31 March

Went to see that therapist of John's today. Absolute bloody waste of time, God knows why he thought I ought to go. He hasn't seen her in years, far as I know. Said he didn't need that kind of thing with the mad life you two had, said he couldn't imagine better therapy than that. Didn't say what he does now instead, and I didn't ask.

She said the second year's worse than the first, and even worse for people who "lose someone under traumatic circumstances." Traumatic circumstances, she says. Bloody hell, Sherlock, your whole life was a "traumatic circumstance." That's why you were so damned good for us, for me and John. Like moths to a flame. Cold, sociopathic, ridiculous flame.

Told her I was nearly done with the second year, thanks, and I was doing just fine. Think she thought I was "resisting." Christ, everything she said belongs inside quotation marks. Bloody shrinks. Like she could open up my mind and look inside, right?

We both know there's only one person who could do that.

6 April

Two years since the pool and I'm still looking over my shoulder for – him. I know he's dead, I've seen the body. It's more than I had for you.

So why, Sherlock, am I still waiting for the punchline to his sadistic joke? Why am I still wondering what he's going to do next; why am I still sitting here, taut as a bloody bowstring, waiting for something to go up in flames around me?

Man like Moriarty wouldn't work alone, and there's no way the men we got were all he had, so where are the rest of them and what the hell are they planning, Sherlock?

Why's this so goddamn terrifying when I know, I know he's dead?

Why can't it be you I keep thinking I see when I know perfectly well that you're both

not here anymore.

Sometimes I do think I see you. Sometimes I think it's him. Two years dead and gone and I've still got some sort of fucked-up psychological hangup over you both.

How pathetic is that, Sherlock?

No wonder John sent me to that bloody trick cyclist of his.

4 May

Two years today.

Still doesn't feel like it.

Got plans for today. Not going to work is involved. And a very good bottle of whisky. Yeah, I know, falling off the wagon and all that bollocks, but you fell off a bloody mountain today, so I don't think you've got much to say about it.

I'm putting this away first, though. Learnt my lesson last time.

22 June

You know what today is, Sherlock? It's a weird one. Today, years ago, is the first time your brother ever kidnapped me. Strangest thing to remember, isn't it, except that it isn't, because he did it again today.

He asked me, "How are you doing without my brother, Inspector?" and I laughed – Mycroft isn't used to being laughed at, is he? – because shouldn't he have been asking that two years ago? What bloody good does it do now?

Said I was doing just fine, and I am. Case-closed record and all. I'd have thought he could find that out for himself, so I don't know why he pulled me off the street just to ask that.

I am fine, Sherlock. Twenty-seven MITs in Homicide Command and my one's still the best, even without you. Blades got promoted back to Championship this year, might see a turnaround under new management (as if you cared). See John every couple of days at work; sometimes we even go out for a pint afterward (when we're not there until bloody three o'clock in the morning, which – surprisingly – happens a hell of a lot less when you're not there with us).

See – fine.

Losing

bugger it, it's not like you don't already know

Losing the most important thing in my life hasn't destroyed me.

Much.

8 September

I hardly write to you anymore, do I?

I don't know what that means.

I don't need you any less.

I don't miss you any less.

I suppose it's just that life happens and it goes on happening, but not to you. You wouldn't be interested anyway. It's… dull.

And there's a lot of paperwork.

My birthday. Again. How does it keep coming round? Have I stopped understanding how time works? Had to write something today, though.

Wouldn't have felt right to spend the day without you.

27 November

John thinks it's bloody hilarious that I keep this thing. He calls it "my blog" and wants to read it. Won't leave me alone.

Like hell I'm letting him see this.

He doesn't even write on his own blog anymore. I know, I've looked. It's ages since his last entry. You were still

Anyway, I don't know what the hell he's got to be so smug about, he had a blog first. (This is still not a blog.) And the way he used to write about you, well. He hasn't got a leg to stand on, and his blog went to the whole of Scotland Yard.

Your face when you found that out. Priceless.

When did it become all right to laugh at you again?

Why does that make me want you back so much more?

24 December

Christmas without a case? I don't believe it. It's damn near an impossibility – improbability, you'd say. I'd suspect Mycroft's doing, but I can't imagine why he'd bother. The team's happy about it, anyway.

John's asked me to Harry's this year. I'd better go, I think he could use the company out there. Don't think he likes it there all that much, but where else is he going to go? I haven't exactly got much to offer him instead.

Well, maybe From Russia with Love. What d'you think?

God. As if you'd know. You've probably never even seen James Bond, have you?

Should've thought of that earlier. John and I would have set you to rights.

There you are, then. Job for you if there's an afterlife. Watch some bloody Bond films, would you?

You can start with From Russia with Love.

6 January

Happy birthday, then. John came round. Said he hoped I'd recovered from Christmas by now. Git.

He brought the skull. We toasted you. A few times.

All right, a lot of times.

The skull's named Blofeld now.

17 February

You know what happened today? Something I'll never forget, Sherlock. Not even after all the cases you took for me and all your private ones besides, not even if I'm a DI for twenty more years (and I'd bloody well better not be – I've earned that third pip a dozen times if I've earned it once).

Today, Sherlock Holmes' deductions were wrong.

You remember that case? Bet if you were here, you'd just sniff and find something scathing but clever to say. But that's the beauty of the written word, Sherlock, you'll never see it and you can't argue with it. And anyway, you were wrong, and I didn't take advantage of it nearly enough at the time.

Got years to make up for lost time now, I suppose.

I could tell you that I closed a case today, but that's just rubbing salt into the wound, isn't it?

… Closed a case today, Sherlock.

Sorry. But not really sorry. I'm having too much fun picturing your reaction to be really sorry.

God, I love you, you know that?

29 March

Should it make me feel guilty that I don't know what to write?

I try to tell you so much. Try to tell you everything, every single case and every single time I see John and every single bloody thing that happens, but whenever I try, I just sit here like an idiot and can't think of the words. I don't know, Sherlock. It's all so stupid and mundane and you would be so bored.

Your life was never like that. Your life was brilliant.

I haven't got anything brilliant to tell you. Maybe I should just stop.

Really, Lestrade, your password protection is even worse than John's, if such a thing is possible.

I would tell you how many times I've read through everything you've written, but it seems that to do so would be an exercise in pointlessness. Surely you'll understand when I explain, and if not, I would really prefer to elaborate in person.

By now, you must have surmised that I am somewhat less dead than I have led you to believe.

I understand that the written word is perhaps a poor medium in which to address most of the things you've said, but as this is how you began, I feel it only fitting to continue. And you know that I've never been particularly inclined to words of a… personal nature in any case.

John says that the first thing I should tell you is that I am sorry. I'm not apologizing for my departure, though the circumstances were unfortunate. Nor am I apologizing for the fact that I stayed away, nor for the deception, painful as it may have been. All of it was necessary. But I do apologize for your grief. That was something I had not anticipated.

I wonder why you waited until you believed I was gone to begin surprising me.

John says this is not how one goes about apologizing. I've already apologized. I don't see why I would need to continue doing so.

A statement that has elicited no small amount of profanity from John.

All of this is irrelevant. There was something else I wanted to address.

"Love" is a word with many values. It's difficult to define. I need more data on your use of the word. I also need to establish my own position on the matter, which has taken some considerable thought.

Much as it pains me to admit it, this is… not really my area. The best I can offer you is this:

If love is what I think it is; if love is disappointment at the circumstances into which I – we – have been forced; if love is having gone through every word of these entries daily for any tiny detail that could be deduced from them; if love is regret at three missed years; if love is hating myself for having caused you pain…

If any of that is love, then perhaps the sentiment is mutual.

When you read this, I hope you will permit me the opportunity to find out.

You know where to find me.

SH