AN: I tried to write John's letters in John's writing style (see his blog). So, uh, yeah. Tell me how that worked.

Dear Sherlock,

I know that you won't be able to read these, but my therapist says that this should help. She wants me to write a letter to you and tell you the things I never got to tell you when you were alive. I don't really know what to say. You were my best friend in the world. Dear God I wish you weren't dead. Every morning when I wake up and go downstairs, I expect to see you conducting some sort of insane experiment, one that would smell really awful or so-[water splotches make a few words unreadable]-d of course you're never there. God. I don't know what I'm doing. I miss you.

Your friend, John

Dear Sherlock,

The last letter I wrote disappeared. For a moment I thought that you had come round and collected it, but I realised that it was probably just the grave keeper.

Anyway, Lucinda doesn't know that I'm going to continue writing these letters. She thought that one was enough, but I don't think that I can properly express all of my thoughts about you in just one letter. I'm not sure she'd think it was healthy to keep writing letters to you. See if I give a damn.

I've been spending a lot of time with Molly. She's been doing better than I have. With coping, I mean. Mycroft is acting the same as ever. He still kidnaps me off the street randomly. I've seen him when he thinks I'm not looking, though. He looks confused. Like he can't believe that you're really gone. God, I know how he feels. I hate when he kidnaps me though, more than I used to. I blame him, at least in part, for what happened.

My limp has started coming back. I miss you.

Your friend, John

Dear Sherlock,

So I'm thinking I'll try my best to do one of these every week, because this really does seem to be helping. It's like my blog, but so much more private. I haven't posted on that blog in months. I don't intend to, either. Writing these and leaving them here, it makes me feel like you're still here. At least a little bit. Especially since the letters keep disappearing. Hah. I know that you're not taking them, of course. But it's a nice thought to entertain.

I dreamt about you last night. I knew that it was a dream while it was happening, but it was nice. Things were normal. When I woke up, I cried. I still miss you.

Your friend, John

Dear Sherlock,

I'm moving out of 221B. I can't handle living in there. I can't stand seeing everything so clean and bare of your things. Mrs. Hudson agrees that getting a new place might help me.

I've found a job in a hospital in the clinic. It's… boring. I don't have much else to say about it. There are some nice people working there, but a lot of the people that go to the clinic are morons. I can clearly picture you mocking them and analyzing them. I can't do surgery because of my leg. I can't stand for an extended period of time very well, so…

I found a gift on our doorstep on my birthday, actually. It was a jumper. Dark purple. I think I'm going crazy, but it smelled like you. I told Lucinda about the jumper, and the possibility of you still being alive… which was a stupid move, I know. But I just couldn't help but mention it. I guess I had been hoping for someone to say that I wasn't crazy, but she got rather upset that I was entertaining… how did she put it? "Fantasies that you were still with us," I think is what she said. Well, she said "he," not "you," but whatever.

Nothing else new has really happened. I'll talk to you next week. I miss the sound of your voice.

Your friend, John

Dear Sherlock,

Sorry I haven't been writing. The move has been pretty stressful. My new place doesn't have the same charm as 221B did. I still go by to visit Mrs. Hudson. She's got new tenants in 221B. They're a nice, newly married couple. The husband is a librarian and the wife is a romance novelist. I've never heard of any of her novels, though. I told her I'd try and read one, but I've never been one for romance stories.

I've met a woman. She's just a friend, of course. I'm not stable enough for a relationship. She's really great. Her name is Mary. I met her at the clinic. She came in about a month ago for an ear infection, and we just sort of started to hang out after that. I still miss you, but I'm starting to get better. The limp is getting a bit better.

Your friend, John

Dear Sherlock,

I know that it was always just another date on the calendar to you, but happy birthday anyway.

Your friend, John

Dear Sherlock,

I thought I saw you last week when I dropped off the letter. I could have sworn that I saw you standing by your grave, your coat swishing about in the wind, pulling your collar up against the cold (more likely to look cool). God, and here I was thinking that I was starting to get better. Now I'm hallucinating you. Brilliant.

I told Molly what I'd seen. She seemed to get really uncomfortable. I feel bad for making her worry. And Mrs. Hudson. And dear God, I miss you so much. When I saw you last week… fuck. I just about ran up to you and throttled you until I realised that you were just a hallucination. Fucking hell I miss you.

Your friend, John

Dear Sherlock,

Sorry for missing last week's letter. I've been talking to Mary, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson. (I don't really have any male friends right now. Women seem to far more understanding. And I can't bring myself to speak with Greg. I still blame him.) They've all been reassuring me that it's normal to see someone that you care about after they've… gone. I'm starting to get back up on my feet. I still miss you like hell. I don't think I'll ever stop missing you. You were my best friend in the entire world. You could be a pain, but you were there when it counted. You were brilliant. You were amazing. You were everything wonderful and helped me want to keep living.

I've lost so many people, especially while I was in the military, but you were the most significant.

Your friend, John

Dear Sherlock,

Sorry again for not writing. Things started to get a bit hectic. Mary and I are dating now, which while at first I wasn't sure about, I'm glad that we're together now. She's done so much for me. I don't know where I'd be without her. Actually… scratch that, I know exactly where I'd be. I'd be sad and lonely and a shut-in. And while I'm still grieving for you, she's helping me to heal.

And there's something that I think that I'm finally ready to admit to you and to myself, now that I've found someone else to love. I was in love with you. You were my best friend and one of the loves of my life. I couldn't admit it to myself because… well, I'd always thought that if you liked one bloke, that made you gay. I don't think that anymore. You were one in a million, Sherlock Holmes.

I miss your coat.

Love, John

I love you, too. And I'm so sorry.

-SH

The grave keeper looked down at the note he held in his hand, puzzled. He shrugged and threw it in his trash bin.

Dear Sherlock,

It's been more than a year since my last letter. I'm really sorry. I've been meaning to write a note to give you a quick update of what's happened. And to say goodbye. Mary and I got married. You should have been my best man. You should have seen Mary. God, she was beautiful. I mean, she's always bloody gorgeous, but on our wedding day… It was really the happiest day of my life, Sherlock. Well, one of them. The other one, even though at the time I didn't realise it, was the day I met you. That was the beginning of a new, brighter chapter in my life. Which is exactly what my wedding was.

Mary and I are trying for a baby. We're hoping for a boy. We'd name him Sherlock. If it's a girl, she'll be named Molly. I wish you could see how happy we are together. I wish you could meet Mary, even though I'm sure you would hate her on principle. My fortieth birthday is right around the corner, too. God, when did I get so old?

My limp is practically gone now. My leg is well enough that I can do surgeries again, which is brilliant. Pays better than working in the clinic, and it's a higher-pressure job. (which, as I'm sure you know, I prefer)

A lot has happened this past year. Too much to tell you through this one letter.

Mary and I have been talking about these letters that I write to you. I suggested that I just stop writing them, since I practically had anyway, but she disagreed. She thought that I needed to write one more, say anything I had left to say, and then say goodbye. She's right, of course, and so here I am. Writing my last letter to you.

It's been three years, but I still I love you. I still miss you.

Love, John

Sherlock gripped the edges of the letter tightly, his teeth clenched. His eyes were shut as he sat on his own grave, dulled from time.

"You could have avoided all of this, you know," Mycroft commented from a few feet away. Sherlock didn't respond, eyes still closed. "If you had told him –"

"I know," the younger Holmes brother said through his clenched teeth. A blanket of silence fell.

"It's been three years. We've heard nothing about Moriarty or his cronies throughout." Sherlock nodded and met Mycroft's gaze. "If you went to him, he would be in no danger."

The detective scoffed. "Do you really think that he wants to see me? It's been three years, and all this time I've let him believe that I'm dead. He's finally moved on and let go. You've read the letters."

"I'm not the one that came here every week for a year, hoping for a sign that John still cared." Sherlock swallowed hard. "Oh please, did you really think I didn't know? I've had surveillance on you since you faked your death." Mycroft walked forward. "Go to him, Sherlock. I know that we haven't had the best of relationships, but I hate to see you in this state. Go to him. Say you're sorry. Pray that he will forgive you." With that, the politician turned and strode to his waiting car.

Sherlock closed his eyes again and exhaled, seeing John's new address floating in his head. When he opened his eyes, he had made up his mind.

Time to start praying.