I appreciate all the support for this fic, and I will try to update more frequently. This chapter is a bit short, the next one will be longer! I would love some reviews, good or bad!

Sherlock sighs to himself momentarily, feeling rather silly and maudlin, and wondered halfheartedly if he would regret this in the morning. After concluding that he most likely will, he begins typing anyway.

Dear John,

Although I am completely aware of the fact that you are dead, and addressing this letter to you is absolute nonsense, I will do it anyway. It's what my therapist recommended. Can you believe that? I'm seeing a therapist. I bet you would laugh at the irony of the situation. And then I would laugh too, because yours always had a way of making me happy. Look what you've done, John. You've made me a sentimental idiot who talks to a dead man. And no, the skull doesn't count. That's different. The skull never talks back. You did. And I can't stop hearing your voice amongst the silence of the flat, and seeing your face when I close my eyes. Do you know how miraculous it is that you stayed as long as you did? How bloody astounded I was when I woke up every morning with you still here, in the flat with me? Every day you surprised me, John, just by being you. You saw me for what I am, yet you chose to waste your precious time here with me, when you could have been living your life, settling down like you always wanted. And now you will never have that opportunity. And I can't help from feeling as if it is my fault. Surely I didn't drive you to jump off that building, did I? I know what I am, what people tell me I am. A freak, an antisocial arse, a self-superior machine incapable of maintaining any kind of relationship. But if it was too much for you to take, you would have left. Left the flat, left the city, but you would not have left this life. No. So then I blame myself for being all those things, and therefore failing to recognize that you needed help. Could I have helped you? I don't know. I don't know much of anything anymore. This uncertainty and constant confusion is really quite infuriating. I'm used to knowing all the answers, to being 3 steps ahead of everyone else, to being told I'm brilliant by the one person who's opinion I actually cared about. Now I feel lost. And alone. And utterly purposeless. You had no idea what your death would do to me, did you John? If you had, you wouldn't have jumped. You were the most selfless, brilliantly compassionate person I have ever met. And yet you just crushed any aspiration to happiness that I might have had. I Hate it. You would be so ashamed of me, if you could see me now. I wish that I could say that I hate you for what you've done to me. But I could never say that, because your death, more than anything, has made me realize just how much I love you. I was going to tell you, you know. I know that you would never have felt the same way, but I thought you deserved to know. And now you never will. I was such a coward. All those times when I had the urge to run my fingers through your hair, or hold you close to me, or kiss you after a case, I should have done it. I should have told you ever god damn day what a magnificent human being you were, and how much I would have given to be by your side, for however long you would have me. I could have spent a lifetime loving you, and been the happiest man alive. All of those times people mistook us for a couple, I was inwardly glowing with pride at the prospect of anyone seeing us together. Of them thinking that I, Sherlock Holmes, belonged to John Hamish Watson. I never thought that I would want to belong to someone. But I did. Since the moment you walked into the lab at St. Barts, I knew you were different. I could see it in the way your eyes glinted when I deduced, by the way your face lit up when I led you into danger, and the way you put up with all of my idiosyncrasies without a second thought. I never appreciated you for the miracle you were. You were my oxygen and my heartbeat. And now you are gone, and I will have to live the rest of my life, however short that may be, knowing that I let you go. I know, without a doubt, that you are the only person I will ever love. And that's okay, because I would like to die with the unfaltering knowledge that the love of my life will be waiting for me.

Thank you, John. For everything.

-SH

Sherlock closed his eyes and drew in a shaky breath, attempting to control the sobs now wracking his body. This was a horrible idea. This is what he gets for listening to that idiot of a therapist. It took the writing of this letter to really come to terms with his next course of action though, so maybe there was some point to this after all. After steadying his breathing and forcing the tremors to stop coursing through his hands, he presses the "post" button, and watches the screen change to show the new addition to the blog. He laughed humorlessly at the ridiculousness of writing a letter on a blog that no longer has any viewers, and which is addressed to a man no longer in any position to read it. Shutting the lid of the laptop with a "thud" of finality, Sherlock grips the edge of the table and drags himself into the standing position. He regains his balance after a moment of hazy swaying, noting that malnutrition had rendered him unfit for the expulsion of energy beyond a few steps across the flat now and then. Using every last ounce of willpower he has left, Sherlock stumbles into the bathroom and crashes gracelessly onto the white tile flooring.

"That's a shame. White tiles might stain." Sherlock says groggily, to no one in particular.

Sprawled unceremoniously on the floor, he begins groping the underside of the cabinet, searching for the small stash of razor blades he knows are still there. "For science", he remembers rationalizing to himself as he placed them there a few months ago. When he located the blade taped to the cheap wood, he pulls it down and glares at it, as if it had personally offended him. In reality, this tiny piece of metal is his release. The way to end his suffering for good, and give him a chance to escape this void of grief and anger. Nobody could blame him, how could they? Sherlock gives a whole new meaning to the term "has nothing left." Sherlock has nothing. He didn't have much to begin with, and now that the two things he held dear are gone, with no hope of recovery, existence seems beyond pointless. He is just taking up space. His deductive genius, and his John. The only two things that every meant anything to him. And they are both gone. So shouldn't he follow them? It seems only fair. So as he brings the razor blade down to his pale flesh, he feels no regret. No pain. No sadness. Just a dull anticipation of what is to come. Will he see John again? Will it truly be that cliché? He can't say he would complain, but he hoped it wouldn't be quite as boring as the pearly gates he had grown up hearing about. The searing pain he had expected to feel when the blade tore through his flesh never came. Just a muted sting, and a feeling as if his very essence was being spilled onto the floor. Or is it? Oh would you look at that, it really is. The blood now pooling beneath Sherlock's lanky frame reminds him sickeningly of the way John had been morbidly haloed by his own blood on the sidewalk. This thought in mind, Sherlock surges forward from his lax state against the wall and lowers his body into position, his dark curls saturating with the thick proof of a still beating heart. Still beating? Sherlock switched the blade to his left hand, and repeats the process on his right forarm, attempting to remedy that situation as quickly as possible.

Sherlock sighs lightly as his vision begins to blur, hazy shapes forming in his peripheral vision. If he knew it would be this easy, he would have done this months ago! Just as his slowly contracting vision dims, and his foggy mind begins to shut down completely, he could have sworn he heard his name being shouted. And isn't that a beautiful voice…