Dear Sherlock,

Don't be dead. I stood over your grave three months ago and begged that. In this time I've begged and pleaded, god Sherlock I've even prayed. The whole time just wanting you to come back. I don't even know why I'm writing, it's stupid, it's not like it'll change anything. It's not like a stupid piece of paper can bring you back. My therapist recommended it. Oh yeah, Sherlock, I'm back there. Eighteen months without needing it and then straight back there. Because of you, Sherlock. All of this was because of you. You have no idea what you have done to me.

I hate you. I hate you because you made my life so much better. Because of you I wasn't just sat in some stupid, pointless 9-5 job bored out of my skin. Because of you, the thrill the war gave me was still there. Because of you everything was great. Because of you, Sherlock. Now I don't know what your opinion of yourself is, because you seem to be egotistic and narcissistic, you seemed cold and heartless and then you were crying on the hospital roof. But whatever you think of yourself, you have to know you saved me. What I said at your grave, I was so alone, I was just back from the war, and everything was so normal and I couldn't bear that, you made that better. You have to know that. But you know what, as a doctor I considered myself a good judge of character. The problem was I made the mistake of thinking I understood you. I don't think anyone understood you, Sherlock. Not even Mycroft, or maybe least of all Mycroft.

I miss you, Sherlock. I said I hate you and I think I did or at least I wanted to. You left me, left me to pick up the pieces. You jumped and you made me watch. I want to believe it was some trick, but I'm a doctor, I know when a man is dead. I'm certain I will never be able to get that image out of my head, Sherlock. You stepping out. Jumping isn't even the write word, you just stepped out. You falling. But I think even worse than that was seeing your body turned over, the scarlet bloody lining your pale face. I will never forget that. I will never be able to put that behind me.

See the problem is you're Sherlock Holmes. You're not just some city suicide. You're wonderful, you're amazing, you're fantastic. You could decipher anything and anyone in seconds and yet you are the biggest mystery. Why would you jump? It has something to do with Moriarty doesn't it? It must have. Tell me Sherlock, was it all a set up? Mrs Hudson, me getting called away, you acted like you didn't care? Did you really set all that up so you could be on the roof ready for me to watch? You said "Alone keeps you safe" did you mean that? Is that was part of the problem? You were getting close to people and that was outside of your comfort zone? I don't understand why you'd jump though. Why you wouldn't let me or someone help. We could've and we willingly would've, me, Mrs Hudson, even Lestrade, I bet even Mycroft would've had you asked for it. You only needed to ask for it Sherlock. We would've done anything.

There's one thing I still don't understand. You wanted me to believe you were a fake. You wanted me to believe that Moriarty wasn't real, that Rich Brooks was. You wanted me to believe that you researched me, that you couldn't really be like you are. Sherlock, I lived with you for eighteen months, I got to know you even if I didn't really know you. I know enough to know that you're genuine. You're one of the only truly genuine people there are around, you're honest, you're true. You. Sherlock Holmes. There's no way you could ever be a fake. I meant what I said, you could be that clever. You are. …You were. I will always believe in you, Sherlock. No matter what the papers say, no matter what people think. I know better. Lestrade knows better. Mrs Hudson knows better. You are real. We believe in you.

Just one more thing, Sherlock. If this is just a trick, if you're not really dead, don't do this to me anymore. If this is just some sick joke or some twisted form of protection, just stop it. Just come back to me, let me know you're alive. I need that. If you don't come back I don't know what I'll do. I considered going back to Afghanistan because London is too mundane, but I don't know if I can do that again. Plus Lestrade wants me to stick around, he wants to keep an eye on me I think. Make sure I'm ok. The problem is I'm not ok. I'm not going to be ok, not until you come back.

Except I need to stop thinking like that don't I? You're not coming back are you? You're dead. Mortal just like the best of us. You always seemed so emotional, so heartless, but it seems the truth was the complete opposite. You cared too much, I could hear that in your voice, see it on your face. God Sherlock, I don't know what possessed you to jump, I just wish you were here. I wish I had had the chance to tell you I love you. Well I suppose I've said it now. Not that I can see how this stupid letter is going to help anything. Oh well, my therapist will be glad.

Goodbye Sherlock,

Thank you,

Yours,

John Watson.

He folded the letter up and placed it in an envelope, penning the name Mr Sherlock Holmes and 221B Baker Street on the front, before sealing it and dropping it in a postbox.