Letters To Sherlock

by jessisnotdeadyet

These are the letters that John wrote to Sherlock during the time when he was 'dead'. He left the letters on his grave every week on a Wednesday, starting from one month after the Fall. Includes Johnlock, and these letters lead on to a fanfiction in story form rather than letters which I am currently working on. Mystrade included in such fanfiction. Rated M for later chapters.

49. 16 01 2013

Dear Sherlock,

A year ago yesterday, you died. Which made yesterday extremely difficult. Impossibly difficult. More difficult than I had ever imagined it might have been. I went back on the anti-depressants, seeing as I could hardly get out of bed in the morning. Mrs Hudson left me alone for most of the day, and I only really saw her when she brought up a Chinese when it was time for dinner. I didn't see Nina at all. I expect Mrs Hudson warned her away.

I just sat in my chair, only getting up for food or water. I'm not even sure if I ate regularly because the time seemed to drag on and I wasn't watching the clocks. I wasn't doing anything except trying to stop myself from breaking down and crying. All I could see when I closed my eyes was you on the rooftop, you falling through the air, you lying still on the pavement with blood streaking your face and your lifeless eyes. It was enough to drive me into some sort of insanity.

It felt like a knife was being twisted in my gut for the entirety of the day. Dear God, Sherlock, it's been so long. One year without... Well, anything, really. It's been torturous and so empty; I don't know what real, blissful happiness feels like anymore. Jesus, Sherlock. I can't bear this. I've turned into some kind of zombie, one that can't think properly, can't function. The dramas of life seem no more dramatic than a biscuit crumb on the floor. Everything is irrelevant. Unimportant.

I got to the point where I thought I couldn't survive anymore, and you know how that made me feel. Truth is, surviving isn't the same as living. I stopped living long before that point. I'm dead inside and I have been for a year and a day.

How long is it going to be, Sherlock? How long before all this ends? One year has already gone by. Will there be another? Another two, another three? Another fifty? Am I really counting down until my death just because I haven't the strength to decide when it will be and I don't see the point in this existence anymore? You're gone and I know that. I have to accept it even though it all seems so unrealistic and I'm in complete denial that I should never see your face again. All I'm left with is the ever-present image of your bloodied skull and your white lips.

One whole year, Sherlock Holmes. Jesus, I can't even tell you how much I miss you.

Love,

Your John.