Dear Sherlock,

I'm no good at writing letters. I only know the basics and I'm not even sure I'm doing that right. You would probably be raising an eyebrow or fussing over me to do it right if you were here. I miss times like that. The little things that make you, the great Sherlock Holmes, my best friend. Made you. Oh, this is killing me. I can't even write about my feelings. Stupid therapist.

Dear Sherlock,

I suppose writing is better than that video blog thing I tried to do (and failed) and it's not like your ever going to read these, so what the hell! It isn't at all like my blog and no one is going to comment on it. It's quite like a diary, yes, that's it. My secrets written down on paper, for my eyes only.

Well, I spend most of my days - God, what am I saying?- I spend everyday, every spare minute I have, at your graveside. I talk to you about what I'm supposed to write in these but talking was better. Not like in the video blog, but because I can believe, no one will tell me or can prove to me that you cannot hear me. I don't know what's on the other side, and for your sake I hope it isn't boring, but I hope you're there somewhere watching me, watching how much god damn pain you are putting me through down here you selfish imbecile.

Dear Sherlock,

My Sherlock. I'm sorry, I suppose my anger got the better of me. I can't do this. Not yet.

John