There. That's how I'll start. You're a mad bastard, and you've got some nerve, leaving like this.
I don't think you ever quite appreciated what you did for me, even if you were lying. Before I met you—well. I was—alone. All I could write in that blasted blog was that nothing ever happened to me. Once I met you, that became untrue, and I am so, so grateful to you for that.
I owe you. I know we were chasing that phrase around the city, after Moriarty, but—it's true. I owe you so much. You dragged me out of my slump, put my—my spark back where it belonged—still belongs—with your madcap antics and your brilliance and your infuriating tendency to monopolise the kitchen with toxic chemicals and dead bits.
That spark? It left with you. I—I know that sounds—well. A bit melodramatic. You always said my blog romanticised things, and I know that if you were here now, you'd be laying into me with that angry sort of scowl you got, telling me to give you the facts, just the facts, anything else is useless, and you'd have that look in your eye—
Sorry. I'm—sorry, sorry. I'll—stick to the facts, then.
The whole world thinks you're a fraud, now. Everyone. No one believes that you were great. No one believes that you were amazing. Not even Lestrade. Not even Mrs. Hudson, sometimes.
Sometimes—sometimes, I wonder if you were real. If anyone like you could ever exist—it's pretty improbable, after all. But you always said that when you'd eliminated the impossible, whatever remained, however improbable, had to be the truth. And it's impossible that you were having me on. No one can be acting all the time, and you were always an insufferable git. You were always—brilliant. Fantastic. Amazing.
Do you remember our first case together? A Study in Pink, I called it. I called you fantastic and you asked me if I knew I did that out loud.
I did know. I always knew.
Ever since that first case—that first chase across the rooftops, where I left my cane behind; that shot I made for you; the takeaway after the killer was caught; everything—ever since that first case, I think I've been a little in awe of you.
When I met you, you looked—cold. Brilliant, but your brilliance was the thing that kept you separate from the rest of us. Kept you from making friends with ordinary people. I just—I want you to know that, no matter what the world thinks, I'll—I'll always consider myself your friend. Always. No matter what.