Dear Sherlock,
I feel so sad right now. I want it to end. I've got painkillers in the cabinet. Sometimes I open a bottle up and take one, but it never helps with my heart. I just don't want to start an addiction. Mrs. Hudson would notice. I wish I could bottle up my sadness for when I need it. Right now I don't, but it's killing me anyway.
You weren't just a friend, you have to understand. You were the best person in my life. Everyone else could die and I would still have your hand to hold, in a metaphorical sense. You were there. You aren't anywhere now. I could scour the earth and I'd find nothing.
And then I think maybe I would. Maybe you never died. Maybe you're still alive somewhere. Sometimes Anderson tells me about his ridiculous theories and I smile. At least he is filled with hope. It replaces his guilt. But I have no guilt about this, and I have a fizzling drop of hope. It's like gold when you first touch it, but then you realize your hand went right through, and it fades away.
I'm crying, and I don't know why. I haven't cried yet, except for when you died. When I saw you there. It's like my tear ducts just shut down. My sadness was always too much to carry in salt water. Now, I guess, it's fizzed up enough inside me that something has to come out.
I just wander around the flat, mostly. Or I stare at the TV. News and crap telly seem so aimless to me right now. Why should I care about stupid stuff like that?
My therapist says I need something to distract me. You used to be what distracted me, but now I have nightmares almost every night and nothing to do. Mrs. Hudson's encouraging me to go work at a clinic or something. I'm shrinking. The hole is still growing. I wish it would swallow me up already.
John H. Watson