Dear You,
My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I am 9 years old. I live in Edinbrugh with my Mother, whom I will refer to as Mummy more often than not, because that's how she likes it. She's really tall (5 foot, 7 inches! Can you imagine? I really want to be that tall, when I grow up, and see everything, like she does. I've always seen more than it's usual, but that's not normal. Children at school say so, and they seem to be much more efficient at these deductions than I am. Not Mummy, though because she sees and somehow, it works.), and her hair is starting to grey at the temples I'm not quite sure about her age, because it's not something she talks about, and it's not important. Not until she's almost gone, anyway.
My older brother, Mycroft, lives with us, as well. Well, I don't think he's my brother, we don't really look alike, and we're supposed to. He's a redhead, which is frankly ridiculous, because not even Mamie (our Grandmother, that is) has hair that red, and his eyes are a really creepy olive green. Did I mention he's also 16 years old? It doesn't make sense to me, to be honest. But at least our bickering is over interesting matters and not football, or, I don't know, the peas in the refrigerator. He's still a busybody and a smug imbecile, though.
My Dad lives in London now, and he left two years ago. He sometimes calls and he sometimes doesn't. I don't miss him, to be honest. Mycroft says it's heartless, but he doesn't miss him, either. The difference here is that I know Mycroft is not heartless, because he's got a friend called Nick, who always comes 'round during Christmas. And they just seem so ridiculously happy together, especially when Mycroft gives him Liquorice Allshots, which are nice, I suppose. They wouldn't make me grin like an idiot and hold hands with him. I think it's because he's my brother, and I hate him. Anyway, he cares about his friend, even though he ignores our father's voice through the telephone, and sometimes mocks me.
I don't have a friend, and I do that, as well, so if you take that away from the equation, I suppose I'm heartless. And that, according to most of society's standards is not normal. But now I'm writing to you, my Anonymous Savior (my, doesn't that sound dramatic?) You're not anonymous because I don't know your identity, but because you don't exist, not really. And I need someone to help me.
And maybe... maybe one day you will be real, and you'll have saved me.
Very sincerely yours,
Sherlock Holmes.