Dear Sherlock,
I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry. Please, Sherlock, please forgive me for what I have done. I couldn't take it anymore. I was so weak. Oh God, what have I done? I just need your forgiveness. Maybe then I can forgive myself.
You have no idea what I'm on about. But I can't say it. I am so ashamed of myself. I can imagine what your face would look like if you could see me now. You'd be so disappointed. And you'd say "John", like you did when I came out of that cubicle at the swimming pool so long ago.
Can you tell me the worst thing that a living person could do? Would it be to kill someone, or kill the ones they love? Would it be to rape, torture, cheat or murder? Or would it be something else?
Would you ever see me differently? Would you look at me with disgust or pity if I told you what I've done, and what I tried to do? Can I tell you everything and know that you wouldn't judge me? There's too many unanswerable questions in this letter, and I'm sorry for that, too.
Alright, Sherlock. Here it is.
I tried to kill myself. I cut my wrists, going up my arm, not across. I knew exactly how to do it, and I would have bled to death, had it not been for Nina. She found me within seconds. I don't know whether to thank her or damn her to Hell. I am so appalled at myself, appalled at the fact that I write this from the confines of a hospital bed with thick white bandages around my forearms and a drip in the crook of my elbow. They've put me on so many antidepressants that it's hard to feel sad. But I'm sad now. Sad that I've disappointed you.
I was just trying to find you again, Sherlock. Because that was the only way I thought this could go.
I am so sorry, Sherlock.
Your John.