It's getting easier, Sherlock. I don't want it to, but it is.

I can still feel the pain, very real and very much still there. But it's getting easier to bear.

It's a part of me now, like a scar in my soul, that will never fully heal. But the wound's began to close.

It's been months. Months, Sherlock. Every night, I went to sleep hoping, and praying and believing that maybe, just maybe—the next day I would wake up and it would have been a dream. All this, just a nightmare. Something my messed up subconscious made up for God knows what reason, and I'd be up and hear you pacing up and down in the living room, or playing the violin, taking those thumbs out of the freeze, or just talking to me without realizing I wasn't there.

God, I loved coming home to that. I never realized how much I loved coming home to that. Coming home to you. You, you stupid genius. I can't put into words how much I've missed your snappy remarks and sarcastic comments and sheer brilliance.

And even though it's not as hard as it was in the start, you're still here with me. I was afraid you'd slip away from me, be gone from my memory and die again. I was terrified I'd forget you, Sherlock.

But, I can see now that…moving on doesn't mean erasing the past.

I wouldn't even if I could.

One more day with you would be worth another lifetime of this pain, and I swear it Sherlock, I do, that if that choice were mine to make, I'd do it in a heartbeat.

But it isn't. You're gone, and I have to find a way to keep existing. I have to find a way to remember you without clinging on to the past, no matter how much I wish it was my present.

And I will, Sherlock. I promise you, I will.