Dear Sherlock,
Are you in heaven? I was thinking about this and I had to write it down. Cause when you were alive you did things that would've gotten you sent to hell straightaway, but you also saved lives. You stopped demons.
I don't know if I believe in the afterlife, but I definitely believe that there are demons in the world. Maybe not people, but their actions. And of course, there are angels, not people but their incredible ability to love. You weren't an angel. But you were far from demonic.
You would've said it's all bullshit, but I think it makes sense. There's something supernatural about kindness and greed. I have to believe in something when I don't have you to love.
And yeah, I loved you. I'm not sure if I loved you romantically or not. I'll never know now, but it's worth speculating. You were my sun, though. Everyone else was just a planet or an asteroid, but you...you were the light of my life. There's no point in hiding that now that you're gone.
You were handsome, too. Everyone talked about your cheekbones behind your back. You could've gotten any girl if you put on a facade, but you never did. I don't know why. Your feelings were locked away in your mind palace, somewhere only you had access to. It frustrated the hell out of me that I could never read you. I wear my heart on my sleeve, usually. But sometimes it seemed like you didn't have a heart.
Talking about you in past tense feels weird. You should be looking over my shoulder while I type, or putting heads in the microwave just to see what happens. But you're buried in the cemetery. Or hidden somewhere I'll never find you. I cant bear to wonder where.
I'm not feeling too suicidal at the moment. Dying would be so selfish to the people who knew both of us. I like to think my death would be tragedy to someone. And seeing how I'm nicer to most people than you ever were, and we're broken about you, it probably would be.
Does thinking about your own death mean you're suicidal? I don't think so. It's got me thinking about your death. There wasn't a funeral, not in the traditional sense. Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and Molly came to 221B and we had dinner and just kind of talked about this. What we would do with your stuff. We all decided it would be better to pack some stuff up but leave most of it out. It felt wrong to move the dusty skull and your maps.
I'm thinking I'll move out soon. I hate living with ghosts.
John H. Watson