get me interested in something or another and Lestrade keeps dropping by, giving me his deepest condolences. Bastard. He got your name cleared though. Thought it would never happen, but he showed me the court papers and everything. I suspect Mycroft had something to do with it though. Maybe tweaked a few police reports, did a little jury-rigging, you know? Reminds me a bit of Moriarty. Sherlock, you know, sometimes you reminded me of Moriarty. Two psychopathic geniuses, looking for distraction from boredom. Oh wait, sorry, I believe that you prefer the title high functioning sociopath? You're not one, Sherlock. I know that, you know that. You're far from a sociopath. In fact, you're the greatest man I've ever met. Don't go getting a swelled head now, you're already arrogant enough. And I'm not sorry I just said that. But really, to me, you're absolutely brilliant. Even with all your.. ahem.. character quirks. You're a genius frankly, a bloody genius. A dead genius too. Sherlock, there isn't a minute that goes by that I don't think of you. You alive, with your overinflated ego, making deductions, annoying the heck out of people, chasing killers, insulting the detectives at Scotland Yard… And then you're gone. Gone. Jumped off the roof of a bloody building. Did you ever stop to think of the people you left behind? Of the grief they would suffer? I try to imagine you standing on the roof of St. Bart's, looking down. It was a long way down, wasn't it, Sherlock? What did Moriarty tell you that made you do it? I know you didn't choose to jump. You wouldn't have, would you? Why do you have to be so… so Sherlock all the time?

March 24th

"Sherlock…"

"Go away Mycroft. I'm thinking."

"Sherlock…, come on. You can't hide from him forever, you know?"

"Stop bothering me!"

"You're going to have to face him sooner or later, Sherlock. Have you seen him lately? He's a complete mess. And he's begun to keep a diary. I think it might be beneficial for you to-"

Sherlock spun around so quickly, Mycroft was surprised he didn't lose his balance. Mycroft stared in shock at him as he noticed something falling down is cheek, something he had never seen in all thirty-six years of Sherlock's life.

"Yes, Mycroft, I'm crying. I'm betraying actual human emotion. I read John's diary. 'You know, now that I think about it, I've realized: I never did see you truly cry. Why is that? How hard must it be to be an emotionless robot, Sherlock?' Well, now I'm crying. Truly crying, Mycroft." Sherlock's voice shook with pain.

Mycroft gazed down at his little brother, feeling perhaps a slight twinge of sympathy. But no, that was not to be allowed. He had to stay strong. Sherlock needed to go back to his old life with John. It was for his own good.

"You know, Sherlock, Mummy would never have approved of such weakness." Mycroft regretted his harsh words but there were absolutely necessary. "Look at you now, a sopping fool. Self-pity never helps. Now, I expect you to return to 221B Baker Street within the next week or else-"

"Or else what, Mycroft? What more can you do to me? You already sold me out to Moriarty. You're the reason why this happened." Sherlock lifted his gaze.

Mycroft knew that there was no use talking to his brother in his current state and it had indeed been his fault. The whole affair was all his fault. He had been blinded by his sense of duty, desperate for information, and in the end, he had sold his brother out to the enemy.

"Goodbye, Sherlock. I hope you will consider my suggestion." And with a dip of his head, Mycroft walked off into the night.

Sherlock remained in the armchair he had been sitting in. He was currently located in a rather decrepit run-down office building. Sherlock didn't choose the building because it was comfortable; it was a far cry from his luxurious accommodations at Baker Street, but rather, he chose it for the view. The building was much taller than the others surrounding it and afforded him a very clear view of the one place in the city he yearned to see most. 221B Baker Street. John rarely left the flat anymore, usually only for groceries or to visit the Yard. But it was still worth it. To be able to see him.

Mycroft didn't understand. It wasn't that he didn't want to return, it was that he just couldn't. He couldn't put John in danger again. The second everyone realized he wasn't dead, the assassins would be back. And this time, no fake suicide would fool them. Moriarty might be gone but his legacy remained.

However, Sherlock decided that it was time to risk a hint. Not a full-blown Oh I'm back from the dead appearance but maybe just a little something for John.

March 25th

Sherlock felt strange without his coat and scarf. But of course, he would have been recognized instantly if he was wearing them. It was yet another thing he missed about his life at Baker Street.

He knew that John would come to pick up his newspaper, as he did once a week.