A/N: The idea of doing a story in epistolary-style has intrigued me. So far I've always had more trouble writing Molly than Sherlock (believe it or not, but my inner sociopath is more developed than my inner shy pathologist). But with this story I struggled hard with what Sherlock's voice in a letter would be. Because on the one hand it's easier to write down what you feel than tell someone face to face, but on the other hand you have more time to contemplate what you want to say. There are no such things as slips of the tongue or a meaningful glance in a letter. Therefore, I guess, one has to read between the lines. Long story short: I hope Sherlock is not too OOC and this experiment has not gone totally wrong. I'll let you be the judge.

I'd like to thank Pipsis, who did a wonderful job helping me with my mistakes and had some great suggestions.

Disclaimer: Roses are red, violets are blue. I don't own them so please don't sue.

Thank you

"A letter is always better than a phone call. People write things in letters they would never say in person. They permit themselves to write down feelings and observations using emotional syntax far more intimate and powerful than speech will allow."
― Alice Steinbach, Educating Alice: Adventures of a Curious Woman

22nd June

I never thought I would do this again: write a diary – or let's call it a journal. That doesn't sound like I am a 13 year-old girl. Basically it's not so different from writing a blog, I guess, still it feels a bit strange. But since I've quit my blog a while ago and I feel like I still need to write down my thoughts in order to cope with everything, I've decided to give good old journal-writing a try. Yes, I thought about maybe starting another blog (under a different name), but I cannot risk putting all the stuff about Sherlock and his "suicide" out into the wide world of the internet. Additionally, I think I want to write about really private stuff here. And this is no one else's business.

I am not the only one who quit blogging. A few days ago, John made his last post on his infamous blog, saying goodbye to his best friend. I almost started to cry in front of the screen. I really wanted to comment on it, but I did not know what to say. I couldn't think of any words to ease his pain. Or let's say: I am not allowed to say the words that would make his pain go away.

I am a liar. I know that. Sherlock has made me one. Don't get me wrong, I don't blame him, because I've wanted to help him. But I have to admit it is hard; so very hard. The last few days have been a nightmare. After Sherlock's fall, he had been hiding in my flat for a few days – until after his funeral. It was weird having him here. I did not see much if him, because he stayed in my bedroom most of the time – at least at night. When I came home from work he was mostly sitting on the couch, his fingers steeped under his chin in thought – lost in his mind palace. When I tried for conversation, his answers (if there were any at all) were monosyllabic at best. At least he ate when I cooked dinner and he always had the breakfast I made him. Al least that's what I suspect, because it was gone when I came back from work.
I desperately wanted to help him, because I am sure he was sad and even afraid (of course, he would never admit that). God, he had just told his best friend goodbye! He was about to leave his life behind. But I didn't know what to do or say to make him feel better. The way he was behaving told me, he would not allow it. Even Toby tried to stay out of his way after two days of desperately trying to get Sherlock to pet him. On the night before the funeral, I just couldn't take it anymore and went over to him (he was sitting on the couch staring into space) and hugged him. What a fatal mistake! At first he let me hold him, but suddenly I felt his whole body tense and he shoved me away, as if my touch had hurt him. He shouted at me that I should let him be, that he did not want my pity. I was so shocked that I could not find a single word to say in my defence, so he just stormed into my bedroom and slammed the door. I was left standing in the middle of the sitting room and only when I felt something wet on my cheek I realized I was crying. No need to tell you that I had a more or less sleepless night…

I did not see him on the morning of the funeral. I did not go there. I had taken a shift deliberately. I could not have taken it to look at Greg, Mrs Hudson and John standing by his grave crying. They probably wondered where I was. But then again, maybe they did not.
I am sure Sherlock went there. For when I came back home, there was dirt on his shoes that were in the hallway. It was so stupid of him to go there! Not only because one could have seen him, but also because it must have hurt him; watching John standing over his grave, totally broken… Why would he torture himself like that?

I tried to talk to him that night. I knocked on his door – well actually my bedroom door – but he did not answer. I tried to open the door, but he had locked it. I asked him if he wanted anything, but all my tries were in vain. He remained silent. After some time I gave up and went to bed.

The next morning he was gone – just like that. I don't know what I've expected, but… That's not entirely true. I've expected at least a "thank you." Obviously even that was too much to ask for. And so he left me behind. Not that I've expected him to take me with him… Yet I cannot help but feel sad. Will he return? Will I ever see him again? How am I to face the others? Will I be able to pull it off? Will I be able to lie to them for… maybe forever?

Sherlock told me that it was crucial not to let anyone know that he was alive. It would put them into great danger. He told me I was protecting them by not telling them. I have no intention of endangering them, or letting Sherlock down, but I am not sure if I am strong enough. Strong enough to keep living this lie.

Maybe this is my opportunity; my opportunity to get over Sherlock Holmes once and for all. I should be mad at him for not even bothering to say "thank you" after all I've done for him. And not only in the past week, but what I have done for him in the past few years. I should hate him for leaving me behind with the burden of his secret – having to lie to the people I care about. That's what I should do! This is my chance to finally get over my childish infatuation with the detective in the silly hat. Once and for all. The world's only consulting detective is dead to the world and he will be dead to me too. This will make everything easier. I will try to do it like the others: move on.

29th June

My resolution of being mad at the world's only consulting detective lasted not even for a lousy week. Today I found a postcard from Paris in my mail. I was surprised, because I did not know any of my friends or colleagues were in Paris at the moment. When I turned the card around, I was taken aback. The only thing (apart from my address apparently) written on the postcard was:

_ _ … . … … . … .. .. … .. …. .. . .. … … . … .. … … .. . … .. …. . _ … _ . .. Thank you.

And I would recognize the handwriting anywhere, because I have seen it correcting my grammar in autopsy reports many times. It was Sherlock's.