A/N: Hey guys, here's the low-down on how this story is going to work. Every other chapter is a letter, but the ones in between are actual events, just so you don't get too bored with the chapters all being the same or something like that. Happy reading! :)

John woke to the dim light of the overcast morning with something that felt like guilt, pushing down at his chest as if to keep him from moving. He buried his face in the pillow nearest him, fighting to win back his breath. It had been the dream again, and the same one had been robbing him of the will to live for eighteen months and ten days. The event itself still loomed fresh in his mind, every detail of the day and the place was burned like a cattle brand into the folds of his brain. Every night, John saw him leaning, leaning, leaning, and then falling. Falling so long and so, so very far. He could never bring himself to see what happened after Sherlock hit. Not entirely, anyway. His entire mind would fill in were flashes of red. Red on white, red on blue, red, Red, RED.

Most days he was grateful for the cyclist running into him and disorienting him, he didn't want to remember the exact details of Sherlock's death. Yet still, the details were there, like a cattle brand burning still hot on the folds of his brain and the delicate pericardium of his heart. Sherlock was there in his head, sprawled on the ground, ivory skin and raven curls stained with blood, the only things with no trace of blood on them were his eyes, like bright blue marbles. John pressed his face into the pillow with force, as if attempting to cut off the oxygen to his head.

He had to stop thinking.

The window on the far right wall leaked light all over the room, barely any at all, but still just a little. It illuminated the periodic table nearest it, almost delicately; as though it were aware John was in the room and was trying to be sensitive to his still fresh emotional wounds. He loved that room. It was the best room in all of 221B, and that was probably why Sherlock had taken it for himself. John hadn't ever grown to appreciate it until after the consulting detective was gone, but his grief made the room all the better. It was so neat, so organized, and the thing he loved best of all about it was that Sherlock had pasted a glow-in-the-dark solar system and stars all over the dark ceiling.

He often remembered how offended Sherlock had been at his incredulity towards Sherlock's not knowing anything about the solar system. At the time, it certainly was odd to John that a grown man wouldn't know anything about the solar system, but the longer he lived in 221B, the more endearing that ignorance became.

Sherlock was always so concerned about John being alive toward the end, even when he didn't outwardly express it. He was always worried that Moriarty was getting to him, creeping into his mind, changing his loyalties, but the ignorance was blocking him from seeing the true answer. John quietly went to the surgery every day to earn money for the rent. He quietly came home to check up on Sherlock. He quietly and patiently sat for hours reading the paper while Sherlock composed or experimented, sometimes entertaining one of Sherlock's theories, or even cooking or cleaning up after Sherlock.

It had all been for Sherlock's benefit, and still, in those final hours, Sherlock was worried that John's loyalties would change. In the end, it was the loneliness and the memories that were getting to John. There was so much he could give, so much he already had given, and still Sherlock was dashing about, ignoring him, unappreciative. But there was nothing John could do. It was his nature, it was Sherlock. There was a genius there behind all of that ignorance and pride, and still, that ignorance always won over in the most unfair way.

In the end, it wasn't Moriarty getting to John. It was the loneliness. Sherlock was so aloof all of the time, and even the occasional cravings for affection and attention became fewer and fewer until there were none whatsoever. John was so used to waking up in the middle of the night from a sudden nightmare, and then either being lulled back to sleep by the soft intonation of the Stradivarius from the sitting room or being gently touched on the face in the darkness and then pressed into a warm embrace. There was no one to comfort him after the nightmares were over. He was alone and small, wrapped up in the feeling, the smell, and the aesthetic of Sherlock, but without the man himself. Sometimes, the loneliness would become so unbearable that he'd attempt to squeeze his eyes shut so tight that he could pretend Sherlock was still there. It would feel as though Sherlock would walk in at any moment, and seeing John's present location and condition, either ask what was wrong or bristle at the unexpected occurrence. There was so much to the little things that Sherlock occasionally did. They weren't even that important, but they meant so much at the same time. Of course, Sherlock never saw the deeper meaning behind anything he did, be it insulting or snogging. John didn't hold it against him, though he wished he would have. That wouldn't have bothered Sherlock at all, not in the least.

Guilt simply was not something Sherlock experienced.