Day 547
Sherlock —
I honestly don't know why I'm still writing in this stupid notebook. All these letters that you'll never read... it's like I'm holding on to hope, waiting for that one last miracle, for you to come striding into our flat as if nothing has changed and you've only been away on some case or other.
Who am I fooling? You're never coming back, and I should accept that and move on. That's what everyone tells me to do, you know: move on. They say it's been over a year, it's unhealthy to keep dwelling on the past; I should let you go and get on with my life. But what they don't understand is that you were my everything. While I may have only been an option to you – a passing fancy, maybe (I wasn't, was I?) – you were always my number one priority. You called and I came – it was as simple as that.
I know Moriarty said that I was your pet, among a lot of other nonsense, but I never saw myself that way. I was your friend, and that's what friends do: they go where they're needed.
Wait for me, Sherlock. We'll be together again, one day – I promise you.
Love,
John
