Dear Sherlock,
This week's been very... Stationery for me, even though the hours at the hosptial aren't getting any quieter. I haven't left the flat except to go to work. I haven't even done my own food shopping; Mrs Hudson did it for me because she knows all about my constant arguments with the self-service checkouts, and she said "I don't want you to stress."
She said that, because, well, things have happened that I don't particularly want to think about, but I must tell you, as you are my best friend and it would be wrong of me to keep it from you, as you have the right to know. I can't hold this information back from you, even though it breaks my heart to say it and it hurts me to hurt you.
It's your mother, Sherlock. She passed away on Monday, painlessly. So it was peaceful. I'm so sorry. She wanted you to have all her money, apparently. Said that you needed it more than Mycroft. And she said that it could be used to pay for a wedding... Between us. I don't know where she got that idea from. But she did. And that's the only reason why I found out about any of this at all, because I was mentioned in her will. Her will being that we would marry.
Mycroft sent me a letter telling me everything. It's the only contact I've had with him since I confronted him about selling your personal information to Moriarty before you died. It's nice to know that he had the courtesy to get in touch at all.
He told me her last words. He was there when she died, holding her hand. She said: "You be happy. You and Sherlock, be happy." Like she didn't know you were dead, and could be no more happy than I could. I wish we could have had that wedding.
Love,
Your John.