21st November, 2012
Dear John,
I thought this would help me, maybe make me feel like I'm in some form of contact with you. I'll never show you these, however, because it would all be too much for both of us. I've left London, left England in fact. I'm in Denmark staying in a dingy hotel and keeping my head down. It's alright I suppose, but nothing will ever compare to your company.
I really do miss you, you know. Well no, you don't know, because you're not here with me. You're back at home in 221B Baker Street. I'm so sorry I'm not there with you, but you may understand one day why I can't be.
I've begun to grow a beard, John, that's how desperate this has become. Can you even imagine seeing that? I laugh every time I look in the mirror and it takes all the will power I posses not to shave it off. I'm so bored. If I thought home was boring, I hadn't experienced boredom truly. I suppose you were there to keep me company then.
Food isn't good her either, and to be honest, Mrs. Hudson's absence in my life making me feel even more depressed. I miss her, and I didn't expect to at all, but I suppose she thinks of me rarely. I hope she spares me a thought now and again.
I don't think it is at all wise to begin solving cases anytime soon and it is killing me. I know you'd hate me for it, but I have begun to result to drugs. I haven't had any yet this week, but I fear I may become addicted, but I just don't know how to stop on my own, and I feel like it is an escape where I can imagine I'm back in London with you solving boring people's problems.
I'm so sorry if I ever made you feel like you were stupid or boring John, because you are the opposite, believe me.
I'll write again soon,
Your Sherlock.