Dear Sherlock,

I'm really glad to have some time to write you. Everything keeps getting in the way—little things that act as glue to our lives: eating, making sure I've got on matching socks, paying the rent, all that stuff. Sure, it's a bit tedious and even boring at times, but I honestly can't take any more shock in my life. Jesus, if someone were to so much as throw me a surprise birthday party, I'd probably die of heart failure.

PTSD's been acting up, lately. Though I have less nightmares than I used to, something will trigger a flashback, and I'll be held hostage to a horrible onslaught of feelings—and I'll grip my cane until my knuckles go white. No one ever notices. I've gotten really good at concealing my emotions. Still, there are times when I'm with Lestrade and I think he knows. In the past, I've always turned down his offers to accompany him a few other friends to a bar for the evening, but last week I took him up on the offer. We went to a more upscale bar—no dingy countertops—and I told myself to stop whinging and at least try to have a nice time. As it happened, we walked in, took our seats, and—this is going to sound mental—but there was a man sitting at a table alone, facing away from me and Sherlock! He looked exactly like you! There was this stunning resemblance in the way he hunched his shoulders, the way his hair fell, the way he rolled a pen between long fingers.

I could not look away.

Next to me, Lestrade cracked some corny joke and I didn't laugh. All I wanted was to stare and stare and stare at the back of that bloke's head. To take it in, remember all the things I was beginning to forget. I might have sat there a minute, a day, or my whole life. Sometime later, a waitress asked for my order, and I was forced to return to what my life has become. I resented it with a passion. Because sometimes I get sick. Sick of always sitting in the same room with reality.

Anyway, when the man stood from his seat, my breath froze. God, he was tall, tall like you. And his image was lost in the blur of unshed tears. By the time I'd roughly wiped my eyes on a paper napkin and pulled myself together, he was gone. The memory of him ate at me, sent me into a feverish state of obsession. There is something so powerful and painful about nearly seeing someone out of the grave. It's like life is mocking you with a second chance you know you'll never have. Ah, here's a good example! Picture this: You're asleep, dreaming about something amazing and wonderful and—in the moment—so, so real. Then the alarm clock rings. And you wake up and everything hits you. And you want to sob, aching for what was almost yours.

That's how "seeing you" made me feel.

Always,

John

I'm sorry it's been such a while since I've updated. Things are insanely busy this fall, and I'm doing the best I can to stay standing amidst the whirlwind. Thank you for reading. Review?

Cheers,

-Spark Writer-