Author's Note: I know that there are many stories out there exploring how John and Sherlock feel after The Reichenbach Fall, and this is what I personally came up with after trying to imagine myself in their situation.

Sherlock,

My therapist told me that I should continue with my blog to help me adjust. I don't want to adjust. I don't want to get used to a life where you're not there. But that's another story; it can wait until a little later. You told me once to 'stop inflicting my opinions on the world'. Well, you're not in the world now, Sherlock, and so I'll 'inflict' them on you.

What I have to say now is just between us; it isn't for anybody else's ears. Well, I suppose that Mycroft's surveillance cameras - the ones that I know are still in the flat, despite his assurances that they would be removed - might be able to zoom in close enough to see what I'm writing, but still, they're not ears. If I have to write this down, then I'll oblige, but I see no reason to spill my heart out to the world on my blog. I don't want anybody else to see what I have to say to you, not even Molly or Mike, and especially not Harry, because it's between you and me. Sherlock and John. The way it was when all was well with the world. Well, my world, the one involving London and jumpers and body parts in the fridge.

You, Sherlock, are a git. If I only had one word in which to sum you up, 'git' would be it. You use people for your own advantage. You're rude. You shoot holes in the wall at all hours 'because you're bored'. You're incredibly messy. Your mannerisms are extremely self-righteous. You have a brother that can kidnap me at will. Your enemies attack me in order to get to you. You ruin my relationships. You're manipulative. You use me in your experiments without my consent. You're unbelievably selfish and unappreciative of nearly everything that I do for you. You even leave decomposing human remains in a food preparation area. I don't think words can articulately describe how much of a 'git' you really are.

What annoys me the most, though, is how I don't care about any of it. I don't care that you use people, because I've come to realise that you don't do it for fun, despite what Anderson and Donovan believe. You do it for a reason, to help matters, even if nobody realises it at the time. I don't care that you're rude, and have no concept of acceptable noise limits at various times of the day. I don't care that you're messy and that it honestly is like living with a sulky child some days. I don't even care that I've grown use to being abducted by various parties, whether it be your brother or one of your psychopathic enemies, which is something that nobody should ever have to get used to. I would gladly put up with the manipulation, the selfishness, the mood swings, and everything else if it would only mean that you'd come back to me. You'd stop being dead, and so would I. Because that's how I feel right now, Sherlock. Dead. I don't feel anything, apart from the numbness and the cold.

I've said it before, but I'll say it again. Don't be dead, Sherlock. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it.

Stop this.

John.