Just a small author's note before things get started. This will be written letter style and the dates and to who they are addressed will always be in the top corner. I tried to get things as close to the canon as possible, but I'm not sure everything is correct. This is my first attempt at angst, so hopefully it won't be too melodramatic or worse yet, not even touching. That would be pathetically sad.

May 21, 1891.

My dear Holmes,

I feel rather foolish in writing out this letter to you as it is one you shall never read. But the idea of writing you letters as if you were still alive to receive them helps brighten the grief that shrouds so thickly around my soul.

It was Mary's idea originally as she knows how much I love to write. These letters will become a sort of journal like the one I kept after my service in the military. Bless her for caring so much about me. She helps more than she knows. But I worry, Holmes, about the strain I've put on her. I arrived home from the continent a broken man. I hate to think of that day. The train ride home brought back all the old ghosts I long thought I had forgotten. Loneliness, fear, nightmares. It all came rushing back in a flood that was impossible to stop.

The Journal De Geneve and the Reuter's Dispatch gave small accounts of your death. Little, unemotional scripts that barely scratch the surface of the grief your death has caused. The funeral was larger than you would have expected. Your brother Mycroft came along with all the Inspectors of Scotland Yard. Inspector Lestrade is a brave man, and while I've never seen him cry, I thought I heard his voice catch as he rose to say his few words of respect.

Mrs. Hudson has decided not to let out our old rooms as she says you and I were the finest tenants she ever had and she wants to keep the memories she has of you alive. The dear woman is heartbroken, but she still has the courage to smile brightly through the pain. She brought over some of her pastries last night, but I felt unable to face her and left Mary to visit with her in the parlor while I hid upstairs.

Your Baker Street Irregulars were some of the last to know of your death and they all came sniveling on my doorstep with words of condolences. Their faces were dirtier than normal with all the tears they'd mixed in with the grime of London and it took Mary's motherly touch to calm them all down before sending them off with a hug and scone each.

While the idea of dying is something I have difficulty accepting, the thought of your enthusiasm during our final days together does something to soothe my troubled conscience. If only I hadn't gone back to the lodge. If only you had told me your opinion on that letter being the trap that it was. But you seemed joyful in the hope of catching your "Napoleon of crime" and while he is imprisoned somewhere at the bottom of the falls, so are you. Your life seems too great a cost for such a small victory.

All of London seems so still. The crime life and adventurous alleys seem dull and commonplace without you charging up the cobblestones in pursuit of your latest find. I received word from some of your clients. The one that would most likely take your interest most was from Miss Irene Adler. She is divorced and living in America with a cousin who is an artist for a gallery in New York City. She expressed her deepest regrets and reminisced over being the only woman to outsmart you. Note, she wasn't boasting, it was more of a melancholy wish of how she would love to do it all again. I begin to see why you kept her picture on the mantle.

Summer is approaching. I can almost hear you pinning away about how the sunny weather makes one lazy. How no one likes to commit a crime when the weather is warm and the flowers are in bloom. You may have been right in this assumption as I have heard of no new murders or puzzles to solve. But then again, all of London seems unable to catch its breath and begin the cycle again after you left it.

I wish you luck on your journey to wherever it is you're headed. I am reminded of one of our late night discussions by the fire and this one was on the afterlife. You expressed no real conviction of a heaven, but I believe every good soul returns to their Maker and I hope you find rest in His arms.

This letter will now be tucked away somewhere in my desk drawer and perhaps I'll pull it out again to read or toss it into the fire. Maybe even more will follow suit. Whatever the case may be, I remain your faithful friend,

John Watson