Dear Sherlock,
I think Greg's given up on me. We're still staying in touch, but after my third unsuccessful case, he told me that he wouldn't bother me again, and that I was "No Sherlock Holmes." I knew that already, so I told him it was fine. But now I kind of miss it, as it was the only thing left that could even bring me close to the life I had with you.
Every day I get closer to realising exactly how you felt when you didn't have any work. The boredom is horrific. Sometimes I wish I could get back into the army, to serve again, just to get away from this hell that I am living. I don't like life anymore. It has very little appeal when you're not running for your life or chasing after a man who made every day an , no, Sherlock, I'm not going to kill myself, so don't worry about me. I wouldn't do that to the people who I would leave behind.
Sometimes I get flashbacks of you, and of us. And they hurt so much that I can't move for the next few minutes. I hear your voice and I see your face in my mind and it reminds me of how absolutely happy I was, and how much I loved being around you. I took you for granted sometimes, Sherlock, and sometimes I even resented you. But how could I ever, when I look back and see how amazing it was to be your friend.
I'm still angry. Still very angry, but mainly because you didn't even offer me any sort of truth. I knnow that you lied to me in that phonecall. And those lies were the last things that I ever heard you say. Why couldn't you at least tell me something with some validity to it? Why tell me lies, why try to convince me that you weren't the man I knew you to be? Why would you do that, Sherlock? Why would you do that to me?
"Goodbye, John." They were your very last words. And I will never ever forget them. I will carry them with me until the day I die, because you were, and are, my best friend. And I will never stop believing in you.
Your John.