So, I finally got round to starting one of many Sherlock fanfictions that has been rattling around in my head for weeks; that being said, I have started this and ignored my coursework this holiday, so...better start on that...

I'll aim to update this fic as regularly as possible, but I'm not completely sure as to whether I want it to stay in just letter form; I've also got to decide if it's going to be all angsty or if I want to make it a re-union fic...What do you think? :D

Letters: Chapter 1

Dear Sherlock,

I don't know why I'm writing to you. Well, that's a lie. Ella told me it'd be a good idea – you know Ella, my therapist? You managed to deduce her existence when we'd only known each other 5 minutes... I went to see her again today, and she asked me how I was. I told her that I wasn't doing well. At all. She asked me to talk to her...but talk to you, tell you the things I wanted to tell you when you were alive; I told her that I couldn't. So she suggested letters, and...here I am. Writing a letter to my best friend. Deceased best friend.

Because that's what you were Sherlock. My best friend. I don't know how you saw me, but I'm pretty sure that you cared somewhat about me, and I certainly cared about you. And no matter how much anyone – the press, the public, even you, tell me that you were a fraud, and a liar, I won't believe them; I won't believe you. Because I knew you. You might not think that I did, but living and working with you, well, I picked up a few things. You were the best man, the most human...human being that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, and so...there. You were brilliant, intelligent...you were a genius; an unsung hero in your own right. You deserved all the fame and followers that you got, because you were a genuine genius.

Speaking of fame, and followers, even though you got bad press, there are still so many of them, of us, that believe in you. The 'Sherlockians', as they dubbed themselves. (I might believe in you, but I refuse to call myself a 'Sherlockian'. I'm John Watson, I always will be. Doctor John Watson, colleague, friend...and supposed 'lover' of Sherlock Holmes. Yeah, they didn't let that one go...at least they don't know anything about you ripping my clothes off at a darkened swimming pool...Or us running through the streets handcuffed, holding hands, for that matter...)

I don't know what else to say Sherlock. I've tried to stay on a more jolly path whilst writing this, but, the truth is...I'm not okay. I miss you so, so much. I just wish that when I sit around the flat, having a nap or watching tele, you'd burst in (loudly, as you did), or play that violin of yours.

I haven't cleared your stuff out of the flat – I probably never will. Mrs Hudson doesn't mind the mess anymore, and I never did; we've left most of your things in the places that you left them (except the head in the fridge. It finally went manky, and we had to throw it out. Sorry.)

Sherlock...there's just one more thing; one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be ... dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this…Come back, please. I'll leave the door on the latch...if you ever come back. There'll be a light in the hall and a key under the mat...if you ever come back. There'll be a smile on my face and the kettle on, and it'll be just like you were never gone.

There'll be a light in the hall and a key under the mat. If you ever come back.

Yours,

John.