I've had it. Why can't I just let it go? I've buried my parents. I've buried battlefield friends. I've buried my demons. Why, out of billions of people in the world, you've left me broken and scarred? I don't understand it -- I probably understood you more when you were alive than when you're dead. It's as if the blood on the pavement left a stronger mark than all your deductions put together.
Mycroft came over this morning and tried to console my feelings by saying that you died to save us -- that it was for the best. No, Sherlock. You were wrong. Yes, you were wrong. Your death wasn't for the best. Maybe it was for Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, and Mycroft. But for me? You knew what I said. You heard me scream your name. What you didn't know was the pain you would leave me afterwards.
I can't help but hate you. Hate you because you selfishly left like you did. Maybe what I hate more is how you died. You believed a lie, and you took the fall. You let Moriarty corner you into making a choice you could never back. BLOODY HELL, SHERLOCK HOLMES! Why did you let him get to you? Why did you ring me? You never ring me, ever. Why did you say those things? Why did you take the fall? I know I shouldn't overthink your death, but you were like a brother to me. A mentor. A friend. My closest friend.
I've been thinking about re-enlisting; going back as an army doctor. Return to the life I knew before you. But, I can't. Something tells me to stay -- stay here and wait for the miracle I had asked for.