Dearest Martha,
I sincerely appreciate your concern in these trying times. I daresay that I have never seen John quite this distraught. I have to admit that there are elements, of his life with the detective, that I am blissfully ignorant of. He often told me that he wished to keep these things from me for my own safety. Yet, I suspected that it was a portion of his life that he wished to keep for himself. I believe that he enjoyed those midnight adventures deeply, and he enjoyed coming home to me and insulating himself from it just as much. So, I did not pry.
However, since the detective's death John has become strangely isolated. Oh, I shouldn't make too much of it. Most of the time he is still my John, the consummate gentleman and companion. Yet, it's the evenings that I find most disturbing. An hour or two after supper he excuses himself for a walk. I had thought nothing of it at first, but these walks continue to increase in length. In fact, he did not come home until the morning on last Tuesday. I was dreadfully worried, but I try to remain understanding.
John never had many friends. That is to say true friends. To be certain, he has contemporaries and acquaintances. Actually, he is far warmer with his colleagues than he and the detective ever were. Yet, he and the detective shared a bond that went beyond well wishes and perfunctory sentiment. It was something ethereal, and at the risk of sound blasphemous, it seemed almost spiritual. I feel horrible and for saying it Martha, but there were times when I actually felt jealous.
Occasionally, I would drop by the detective's for supper. Mrs. Hudson makes a wonderful kidney pie. That poor sweet woman. James and I offered to bring her into our service, but she refuses to abandon her post. She keeps saying that the master will be back soon, and she best have everything in order upon his return. In any event, I would drop by for dinner occasionally and sit with the detective and John. It was always quite tedious. They would simply sit and smoke, staring at the fire. My attempts at conversation were met with grunts and groans. I could never understand why John spent so much time with him. After all, we were invited to so many wonderful events far more prestigious than an evening staring at the fire, but there they were night after night lost in oblivion. Quite frankly, I was shocked at the detectives lack of humanity. He seemed to have the warmth of a cobblestone.
Still, by chance I came upon them during one of their adventures. I delivered a letter to them in the midst of a case, and the difference was remarkable. The detective was so full of life. His face was flush and red, and John.I blush even now, but he kissed me when I entered the room. Can you believe it Martha? He kissed me in public. I think the detective even smiled when he did it. I thought they had consumed too much wine, but John composed himself and scolded me for interrupting their work. So I thought little of it at the time. Yet, now I reflect on that moment and realize that I saw a glimpse of what made their bond so strong. They loved the adventure. They lived for the hunt.
Oh, how I wish I could give him that moment back. He looks so absent, so lost now. As I said, by day he is completely John. But the nights, during the nights he is so different. I found him in the sitting room in the wee hours of yesterday morning. He was dressed as if he was going out, and he held the detectives violin in his hand. I asked him if he were going out, and he looked at me as if I were a thousand miles away. He softly touched the violin strings and said "the song is over." I asked him to come upstairs and he repeated himself: "The song is over." I was so frightened that I went into our bedroom and pulled the linen over my head. I could hear him downstairs, trying desperately to play the instrument. Then I heard him yelling "THE SONG IS OVER. THE SONG IS OVER." I don't know how long this went on. Yet come the morning, he sat at the breakfast table and greeted me as if nothing had happened. Incidents like these have become increasingly common in this house.
Normally, I would decline your offer to visit us, but to my delight, John has agreed to take a holiday. I have been pleading with him for months to take a sabbatical, and he has politely declined each time. Yet, the other day he received a telegram from an associate of Holmes who stated that he and John had much to discuss. I was elated to see John accept. Although I have never met the gentleman, I understand that he is from a prestigious family. I believe that John said his name was Usher. Yes, a Mister Roderick Usher.
In any event, I would love to receive you for a visit while John is on holiday. Perhaps I can feel a sense of much needed normalcy return to our house. The poppies are in full bloom here, and I know that we will have a wonderful time. Faithfully Yours,
Mary Watson
I sincerely appreciate your concern in these trying times. I daresay that I have never seen John quite this distraught. I have to admit that there are elements, of his life with the detective, that I am blissfully ignorant of. He often told me that he wished to keep these things from me for my own safety. Yet, I suspected that it was a portion of his life that he wished to keep for himself. I believe that he enjoyed those midnight adventures deeply, and he enjoyed coming home to me and insulating himself from it just as much. So, I did not pry.
However, since the detective's death John has become strangely isolated. Oh, I shouldn't make too much of it. Most of the time he is still my John, the consummate gentleman and companion. Yet, it's the evenings that I find most disturbing. An hour or two after supper he excuses himself for a walk. I had thought nothing of it at first, but these walks continue to increase in length. In fact, he did not come home until the morning on last Tuesday. I was dreadfully worried, but I try to remain understanding.
John never had many friends. That is to say true friends. To be certain, he has contemporaries and acquaintances. Actually, he is far warmer with his colleagues than he and the detective ever were. Yet, he and the detective shared a bond that went beyond well wishes and perfunctory sentiment. It was something ethereal, and at the risk of sound blasphemous, it seemed almost spiritual. I feel horrible and for saying it Martha, but there were times when I actually felt jealous.
Occasionally, I would drop by the detective's for supper. Mrs. Hudson makes a wonderful kidney pie. That poor sweet woman. James and I offered to bring her into our service, but she refuses to abandon her post. She keeps saying that the master will be back soon, and she best have everything in order upon his return. In any event, I would drop by for dinner occasionally and sit with the detective and John. It was always quite tedious. They would simply sit and smoke, staring at the fire. My attempts at conversation were met with grunts and groans. I could never understand why John spent so much time with him. After all, we were invited to so many wonderful events far more prestigious than an evening staring at the fire, but there they were night after night lost in oblivion. Quite frankly, I was shocked at the detectives lack of humanity. He seemed to have the warmth of a cobblestone.
Still, by chance I came upon them during one of their adventures. I delivered a letter to them in the midst of a case, and the difference was remarkable. The detective was so full of life. His face was flush and red, and John.I blush even now, but he kissed me when I entered the room. Can you believe it Martha? He kissed me in public. I think the detective even smiled when he did it. I thought they had consumed too much wine, but John composed himself and scolded me for interrupting their work. So I thought little of it at the time. Yet, now I reflect on that moment and realize that I saw a glimpse of what made their bond so strong. They loved the adventure. They lived for the hunt.
Oh, how I wish I could give him that moment back. He looks so absent, so lost now. As I said, by day he is completely John. But the nights, during the nights he is so different. I found him in the sitting room in the wee hours of yesterday morning. He was dressed as if he was going out, and he held the detectives violin in his hand. I asked him if he were going out, and he looked at me as if I were a thousand miles away. He softly touched the violin strings and said "the song is over." I asked him to come upstairs and he repeated himself: "The song is over." I was so frightened that I went into our bedroom and pulled the linen over my head. I could hear him downstairs, trying desperately to play the instrument. Then I heard him yelling "THE SONG IS OVER. THE SONG IS OVER." I don't know how long this went on. Yet come the morning, he sat at the breakfast table and greeted me as if nothing had happened. Incidents like these have become increasingly common in this house.
Normally, I would decline your offer to visit us, but to my delight, John has agreed to take a holiday. I have been pleading with him for months to take a sabbatical, and he has politely declined each time. Yet, the other day he received a telegram from an associate of Holmes who stated that he and John had much to discuss. I was elated to see John accept. Although I have never met the gentleman, I understand that he is from a prestigious family. I believe that John said his name was Usher. Yes, a Mister Roderick Usher.
In any event, I would love to receive you for a visit while John is on holiday. Perhaps I can feel a sense of much needed normalcy return to our house. The poppies are in full bloom here, and I know that we will have a wonderful time. Faithfully Yours,
Mary Watson