Hello! This is John's first letter to Sherlock, post-fall.

Dear Sherlock,

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

I shouldn't be sitting here in an empty room in an empty flat—in our empty flat—writing a letter that will never reach you. You're supposed to be here, now, scorning my blog posts, pestering me to buy milk…arrogantly flipping your coat collar. God, I miss that.

There are so many things I don't understand. And because you're dead in the ground, I never will. But you're not a fake. I can't say why I know that, but I do. I believe in Sherlock Holmes, I believe in you, and the entire world knows that—knows where I stand.

Still, everything, everything is wrong. It's like waking up on the opposite side of the earth. Everything's screwed up, and unbalanced and messy. It's a subtle feeling, but it's there—I feel it, Mrs. Hudson feels it, Greg and Molly feel it. And—though you'd swear to God this isn't true—I think Mycroft feels it. He's slowly, steadily becoming the worst aspect of himself. Bitter, unpleasant and hollow.

Me? I'm headed in the same direction, Sherlock, destined to be a beaten skeleton of a defeated soldier.

Thanks to you.

There are moments when I'm seriously certain I hear your foot falls on the stair. When I visit your grave and am convinced I see a tall shadow hovering beside a tree. And I think, 'there it goes again, my bloody messed up mind.' As you said, during that final phone call, it's just a trick. Just a magic trick. I only hear things, see shadows, because sometimes I so desperately miss you that my heart literally collapses on itself.

So, yeah. This is what you've made me into. Pathetic, isn't it? Lestrade once said that you're a great man, and one day, if we're very lucky, you might even be a good one. Maybe you're not either. Maybe you're just a person, like the rest of us. But, you're not a fake, Sherlock, and you're not a freak. Really, it's impossible for me to say that you belong in heaven or hell or anywhere in between, because you really don't belong anywhere at all.

Still, you belonged with me.

Ever yours,

John

...Thoughts?

-Spark Writer-