Dear Sherlock,
This is a difficult letter. I scavenge my mind to best convey my thoughts, but find myself unable to do so. It is hurtful, that is a sentiment Sherlock. I felt I should mention that just in case your mind didn't deduce that. After all you are the cold unfeeling kind, or so they say. Not that I agree but sometimes, most often actually they are right. I write this letter to say it is finished. Us, we, this, it's over! Whatever we had going on here- our little understanding.
Let me put together a brief explanation of why. We met under unassuming circumstances and you grew on me without me having the slightest idea. I found myself, in pertinent situations asking, "What would Sherlock do?" You were my eyes to see the world, my hero! I was so immersed in your methods I did not, I could not see the flaws. I find myself asking even today what they are. I don't see them Sherlock, but the world does, and the world is right. The world is always right. Watson and I share a kindred bond. We both understand the need to worship a genius such as yourself. Watson dedicated so may texts to you. I say Sherlock that is not enough. Nothing ever will be.
The fault is mine Sherlock. I let the world in. There is no space anymore.
Goodbye.
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