Chapter 1: John's Letters
Dear Sherlock,
To be quite honest I don't see the point in writing these, but my psychologist insists. I don't know where to start... Sherlock. I miss you so much right now it hurts. I don't know what to do or say, or think. No one will leave me alone. They probably think I'm going to kill myself, which I have to say I have thought of. But then I remembered how everyone felt when you did. I miss you, so, so much. No one understands how much I miss you because they never knew how I really felt about you. It's been one month since it happened, and I am not holding up well. I try my best to stay strong but it's hard. I just don't understand how you could do something like this to me, after all we went through together, how you'd always put up a fight no matter what. To just give up like this, stop trying… It just wasn't like you, and I didn't believe it. I can't write anymore just now, it's too soon. I'll try and write later. I promise.
John.
Sherlock,
I know I haven't written a while, but I just couldn't get myself to do it. It's now been six months since your death and I still smell you when I walk into 221b. I still think that one day you'll be sitting in your armchair, playing your violin… But you never are. Ever. For the first few months I actually thought you could come back, that this was all a stunt, that you weren't really dead and this was all a joke. But now I'm starting to believe that you're actually gone and it makes it hurt even more. I miss you so much, and I never got the chance to thank you for what you did for me. I was so alone for such a long time, and I can't even imagine what would have happened if you'd never shown up. You changed my life Sherlock, and I can't begin to thank you enough. I don't understand how you could have left me like this, but I'm sure one day I'll find someone as amazing as you, who will make me feel the way you made me feel. I don't mean that I'll forget you, because trust me, I never, ever will. You are the most amazing person I have ever met, and I wish I could tell you everything I've ever thought about you. But I can't. And I will regret that for however long I live.
John.
Dear Sherlock,
It's the one year anniversary today and I've been taking it better than I thought. There's one thing that's bugging me the most though, the fact that no one remembers what happened. They all still think you're a fake. A fraud. No one knows the truth, and even I haven't told anyone what actually happened. Lestrade still thinks you're a fake, but he was very upset. Mrs Hudson was thinking about selling the house on Baker Street because she thought no one would live where the man committed suicide. Why did you have to leave? We could have fought this battle, together. Moriarty couldn't rule the world forever, we'd have risen above him one day. If only you'd have let me explain when you were up on the rooftop. I'm sorry, I'm grateful, I miss you.
John.
Sherlock,
I haven't written in a year and I'm sorry. And I don't know why I'm even apologising, you don't read these. You can't hear me. There's no God. If he was real he'd have never taken the most important person out of my life. "God takes the best ones first." No, please everyone stop saying that. It's been two years and people still, if they remember you, ask me if I knew you were a fake. And it makes me sick. You weren't a fake, I know you weren't. Even Mrs Hudson and Lestrade are starting to believe it. Believe the outright lies. If only you could come back and explain to them. Explain to me.
It has been 2 years since your suicide.
People tell me to move on. But I am never moving on. Ever.
John.
Sherlock,
This is the time where if you were here, we would ask you about this case. It is a Sherlock case, and we all know it. Oh yeah, I've got news. I took a course and I'm now working with Lestrade and the other Detectives. Donovan as well sadly. She still makes disgusting remarks about you. Even now you're… Anyway, what I'm trying to say is I'm almost happy. I don't know if I'll ever be completely happy again, but I'm getting there. Slowly. I still live in 221b, and I'm trying to find a new roommate. They'll never be you, but they'll pay the rent, and they might distract me. I've kept almost all your things, even your phone, armchair, violin, etc. They meant so much to you, and therefore they now mean so much to me. 3 year anniversary, so I'm going out to dinner to celebrate your life, your wonderful but cut short life.
John.