Disclaimer: I do not own any characters mentioned, except for Mrs. Young and Mr. Arnold. All others belong to the wonderful Conan Doyle!

So I was having a really bad case of writer's block when my friend told me to try stream of consciousness writing. For those who don't know what that is, it's writing whatever comes into your mind, no questions asked. I was reading The Sign of Four when it got me thinking: what would Mary Morstan be thinking throughout the entire ordeal, beginning with the telegram from her father? I applied the SOC and came up with a diary!

Okay, so I'm gonna be uploading under this story like crazy for a few days, and I've got many chapters yet to come! Please bear in mind that some might be really short, and others...not so short, I guess :) I've tried to make this seem as much of a diary of a growing woman as I can, and have been consulting the book to make sure I've got my facts straight and all that. If you see something out of the ordinary, don't hesitate to let me know! And don't be shy about leaving reviews either and telling me what you think!

Thanks and enjoy!

2 December 1878

Alas, I have finally received word from dear Papa! He has come home from that terrorizing country he served, while in a regiment posed for the Queen's army to restate control in that poor, desolate nation of India, I believe. He has sent a telegram from London. The words are so full of love and kindness, and I could feel it...the man has missed me as much as I have him. After seventeen years of painful separation, we shall finally be reunited as father and daughter! Only one more day!

The hotel he requests my presence at is not a long distance from my lodgings. It's called the Langham, and from what I've heard of it through city gossip, it is actually very spacious and comfortable. I'm sure I needn't inform the landlady of my errand, not that she would possess the capacity to care about such an important event in the life of her young tenant. I hate to say it, or write it (technically), but the woman is of a rather beastly nature...what has wronged her in life that she must wrong the lives of those around her?

It is of no consequence to my current predicament, but I do pity Mrs. Young. I rather hope that she may be unburdened of her obvious sufferings eventually. Or, for the sake of the good people she interacts with on a daily basis, including myself, very soon.

But I digress. I'm going off to meet Papa tomorrow! Oh, I cannot bear the anticipation of the look of joy I wish to appear on that rugged, adventurous face of his! But, once acknowledgements are made, and words of love exchanged, what then? Do I inquire as to his military service? Or should I not rub salt into the wound (as the London newspapers report, the success of the regiments deported to Her Majesty's state of India has been minimal)? Will he ask of my well being? Do I inform him of my satisfactory marks from the Edinburgh school he sent me to as a child? That seems like boring conversation to me, but he might want to know. Should I relate to him my fruitless search for employment?

If I should tell him that specific bit of information, he would pity me. I do not require pity from Papa! I only require his love, and that he is unharmed from his perilous journeys.

Ah, I believe Mrs. Young is stomping up the stairs...yes, there is anger and determination in her footsteps...perhaps she is...

And there is the pounding of her meaty fist upon the door of my unfortunate neighbor Mr. Arnold. The poor man can't seem to come up with the necessary payments to continue living in this decrepit boarding house, or so he told me yesterday morning; this confuses me, since the cost to live here obviously reflects the decrepit living situations here. He must be as badly off as I!

I am just too excited to continue writing presently. I think I am going to pour myself a celebratory cup of tea. And try to ignore the blatant and vicarious argument taking place only feet from my own door.