My therapist says that I need to continue to blog, especially now that he's gone. She's been keeping up with it, despite the fact that I haven't been in to see her for eighteen months -- she says it shows promise. I correct her -- it showed progress; it's
(more) all been ruined by that afternoon at Bart's.
What do I write about now? My writing was about our cases, about the adventures we had, about... him. I can't...
Writing is a way for me to remember, but I don't want to remember now. The betrayal -- the loss -- it's all something that I'd rather sweep under the mattress. Nothing happens to me now that he's gone, and I certainly don't want to write about what happened. My nightmares are bad enough as it is.
Maybe... maybe if I write *to* him, instead of *about* him. It could be as if nothing has changed, as if he's simply moping on the sofa in his dressing gown. Right... you can do this, John.
Dear Sherlock...
Oh... bugger it all.(less)
