My dear Sherlock,

I know that in your perusals of the broadsheets you tend to focus on the morbid and salacious, but I thought that even you would have heard of Sir John Watson, the hero of Mysore. He was appointed The Most Honourable Military Order of the Bath for saving twenty-two men in his regiment when they were cut off from the main force. Apparently, despite some of his men having major injuries, he kept them from dying of infection for the nearly two weeks before the rescue came. Even the two men whose limbs he had to amputate. Quite remarkable. The fashionable society ladies are at odds with one another over which of them will be able to persuade him to break his vow. His wife, you know, died while he was fighting and he has publicly sworn himself to celibacy in her memory. A modern Sir Galahad. I did not believe such men existed in our jaded age.

But to return to our business. I am not asking you to have a philosophical discourse with Lord D_, only to get him into bed. You cannot tell me that all of your partners have been scintillating conversationalists. One tumble is all I ask, and then you can be on your merry way. I know that you have done more for less in your time.

And do make haste. If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly. Then you may go back to whatever amusements you wish with my blessing. I remain

Your affectionate brother,
Mycroft

Whitehall, 7April, 17**