Day 482
Sherlock —
The days go by, taking me with them, though oftentimes kicking and screaming. Although I sometimes find it hard to get out of bed in the morning, I force myself, if for no other reason than I'm a soldier and a survivor. Though how I'm expected to move past your death remains a mystery to me.
Since my release, I've started visiting your grave again, every day. During my 'stay' with him, Mycroft wouldn't let me go, even with an escort. He seemed to think that I might try to off myself again. I'm honestly not sure whether I would have or not. I look in the mirror and I don't recognize myself anymore. I've told you before that my limp returned, so my old cane is now my constant companion. My hand trembles; I don't sleep well at night anymore – I'm afraid to close my eyes for fear of seeing you fall again – so my face has taken on a haggard appearance; I only eat when forced to, so I've lost a considerable amount of weight. I just can't seem to find the energy to care anymore.
I'll live, Sherlock. Mycroft made me promise. But I don't have to like it.
I love you,
John