John placed the small stack of paper in a disused shoebox. Now and then a new letter would be added to the ever growing pile. What would become of them, he did not know. He did not care. Letters to a dead man had no true purpose.

February 11th

Dear Sherlock,

My therapist has suggested I write to you, even though writing is what got us into this whole mess. If I had never written my blog then perhaps none of this would ever had happened. But I guess that's one of the things we will never know. To be quite honest I have no idea why I am writing to you. You yourself would probably think it's a ridiculous idea, writing to a man who's dead, who can never reply. But then, I speak to your grave, which is the same idea I suppose. You can't answer me back, but it makes me feel just a little better. But not really.

I have questions. Why, is really the biggest one. Why did you jump? Why did you try and convince me to believe a lie? Why did you leave me? Why didn't you let me help you? Because I would have, you know, helped you anyway I could. I find it so hard to believe that you killed yourself. If I had not seen it with my own two eyes I would refuse to believe it.

You told me to stay and I should have moved anyway. When you jumped, it was all my nightmares come to life. Except never had I thought you would kill yourself. I thought we would spend years together as friends. Solving mysteries, helping clients, going on adventures. Instead all I got was almost eighteen months.

And in that time you took something from me. You took my limp, you took my nightmares of war, bit by bit. But most of all you took my part of my heart. I don't remember even giving it to you. You tore out my heart, Sherlock. You had no right. No fucking right. And now it's gone. It's buried six feet under with the greatest man I ever knew and I will never get it back.

Thats all I can write at the moment. This bloody paper is covered in tear stains anyway. I hate you. I fucking hate you. You fucking bastard.

John.

March 8th

Dear Idiot,

Bastard, git, sod, arse, bloody idiot.

I hate you. I hate your face. I hate your coat. I hate your hat. I hate your skull. I hate your scarf. I hate your fucking flat.

I hate you.

John.

March13th

Dear Sherlock,

I keep having nightmares about your death. They won't go away. Can't you do something? Please? Just come back Sherlock. Just for me, just stop this. Please, I miss you so much. Just come back. I'll do anything. I'll never complain about your habits again. I'll praise you. I'll help with your experiments. I'll never bother you about the milk again. Please. Don't be dead. Just come back.

I miss you.

John.

March 31st

Dear Sherlock,

I can't stand your flat. I just can't. Too many god-damn memories. Every time I venture inside, the memory of you hits me in the face. I can't look at your flat without crying. Yes, your. It's not mine anymore. You are in every inch of its walls.

I look at the couch and I see you sulking in it in your silk dressing gown. I look at the kitchen table and see you perched over a new experiment. I see the desk and you are on your laptop typing up some new analysis on perfumes or footprints or something utterly ridiculous. I see your chair...

Your fucking chair. When I sit in my own, all I see is you in the other. But it's so empty. How can one piece of furniture make me cry so much, Sherlock? How can I burst into tears after looking at an empty armchair? Or a lone skull? A cluedo board? A smily face, sprayed onto the wall?

How, Sherlock?

How?

How could you do this to me? To Mrs Hudson? To Lestrade? Yes he cares. He hates himself. I hate myself. Well done. I hope you're happy.

Keep your bloody flat. I'm moving out. Far away.

John.

April 15th.

Dear Sherlock,

...Fuck this. Fuck you.

John.

May, who fucking cares about the date.

Dear Sherlock,

I met this girl. She's beautiful, smart, funny, adventures. I love her to pieces. But I'm scared. I'm scared of trusting what's left of my heart with her. I'm scared of ruining things. I'm scared that if I fall madly in love with her, that I will forget you. I don't want to forget you, Sherlock. But I am so scared I will.

Me, the solider. My heart is so fragile because of you. What if I can't make things work between her and I? What if Im never meant to fall in love? What if it's just useless me trying? But I love her. So I will try. Because I need someone. I'm so bloody lonely. And it's all your fault. Even now, five months on. I still blame you. But I will always blame myself so much more.

The nightmares won't end, the dreams won't cease.

And I keep on writing to a corpse.

John.

May

Dear Sherlock,

You'll never guess who I found in my living room today. Or maybe you would guess. What am I saying? Of course you would know. Anyway, it was Irene Adler. She was supposed to be dead but it turns out, surprise, surprise, that you saved her life. How could you not tell me? How could you not trust me with that information? Or did it just slip your mind...again. You never fucking tell me anything.

She was her normal self of course. Flirting with me, flirting with Mary. She didn't know. Thought you were still alive, faking your death. God, I wish you were. She all but insinuated that I was thick, that I was stupid for believing you were dead. But like I told her, she didn't hear your last words, see your last moments, see you jump. She didn't watch you fall, she didn't see her best friends life spread out across the pavement, she didn't hold the lifeless hand of the closest friend in her whole world.

You're dead, Sherlock. She didn't want to believe it. But its the truth. She must have really liked you, the look on her face when she finally listened to me. I felt a little happy to be honest. Finally I was the one with all the answers. She left pretty quickly, I could tell she was upset.

Why is she allowed to come back? Why aren't you? You should be the one to come back to life. Not her. It's not fair. Not fucking fair.

There's...been something I meant to ask you, even though you can't answer. My therapist thinks I should go back to writing my sodding blog. So I wondered if I should write up some old cases, would that be ok with you? Of course, you wouldn't care. I may even, one day, write up that fateful day. Just so everyone gets the whole story.

John.

P.S. I still miss you every day.