Dear John,
I expect you are angry with me. I expect this letter will make you angrier, although it shouldn't-by now I hope you know that very little of what I do is thoughtless, and that I would never abandon my work without a great deal of consideration. If it makes you any more angry to be faced with the reality that my actions were premeditated, set these feelings aside long enough to read what follows. I will keep it brief. Please do not look for rationalization here, as I assure you such a pursuit would be a waste of time and energy. I only have a few things to say.
Here is what you must know:
On the top of the refrigerator there is a set of phials containing varying amounts of fluid. Do not pour their contents down the drain. Doing so would result in a lengthy visit from the plumber, and you do not deal well with plumbers. Sop it up with a paper towel instead, and wash your hands thoroughly when you are done. You might as well throw away the phials, too.
Likewise, if you find any lingering strips of upper arm flesh in the freezer, don't try to bury or cremate them, as you will do nothing but make yourself suspicious. Give them to Molly. She knows the routine. Don't ask too much of Molly, however. Recently she has had some personal issues, and has rather a lot on her plate. If you need to pay her a house call, phone ahead, or, better yet, find someone else with whom to speak. I would recommend Lestrade as an excellent ally if you ever find yourself having a particularly difficult day. He excels at keeping an eye on those who would otherwise be drowning, and is well practiced at refusing self destructive requests.
Don't find a new therapist, if you still feel that you need one. Established trust is more essential than actual understanding, sometimes.
Do not be sentimental with my possessions. It would be entirely like you to hoard them, but also entirely unnecessary and unattractive. Most of the equipment is in good condition, and much use can be gotten out of it yet. I suggest you sell it to a local college. Do not under any circumstances donate anything-being financially short doesn't suit you.
Beneath the books in the bottom drawer of my bedside table there is a small brown notebook. Don't bother with its contents (you will find them irrelevant and most likely incomprehensible). Written on the inside of the back cover is a phone number. This number belongs to a man named Victor Trevor. If you find yourself in need of assistance in regards to securing work in the future, he will be able to help, although you may need to press him. If, however, he contacts you and offers any of my old things, refuse him. You don't need any more clutter, no matter how tempting.
Ask for help if you need it. It isn't weakness.
That small blonde woman who lunches in the cafe each Sunday fancies you. Don't ignore this point-you know it is not my subject of choice, and I wouldn't bring it up if it wasn't essential. She is a private tutor for a wealthy family, and it has been a few years since she's had a serious relationship. She's lonely but not desperate, and has been waiting for someone kind to capture her interest. I'm not pointing this out in an attempt to be flip-but you are a person who needs other people, John. You need someone who is warm and who is close. I am sorry that warmth and closeness were never things I could easily provide, but don't be afraid to go looking for them elsewhere. Remembrance is all very well, but nostalgia is an excuse to hide from the world, and you are at your best when you are confronting the world head on.
In the next couple of days you will find a small, square package by the letter box. Do not open it. This is crucial. Inside the package is my full confession, expounding on how I strung you along and how my actions resulted in the death of Richard Brook. Whether or not you believe the details of this confession is irrelevant-if you are ever brought into court under suspicion of conspiracy of fraud or manslaughter, this manuscript will bear my explanation and my signature, ensuring that you are not held to blame. As long as you keep it sealed, there will be no reason for anyone to doubt that I penned it myself.
I hope that you read this letter, rather than tossing it aside when you saw my name. I hope that you are angry with me, even though I said that you shouldn't be. Anger is good. There's fuel in fury. There is no fuel in reliving trauma, and there is no fuel in succumbing to darkness. I'm carrying fury myself, to my death and beyond-it is the only insurance I have that I will be able to complete what is set before me.
I hope nothing but the best for you, John.
Yours,
Sherlock
PS - I'm sorry.