"I've got the milk, again…" the passive aggressiveness in John Watson's voice was palpable.
Silence was the only answer from Sherlock Holmes as John bustled through the door carrying the groceries; steering towards the kitchen; making sure to amplify any sounds of strain…
In the kitchen he sat, Sherlock, reading a letter. A long one by the number of pages in the detective's hands.
Sherlock's gloved fingers were testing the fibres of the paper as he studied each handwritten word with a deep interest.
He was in that state where he would never have noticed John coming in. The whole world could have shook…
"You've got a letter?" John asked, never the wiser… or perhaps he was just an impossible optimist.
Holmes' eyes scanned the letter fast.
"It's evidence" he finally answered after the longest while.
John had already put away the milk and the few other things he picked up while he was at the shop anyway… it seemed an impossible task to go into a store and just leave with the one item you came for… probably some clever conspiracy from the shopkeepers…
"Oh" John shrugged his shoulder and closed the cupboard. "From that girl's flat?"
"Yes"
"To Mr. Holmes" John read from the purple envelope "What, she knew you'd be there?"
"Obviously" Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"I thought you solved that one already?" John reached for a biscuit in the jar he had just refilled.
"I did" the detective answered, his eyes never leaving the stationary.
"What is so interesting about a letter?" Watson wondered and then reminded Holmes: "You've got other cases"
"It's a letter" He stated the obvious.
"Yes?" John was clearly not following Sherlock's thinking.
"A handwritten letter. What nineteen-year-old woman would handwrite a letter? Do they even teach kids handwriting these days?"
"Old fashioned? Not all people follow the norm, you know… maybe she liked to stand out?" John tried.
"Maybe, or maybe she didn't want this particular correspondence to be traceable" Sherlock deducted "There's a number of reasons for that… all of which peaks my interest"
Holmes had never let go of the papers in his hands.
"Wait. How did you know it was from her flat?" Sherlock's brow furrowed and his nose crinkled. His eyes narrowed in on the doctor. "Ah" Holmes solved that mystery himself before John had time to swallow the biscuit and answer "Purple Fever?" he referred to John's blog post about the case. Her bedroom was decorated in nothing but shades of purple.
"Yes" John could only confirm.
"Would you mind, though, I'm trying to read" Sherlock rudely shooed John out of the kitchen; his patience had run out.
He needed privacy to read the letter. He knew that much already.
…
"Dear Mr. Holmes.
I hope this letter reaches you. Not so much for your benefit, but if anything; for the sake of my own peace.
I don't know how to start this, or how to do it right. I have already burned several versions of this letter.
I suppose a man like you can get something from that…
I used to believe in fairy tales when I was a very little girl; it seems a lifetime ago though. I used to pretend my life was one, so maybe that is how I should start.
Once upon a time there was a little baby girl; just out of NICU, but still half dead. On a scale of one to ten of viability she was a very small one…
But she had big brown eyes and curly hair the colour of ebony on her head already… and she constantly screamed for food; probably having been deprived in the womb; maybe it had something to do with the mother smoking during the pregnancy… but when comparing herself to the mother of the baby who was the little girl's incubator neighbour; born with heroine cravings, this little girl's mother felt like a saint.
The day the little girl was taken out of the incubator and allowed to sleep in her mother's room in a small cot a man came to visit her mother, but the man refused to even look at the little girl; not even once.
I have often wondered about the reasons that man had.
Did the girl scream too much?
Was it too difficult to see a baby with tubes in her nose and a heart monitor attached?
Was it out of guilt? Because he knew he'd never look at her again; or see her grow up… his own flesh and blood.
The little girl did grow up. Full of questions… She read books before most of her peers could even identify the letters of the alphabet… She quickly moved on from childish fictions to fact books; studying the inner workings of life and death, science and anthropology. She found her favourite art form very young. Vanitas. She found a while world in a painting of a rotting and melting skull.
She understood.
She thought she had the answers to her own ancestry too. Missing half of herself only made her curious. She read biology books, asked teachers questions they were not qualified to answer to such a young, eager student… She memorized her own blood type after a 'fun' school lab test, remembering which blood types could and which could not father a child with hers, after finding out her mother shared the same type. The same she did with eye colours, hair colours…
But knowing her mother would not be pleased to find this out, the girl kept her research stored in her own computer… better known as her brain.
She was a smart kid… but the one last piece of the puzzle still remained. She had searched drawers and what not… but she found nothing to solve the mystery.
I assume the girl was happy once. She must have been blissfully unaware up to a point.
Knowledge isn't always healthy for a child… especially not if knowledge and experience tells her that people are horrible, while still being a child made her ask "But, was it my fault?" and reasoning that "It must be".
This is not a happy fairy tale, I realize. I'm sorry if I didn't meet your expectation… it was at night sometimes, when the girl told herself happy stories because no one cared to read for her. She would make up stories about her missing father coming back to her, to save her from the evil dragon that was her mother, and because she had been a good girl he would reward her patience.
Some nights he would be a king, which made her a princess, and he would buy her nice new dresses and all the kids wanted to be her friend, rather than bullying her…
But there's a reason why they are called fairy tales, Mr. Holmes… none of them are true. And one can only escape into fiction for so long.
I assume the girl was depressed from the age of 5 years old, that was when she started having nightmares about committing suicide. When she wasn't having some Freudian recurring dream about a detached hand stalking her in public places.
Either that hand was a symbol of absent her father, as one therapist much later in her life did indulge… or maybe it was her brain's way of processing the guilt and shame the sexual abuse she suffered.
It's one thing having an early developed mind, but add to it a body developing fast as well… and this she came to blame her father for. Not that he did any of it, obviously. But as she grew older she grew to wonder if he could have stopped it, instead of her mother allowing it continue. But perhaps the same man who couldn't get himself to look at a baby with tubes would have looked the other way about these things as well.
I could list all of the horribly sad things that happened to this little girl… but what good would it do us both? Experience tells me that these matters usually make people lose interest, or stop believing in ant word you say after a while. No one can experience that much hurt and survive.
But she was strong. And she was broken beyond words.
Her body had probably learned to fight from when she was a new born baby, and not one of her attempts succeeded. Tragic, or comical? Take your pick, Mr. Holmes.
Her first attempt came when she was nine years old; thinking her mother would be better off without a horrible child to raise… and perhaps the girl's father would return if she was not in the way.
That's the trouble with children and knowledge…
And isn't it amazing how in this day and age a child born of a single mother could be judged and treated. It seems like a frequent thing, and now single women can apply for sperm donation and adoption. But it felt like this little girl grew up in the dark ages… a girl out of her time…
The children were bad enough, but guess where the kids learned to call her those names? And would you believe me if I told you grown people told it to her face as well? Treating her like she was a dirty second class citizen. A bastard child; borne out of wedlock. Oh, dear me!
No matter what this girl went through; there were two things that would never stop haunting her.
The fact that her father left her, and never once cared to find her, and that he left her with a mother who was incapable of showing her little girl love.
Did her father know this? Was he aware? Was he worried?
Mr Holmes… If I can assume you are still reading… I am sorry for my writing in third person.
Since I found the last puzzle piece I have followed you. And I found my answers. You seem as incapable and inept when it comes to human emotions as my mother. You two must have been a lovely match back then. However, I don't understand her explanation that my father was a married man at the time I was conceived. Perhaps she tried to protect me? Or more likely… protect you from me showing up at your door; asking for something you could never deliver.
It has given me an answer to why 'that man' couldn't look at 'the little girl' in that cot. You are famous for not caring for the things that are unimportant to you.
Going by that logic, you probably haven't made it this far into the letter.
Goodbye Mr. Holmes"
…
The kitchen was too silent for John's liking. He cautiously entered, expecting to be groaned at for disturbing Sherlock's peace.
Holmes' face was grave. His hands were shivering, almost tearing up the paper in his hands.
"I never knew" he mumbled under his breath.
"Wait, is that her suicide note?" John asked horrified, remembering the details of the case. It turned out to be nothing more than a young woman ending her own life; leaving a detailed list of men who had done her harm.
"Have I always been so blind to the things that matter?" Sherlock looked up at John with glassy eyes.