Sherlock,
I'm afraid the grave visits weren't working out. I was talking to you body, and that's not where you'd be, is it? ,You'd be at home, talking to your skull or playing your violin silently. A graveyard isn't the kind of place you'd enjoy. You'd mock the other ghosts who dwelled there, or haunt the gardener. You wouldn't be a very good ghost. But, you were fantastic, alive, Sherlock. You were brilliant. Or rather, are. As I refuse to believe for a second that you'd leave me completely. We're the worlds best Consulting Detective duo, right?
If you're reading this, which I'm assuming for convenience that you are, you're probably cringing at the amount of grammatical errors and spelling mistakes I've made. Feel free to edit my work with a different colour pen. Preferably blue, like your scarf that the hospital took, even though I wanted to keep it.
I never was a good writer, or talker, as you know from the feeble attempts of honouring your death, but I needed some vent. Some way of reassuring myself that you could still be alive.
Your skull lives with me now, I hope that's okay. Sometimes if things are getting bad, I stare at it for hours on end. If I stare for too long, my eyes go red and start tearing up. I swear, it's just because I'm staring. It would be more comforting if I knew who's skull it was.
Anyway, my sister has invited me over. I asked her to set another seat at the table for you, even if you didn't eat anything, I'd still want you to come and sit with us. I can shoot you disapproving looks as Harry tries small talk. It never was her strong point. I'll meet you at her place. She lives at number 17.
-JH
