From: Molly Hooper, to Sherlock Holmes, sent 21 October 1940.
Dearest Sherlock,
When I first met you, you did not seem to be the type to provide comfort. You were thrilling and you intrigued me, but you never struck me as the... reassuring type, let me say. I suppose it is ironic, or at the very least a twist of fate, that simply reading your words comforts me in hundreds of ways. I suppose that's because, as I mentioned before, I hear your voice when I read them. But I suppose it's something much more than that. In fact, I know there's much more. You see, it's not just a matter of having a sound running through my mind. There's so much to feel, not just hear, in your words. Reading your letters is like having you here, beside me, holding my hand and talking to me. (And you thought you were sentimental!)
You spoke, in your first letter, of my kissing you being a memory that you hold onto. I realise now that, in my reply, I never told you that I have a memory of you which, especially now, I find I never want to forget. It's from a couple of years ago, back when I was still engaged. Do you remember that? Tom was a good soul. I'm sure he's still a good soul, to some other girl, somewhere. I've never told you, but I can now. I did see the resemblance between the two of you. I wouldn't be surprised if the resemblance was why my friends set me up with him in the first place. Of course, there's a difference between seeing and registering something. You can see a bird sitting on a tree and enjoy its company very much, but only register the colours of its plumage or its size until it flies away. Not that I'm comparing you or Tom to a bird. All I'm saying is that I only really registered the resemblance until you two met, at John and Mary's engagement party. Unfortunately, after that, I couldn't get rid of it. I think Tom noticed. I didn't talk to him as much; I ended up being more focused on the dog than him. It was only a matter of time before we broke apart. I should make it clear though, that I don't blame you. I know how easily you shoulder the blame Sherlock, but Tom was my mistake and not yours. Anyway, he wasn't that big of a mistake. He can't have been. He led us to here, didn't he? And no-one can be so bad if they lead two people towards one another.
And, as ever, I've strayed completely from the main point. This memory of mine; it was when I was in St. Bart's, working away in the lab. It had been an awful day. First, the bus was late and I'd had to walk into work. Second, I'd discovered that Radcliffe—as always—hadn't bothered to complete his paperwork, which meant I had to do it for him and was then late starting my own work as a result. Then Stamford came in, asking me to process a large set of blood results and he was so kind and sweet and apologetic about it, I couldn't really say no. Then you came in, and told me you were working on a case with John and demanded my help. Then, when I said no, you did that puppy-eye thing you used to believe still worked on me. (I know I've told you this before, but just because it works once, does not mean it works every time!) The blood results were just about to finish processing, so I told you to wait for a moment. But you kept pressing, and pressing, and that was it. I burst into tears, right there and then. Funny really, how the body and the mind reacts to things. In some situations, I am a terrible crier. I cry at sad films, sad music, and even sad books! In others, I'm fine. I cope with stress well. You, that day, were simply the straw that broke the camel's back.
It happens to all of us, I'm sure. Things just pile up and up and up, one right after the other, until you have to express your frustration somehow. Sometimes, that frustration comes out in tears. What sticks in my mind, however, is the way you reacted. You sat me down, crouched in front of me and held my hands. You didn't say a word, save for the occasional reassurance whenever I apologised for crying or shocking you or whatever I was saying, I can barely remember what was coming out of my mouth at that point. Your eyes, I remember those. You weren't looking at me with any amusement or malice. Nor did you look at me with any sense of frustration or boredom. It was simply a look of patience, a look that told me "take your time". Perhaps you'd been faced with someone breaking down before? Or perhaps you listened to instinct? That's the memory I have anyhow, of you. And it makes every word I read of yours so much sweeter.
In regards to Mrs Hudson, I told her that you're glad for her efforts, just as you asked. She, surprisingly, did not brush the remark off as "silly" but told me to thank you and sat me down with a cup of tea. She knows, I think. How much of a burden it is on the both of us. She possesses an incredible sense of empathy, that woman—even if she doesn't quite understand the situation, she knows exactly what people feel. I'm so grateful to her for that, especially now. For though I do hear your voice, and it does comfort me, I can't help but miss you. I've even got the date of your return circled in my calendar. (Is that pathetic or hopeful? I can't tell.)
I also direct my greatest sympathies to you, Lestrade, John and every man in your company for having to deal with Major Barrymore. He sounds like one of those people they constantly have on the radio. Going on about King and Country and the good of war. Mary's very funny whenever she hears them. She just sings loudly until they go away again. Thankfully, I haven't personally encountered any of those sorts of people, but with things being the way they are, I'm sure it's only a matter of time unfortunately. Oh well. At least I know how to cope with them when they do pop up. I'll just nod, smile, say I'm currently very busy and then run away as fast as possible.
I've also found the reason for why my last few letters have been so gloomy. Sitting here, listening to the radio and going back and forth to work, or sitting in the bomb shelters in the cold while having no clue what's going on, I can't help but feel, well… slightly useless. There you are, fighting for us, and here I am, moaning on about bloody Vera Lynn. It hardly seems fair. It isn't fair, as a matter of fact. Don't misunderstand me; I do adore my job at St. Bart's. How can I not? It's always intriguing and fun and some of the bodies that come through for autopsy are impossible to believe, but I want to contribute. I want to do something. I'm getting rather sick of twiddling my thumbs and feeling worried all the time.
But, on a lighter note (see, I am cheerful!) I'm going to say thank you, for explaining your mind palace to me. I never realised or thought about the process of making and maintaining a mind palace, to be honest. I suppose, if I were going to 'compare' my mind to a structure of some kind, I'd say that I've got more of a mind garden. It's filled with all sorts of things that spring and bloom up out of nowhere. The silly things, the passing amusements, they wilt and fade away very quickly. The significant things though. They stay. They endure. And you've remained in my mind for quite a while, Mr Holmes.
Surely that says something to you?
Always yours,
Molly.