Dear You,
Mycroft has finally, finally moved out of the cottage (of course, he'd been living away for 11 years now, at Oxford, but it doesn't mean it's a relief to not have him hanging around, being so annoyingly condescending and pompous every single holiday.) Apparently he's managed to get himself a position in the government (have asked, secretary at Westminster, archive for mocking purposes) and is now making sure my first year at Cambridge is comfortable. I sometimes wonder how he manages to walk straight (it's always the ones from political sciences, the idiots. They think their public speech courses can get them anywhere. The only thing he's capable of doing if I drop out is telling Mummy and even she knows it's useless.)
Have managed to scare away 5 roommates in the span of two months; Knox Overstreet, future banker, jock, didn't manage to keep his mouth shut. Acid burns in his suitcase (did you know shriveled leather makes the fluffiest carpet?). Sebastian Wilkes, Overstreet's classmate, overly friendly, found me trying to cut my hair with a fork (why does no-one understand the concept of innovative chemistry? Honestly, it's not as if most lanthanides are toxic) and now has decided to hate me. The sheer force of my brain seemed to drive him away. Zoƫ Owens, lit student, too weak for honest deductions. Victor Trevor, nice enough chap, tried to keep his dog inside the residential area. Dog licked puddle of liquefied nitrogen near the laboratory, died, I got the blame (experiments again. I did warn him, though.) My other roommate left after two hours, I'm not sure why. It might have had to do with the cocaine solutions under his bed.
I couldn't afford to get caught. Not now, because even if Mycroft tells Mummy, and Mummy doesn't care, I like to think you would. That I dropped out, I mean; you probably wouldn't mind the habit, because I take healthy doses. And it's my first year here, nobody has to know. If you were real, you'd be intelligent enough to understand. And quiet. And curious about my experiments, not derising.
But that would only prove that you were an illusion, because I'm not sure anyone is capable of standing me. Not for ten years, like you have. I shouldn't have shot up.
Very sincerely yours,
Sherlock Holmes
