If I had told you the thoughts I had in the night about you, what would you have said? I wasted so much time, Sherlock. We wasted so much time.

I have kissed you a thousand times in my head, even when you were alive. Did you know that? Did you deduce it and then decide not to do a damn thing about it? You goddamn bastard. It's half my fault, I know that. But how could you see that in me and not do a damn thing about it? If you did even know. I don't know.

I can't date anymore. Can't bring girls back to the flat. I sleep in your bed now. I know that sounds crazy, but it's another way of making sure that I don't lose you. The thought of bringing a girl home and taking her into your bed makes me sick. Sure, I could use mine. But the last memory I have in my room is sitting on my bed holding a gun under my chin. I refuse to go back in there.

I miss you. I miss you so goddamn much it hurts. It stillhurts, Sherlock. I was hoping the pain would go away soon. But there is an aching in my chest that seems persistent on staying.

If you were here, I would take every opportunity I had to kiss you, to let you know just how much I loved you. I'm an idiot. You were right all this time. What kind of person would let the most amazing man he has ever met slip through his fingers. Anidiot would.

It's not that I enjoy being self-deprecating. I don't hate myself. I just hate the time I let myself waste. It's not a for sure thing, but I like the thought that if I had let you know how I feel, you would still be here. Like isn't the right word. The thought makes me yearn for time lost.

My therapist might say that the thoughts I have now are distorted. That realizing my feelings for you are just another form of how I'm grieving. It's not and she's an idiot. These feelings and thoughts started long before I watched you fall.

Every day without you, I can feel my soul becoming a darker shade of black. I'm so mad at the world, Sherlock; As if it's everyone else's fault that you're not here anymore. I don't know whose fault it is anymore. I've stopped trying to place the blame, but you can see how effective that's been. I put the blame on the world, instead.

I bet Mycroft has found a way to hack into my computer to read these. Probably still has the flat bugged too. I've contemplated moving out, but what's the point. I can't leave. I'm not sure your voice would follow me if I left.

Fuck off, Mycroft.

I don't even know why I'm writing this anymore. It doesn't make me feel better. Lately, I have a hard time feeling anything. It reminds me of you. I called you a machine, Sherlock. I didn't mean it. I hate that I said that to you. It isn't true. Of course you made it very hard for people to not to think that. You were very good at putting on the cold unfeeling mask. So good, that I think that's what made you start to believe that about yourself. You were wrong. I saw past it. And what I saw when your mask was down...Well. Never mind.

I hate that I will never be able to tell you that I didn't mean it. I hate myself for it.

I can't do this anymore, Sherlock. I can't wait for some miracle to happen. I dream of you walking through the door telling me it was all a trick. Then I would kiss you, well, after I had punched you. It's not going to happen. I have to be sane enough to know that.

I'm moving on.

A/N Thank you so much for you comments, favorites and follows on this story. I hope you enjoyed it and please let me know what you thought!