December 25, 1892
Holmes,
Writing to you has become the one constant in my life. It feels morbid that writing to my deceased friend is what keeps me from pulling the trigger on my own. I have not yet taken up the pen to write to Mary, and I feel that that is something I may not ever be able to do.
The child died two days ago.
She could not stand the strain of losing her mother, and so went to dwell with her. Or so I tell myself. In truth, it was probably I who killed her; carrying home the sickness and diseases of my practice in attempt to make a better living.
It is Christmas Day and London has been filled with the sounds of church bells and well wishers despite the bitter cold. Mrs. Hudson visited with a hamper of food and warm woolen mittens she made herself as a gift. I'm afraid my reception was rather gaunt eyed and empty as I have felt nothing but loneliness and isolation since Mary's death.
My anger towards God has given way to a never ending plea that He end my life and let me die that I may once again be reunited with those I love. I see no point in living if all I cherish has been taken from me. The joy of the season stares back at me in mocking irony.
I have become the iconic Scrooge in Mr. Dickens' metaphoric novel.
On the topic of the allegorical; hell is not the fiery pit we have all been warned of. It is a freezing, empty place where emotion is untouchable and hearts are frozen black in the ice of self loathing.
You would be so ashamed to see me. I am ashamed. I fear if something does not happen soon, I will be dragged down to the dark abyss of mental depression and never rise again.
Where is my Christmas miracle? Was not the Christ child born to comfort those in need of comfort and mourn with those who mourn? Did I reject the love of God when I cursed Him in my misery? The foolishness of mortality; we turn on backs on He who we need most when we ought to be on our knees in constant supplication.
I do not know if you recall me asking you to mediate between me and the Almighty, but dear fellow, I am at my lowest point and have nowhere else to turn.
Praying for guidance,
Watson