353 day after.
Dear Sherlock,
You tit. You absolute fucking tit. I know you. I know you've done this on purpose, just to wind me up. You're probably sitting up there, (down there? fuck knows) laughing at all the fuss everyone is making about you. You love the attention. I know you.
Well you won't win. I won't cry, I won't scream, fuck I might not even show up to your bloody funeral. You may be able to manipulate the rest of the world into doing what the fuck you want but not me, never me. I know you better than that.
I knew you better than that.
John.
3 weeks after.
Dear Sherlock,
I went. Of course I went. How could I not?
It was horrible. The church was full to the brim. It was hailing down, the stones hitting off the ground and shooting back into the air. No one cried. (Well, apart from Mrs Hudson.) But that made it worse. It was like everyone knew this loss couldn't ever be cried away. You are – you were- too special for a simple cry to relieve the huge gap in the world now you're gone.
Mycroft asked if I wanted to say anything – I declined knowing I would probably end up just swearing and calling you every name under the sun.
Either that or I would have broken. I remember reading that some guy called Cooley (Yes, I do read books, Sherlock) once argued that we see ourselves how others see us. And in standing up in front of a crowd of people who seemed to expect me to be a weeping mess, I feared that would be exactly what I'd become.
So Mycroft addressed the crowd. He read your eulogy in French, then simply said 'I will not say goodbye, brother, as you are not gone.' When I asked days later, he said you requested his eulogy be read in a language I couldn't understand. When I asked him why, he simply pursed his lips as if he was about to say 'Ask him yourself'.
So by declining to speak and repeating 'He's such a fucking tit' over and over again I managed to keep myself together. Until.
Until the cab ride home when 'Time to say goodbye' came on the radio and I started sobbing like an absolute knob. Thanks, for that.
John.
3 months laters.
'I won't say goodbye, as you're not gone'.
That's what Mycroft said, that you were not gone.
It's been going round my head every day since I sent my last email.
'You're not gone'.
And you're not, are you? You're out there, waiting. Waiting until you can make a dramatic comeback and become the fucking hero again. You're probably hiding out in Switzerland, driving Mycroft's 'associates' crazy by keeping pigs blood in milk cartons. You're probably reading this now thinking how pathetic it is that I'm emailing a supposedly dead man, and how foolish I am for thinking…. Thinking I meant anything to you.
Because I clearly didn't, did it? How could I if you were willing to leave me here without so much as a goodbye.
And no, leaving me an unbelievable amount of money in your will does not count as a goodbye. Nor does leaving me 'the skull'.
But I'm confused (Yes, confused, it's an emotion, Sherlock.) As judging by the money you left to me you certainly did not need help with the rent. So, what was it Sherlock? Did you just enjoy the fun of having someone to torment, someone to fuck about with. Someone to save your life from crazy taxi drivers or to blow themselves just so you could have a few more gulps of air.
Because the truth is, Sherlock, I would have done anything for you. If that had meant killing myself just so I didn't have to live without you…. So you didn't have to die without me. But, that's obviously not what you wanted.
Forever alone.
Forever yours.
John.
3 year after.
Dear Sherlock,
I have nothing to say anymore.
Not just to you, to anyone.
You once warned me that you went for days without speaking a single word.
Right now, I feel like I will live the rest of my days in silence.
Rest in peace.
John.
Author's Note: Hello! This was partly written before the final episode of series two, and partly after just to deal with some of my own feelings about it! May try out different characters and explore what they have to say to Sherlock, but for now, enjoy!