January 15, 2012 Dear Sherlock, I, well, its John.

My, uh, my therapist said that writing this letter would release any feelings of guilt or anger or sorrow I felt about your jump, but if Im to be completely honest, its hard writing this letter. Its really just bringing all the emotions I dont want to deal with back to the surface, and I, well, I thought that I might be able to handle this. Obviously, I cant, and I dont know why I keep writing this stupid letter. The words just keep spilling out of the pen like some sort of word vomit. I dont know. This is stupid, its just, I know youre not dead. I believe in you, Sherlock Holmes. Please, just come back, Sherlock. The flats impossibly quite without you and your bloody experiments. God, you drove me bonkers, you stubborn git, but when it all comes down to it, you, you were always there and you were the reason my hand didnt shake from not being a soldier any longer. I, I dont know if you heard my speech at your gravestone, but I meant every word of it. You were the best man, the most humanhuman being that Ive ever known and no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, so there. I was so alone, and I owe you so much. Regards Your Friend, John Watson P.S. Theres just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Dontbedead. Would you do that for me? Just stop it. Stop this.

January 20, 2012 Dear Sherlock, So, here I am, sitting at the edge of my bed of my old apartment, writing a note to my roommate whos dead. Well, I still refuse to admit that youre dead, because I know you, Sherlock bloody Holmes, and youre much more intelligent than Jim Moriarty. Anyway, I cant stay in the flat of 221B anymore. Its all a painful reminder of the first day we met and you could read Harrys drinking habits off my phone. Everyone still thinks youre a fraud, and people passing by sneer when they walk past Baker Street. Ive caught four little buggers with spray cans vandalizing the wall and front door. One of them happened to be that friend, well, delinquent really, of yours who got me in trouble during the case of The Blind Banker. God, that feels like years ago. I caught him spray-painting in that same yellow paint on the front door. He looked at me funny when I went to tell him off. I guess he was more of a friend to you than I thought he was, because after he ran, I was able to get a good look at what hed wrote on the door. I couldnt handle what hed painted and teared up at his message. In fact, Id rather not rewrite what hed said, and I feel stupid for tearing up at such a general sentence, but there arent many people who believe your brilliance. I feel you deserve to know what he said, so here it is. I believe in Sherlock Holmes. I feel even more stupid about how I overreacted to the phrase. God, Id lost hope on anyone believing in you, and its only been five days! Jesus, Sherlock, I dont think you know just how much you meant to me. You were my best friend. No, are. You are my best friend and always will be. Why cant people see that Richard Brooks was fake? Jim Moriarty was real, dammit. Why cant people just think? Oh, God, now Im starting to sound like you. Just, please, for my sake, return to Baker Street. While youre at it, you could at least bring milk. Your friend, John Watson

February 14, 2012 Dear Sherlock, Well, uh, todays a special day. Its Valentines Day. I dont imagine you had any value of such a lovey dovey holiday, but I thought you could roll your eyes at my drabbling anyway. Its almost one month since your jump. Im avoiding the d word still. It doesnt feel right to say it when I know that youre not. Not yet. They couldnt have given me someone so wonderful and mysterious and taken him away so quickly like this. Please, Sherlock, I just need something. A note. A case. The Reichenbach Hero. Anything. I just need to know youre ok. I want to know youre safe. Ive started up a full time job at the clinic. Sarah still works there. You remember her, right? Shes been, uh, sympathetic, I guess, about your disappearance. Im pretty sure she doesnt believe in you. Well, you did almost get her killed. I guess its we. It wasnt entirely your fault. Oh, Sherlock. Its so boring at the clinic. Day in and day out, patient after patient. They all complain about the most tedious things, going on and on about a tiny headache. Im starting to understand how you felt about your cases. I actually miss riding the fine line between life and death. I rarely see Lestrade anymore. Occasionally, well go out for drinks, but thats about the extent of anything I do with friends now. Usually I drink until I pass out in my old place. I have an inkling that tonights not gonna be much different. Itll be just like every other stupid Valentines Day Ive spent alone. I know you dont want to here about your brother, Sherlock, but Im writing this letter for my benefit, so youre just going to have to get over it. No matter how much you hate your brother, he loves you, Sherlock. Mycroft is kicking himself hard about what happened. Personally, Im not too thrilled with him either. He sold you out to Jim bloody Moriarty. Everything. Your entire lifes story. For what? Some bloody government thing that Im not at liberty to know? I damn well have a right to know. Youre my flat mate, for Heavens sake! Not only that, but he had the power to stop all of this nonsense. He couldve easily made up some story about Richard Brooks, or at least handled it somehow. Ive only seen him once at your gravestone, and he bloody laughed. He bloody laughed! Your brother sometimes I just hope that one day youll respond to these letters. Please. Your friend, John Watson P.S. I feel very, VERY stupid for asking this of an asexual consulting detective whos currently faking his death, butno, actually. I cant do it. I cant ask you, Sherlock Will you be my Valentine, Sherlock Holmes?

February 15, 2012 Dear Sherlock, Well, today marks the one-month anniversary of your jump. Yay.

February 28, 2012 Dear Sherlock, Im sorry about my last letter, Sherlock. I can already hear you complaining to me about how I didnt end it properly and how boringly simple it was. Its like I hear you everywhere. Your snide attitude and baritone voice have been seared into my skull. I hope youre happy. Harry came to visit me. I havent spoken to her since our last fight about four years ago. She told me that shed been working on her drinking. Id really love to believe her and pretend like she never started all of her awful alcohol consumption, but shes told me the same excuse for years now. I love her, God do I love Harry, she struggles so much and I wish I could be there for her, but I just cant stay around for too long. When Harry drinks she gets aggressive and pushy. Last time she toppled over the edge, we had a falling out about Clara. I screamed at her about how her drinking habits had driven Clara away until I was red in the face. Harry shot back that I had always been jealous of her and Claras relationship, going on about how I had always wanted her for myself. I yelled at her for being a terrible sister, and she spat that she wished she wasnt related to the short, stumpy, black sheep of the family. I didnt respond to her last remark and left promptly. She tried to call me the next day to apologize, but the words still stung. Drunken or not. Sherlock, I dont mean to drag on and on about my history while youre M.I.A., but it feels sort ofgood. I mean, it feels like Im talking to you while youre just sitting in the flat staring at the case pictures hanging all over the wall. Well, I get the same amount of response this way. At least writing to you I dont get a sarcastic eye roll whenever I mention anything trivial. I never thought Id actually miss your demeaning tone. Without you being here it feels kind ofoff. Like Im expecting you to waltz in the door, blood stained and holding a harpoon like that one case with Henry, and it dawns on me that you arent coming back. Never. Ive held out hope for you, and I probably always will, but I have to try and move on. Mrs. Hudsons been helping me straighten up 221B. All of your stuff was organized, and by organized, I mean we took pictures of your bloody experiments and tossed them out. I made sure to print them and put them in your room, along with you microscope, beakers, test tubes, Bunsen burner, goggles, and abundance of chemicals. The most heart-breaking thing to pack in your room was your violin. I never told you, but I always admired your playing skill. You made the violin sing such beautiful songs. Your friend, John Watson