Dear Sherlock,

It's been one whole month since... You died. It's gone so quickly. Still feels like yesterday. Still hurts as much, too.

I can't decide what to do with myself nowadays; there are no crimes to drag me out of the flat and none to write about. Because you're not here anymore.

221B's been lonely since you left. There's no one shooting the walls, no one leaving severed heads in the fridge or eyes in the microwave. No one's lying on the sofa in their dressing gown, shouting "BORED!" every five minutes. There's no secret stores of cigarettes, no microscope slides or conical flasks cluttering up the kitchen surfaces. It's just empty. Well, empty except for me.

I've promised myself that I will never re-draft these letters, because that would be like editing. And editing isn't honest, Sherlock, and I know you'd always want me to be honest with you.

Why am I writing this? You'd probably say that it was sentiment, which, I suppose, to some extent it is. But when I really look at it, it's because I write, Sherlock. And since I can't blog anymore, it makes sense for me to write these letters to you.

You'll never get the chance to read them, I know, but the great thing about that is that no one will ever have to know how I really feel. And I feel terrible. I am so alone and tired and I can't really cope anymore. I pretend that I'm okay for Mrs Hudson and Sarah, but I'll never be okay, Sherlock. And you should have thought about that before you decided to die.

You'd think that I was an idiot for writing this. I know you would. But I can't leave you behind. I just can't. I will never understand why you took your own life, and said to me the things you did, but whatever happens, Sherlock, I will always believe in you. It doesn't matter that you never gave me an explanation, because it's never been a question, Sherlock.

Your John.