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I wrote him a letter every week.
A long one when the shooting stopped, a short one when it started again or a long short one when I didn't know what to say. I always ended them like this, "Don't forget me, Sherlock. When I'm back we're getting married. John." The only letter with a different ending was the last one.
It read, "I found this in John's kit-bag. I thought it might give you some comfort. Private Garrick, John's bunk mate." I didn't write those words, you know. I never finished that letter.
That's beside the point. I had a two year tour of Afghanistan; I sent out 103 letters to Baker street. Garrick sent the 104th, because I couldn't.
One of the hazards of war is getting shot. One of the hazards of getting shot is that it can be fatal. One of the hazards of a fatal shot is that you die.
Really, war is just us making little bits of metal zoom through the air. It's not about killing, only it is. You can forget that though, sometimes, when you look at the stars. Stars are the same in sandy plains and in busy cities.
That thought gives me comfort as I lie here.
Soldiers' wives tend to have stacks of letters, tied with ribbon, in their rooms. Sherlock doesn't any more. He burned them all with the coffin and the union jack.
It's hard to find something to write about every week. You forget that back home they don't care about guns and sand and death. That back home, they've never seen a man dead.
So you don't write about explosions, or blood, or the starving children you see by the road. I wrote about love; how ironic. I wrote about the only thing we didn't have. We had gore and guts aplenty, but love was ever hard to find.
I said, "I love you. Je t'aime. I love you like a break in the fighting when I can lay down my rifle and save my friend's life. Je t'aime la nuit, quand il n'y a pas de bruit et on peut regarder les étoiles en paix. I love you."
We write beautiful things on a battlefield wading in blood. As we shoot a man, we write poetry. One day, blood and the zing of fear becomes poetry and you'll never be able to live without it. I told Sherlock once that my first love would always be the fight.
He laughed, but I know he understood. And as he stands by my grave, I hope he understands. I hope that one day, there will be a 105th letter.
Yet I hope there won't be, because that letter can't be from me.