A/N: Again, all my love to the lovely people here who support me and this story, and to my beta Pipsi.
Let's see what Sherlock has to say about Tom…

New Delhi

"It crossed my mind that my letters are all about me and not you. I would hope that you pay me the same respect."
― Bill Callahan, Letters to Emma Bowlcut

22nd September

Molly,

I have left the Himalayas behind and am now in New Delhi. (I have never written anything about ninja-monks. How do you come up with that peculiar combination?! There is no such a thing.) In my time between waiting for a contact I passed my time with solving a local case. Maybe you have seen the press conference of Inspector Prakesh on the news. He is a good man, but the police here are just as useless as ours back in London. One of the forensic guys would be a serious threat to Anderson in case of stupidity. Anyway, the police were not able to find the murderer of a woman, because – as usual – they did not observe. In order to find the killer I only had to calculate the distance the chocolate flake had sunk into the victim's ice-cream cone. It was as easy as that. (I remember quite a similar case involving the family Abernetty) When will the police realize that all it takes to solve a case is pay attention to details? It was like the time when Lestrade told me they had solved the case, because they had found the murderer and I had to explain to him that finding the killer and solving the case were not the same.

Concerning Lestrade's first name: This information is not vital. I have to delete some boring information from time to time in order to save more important ones. So far Lestrade has been fine with me calling him by his surname. And even if he weren't, I would not mind. Names in general don't matter much to me. They are just some arrangements of consonants and vowels. What does it matter if your name is Molly or Sally? Names don't tell you anything about a person.

I hope Anderson does not expect me to be grateful for his attempt at blackmailing Kitty Riley. (Why are you referring to her as "Hello" Kitty?) I don't need or expect him to defend me. I am perfectly capable of doing that myself. If I had wanted I would have revealed Kitty Riley's little secret myself, but she's not worth the time or effort. Additionally I can only repeat myself: I don't care what anyone writes about me in the papers. I don't depend on the opinion of people reading that crap. And you would be wise to do the same.

You should learn to be more confident about your skills. Of course you telling Lestrade you thoughtyou might have solved the case would leave him doubtful. But if you were to state with absolute conviction that you have solved the case, he would believe you from the beginning. Stop belittling yourself. You are a competent pathologist. And just to clarify: I did not make "assumptions" on the circumstances of the crime. These were logical conclusions.

You're not one to judge about a messy lifestyle: Your flat is more of a chaos than mine ever was. You have so much useless stuff standing around, and how you can live with a bookshelf that is such a mess I cannot understand. Your books are neither arranged according to titles, authors nor genres. Not even your medical journals are arranged according to issue. How can one live like that? And your collection of DVDs... don't even get me started. Ordinary people may not recognize my system as such, but rest assured I have one. And as opposed to your flat: All stuff that I have in mine is essential to my work. You can't be telling me that a collection of vanilla scented candles holds any relevance to your work as a pathologist. And why do you keep those dead flowers on your sill? Are you planning on conducting any experiments on them, or what other purpose do they serve? You have a morbid sense of humour, but I doubt that you want to be surrounded by death in your spare time as well.

I hope you've told Mrs Hudson that there's nothing to worry about since it is scientifically impossible for anything in the fridge to become alive and eat her. The imagination of old women can be too vivid sometimes.

How can a skull have sentimental value to me? It is just bone. It is a product of an early case, nothing more.

Women being the head of organized crime is not as unusual as you might think. And it's not something that came along only in the last few years (although it's getting more common). Don't you know that Mrs Hudson and the deceased Mr Hudson ran a drug cartel? (She still insists on only doing the typing and being ignorant of what was going on, but we know her better than that, don't we?) But don't mention it to her, because she'll know you got that information from me. But you can YouTube her belly-dancing. She does not like talking about her past, although I don't see why, because she led a rather exciting life. Nowadays the highlight of her days is getting a new tea set.

You are not really fond of parties. I don't understand why you were attending one. Especially one where there would be solely couples that would remind you of your status of being a single woman in your thirties. Why would you torture yourself like that? Seems like I was right in my assumption that you have masochistic tendencies.

As for this Tom guy: He sounds downright boring. Doesn't he have any other ideas for a first date than taking you to a pub? I can't see why you would be even interested in him. He's not your type. He's not like… I don't even know why you get your hopes up. He's a dog person after all and you are a cat's person. As the childish background of your blog so subtly tells...
At least he is who he said he was – my backup check confirmed it. Seems like his older sister is the "wild" one in the family, being prosecuted once for indecent behaviour. With Tom you've managed to pick the most boring family member. Congratulations.

Since your date will have already taken place when you'll get that letter, let me guess how it went: If the weather would have permitted it, you had worn your yellow summer dress. You went to The Fence, which was okay for you, but you were hoping he would take you to The Hope, since this is your favourite pub on Cowcross Street. He ordered a beer and you a gin and tonic. At first it felt awkward, due to your nervousness. You started with some small talk, followed by boring questions from him like, "Do you have siblings? What do your parents do?"(There's an awkward moment because yours are deceased. You tried to lighten the mood with a morbid joke which went terribly wrong). Long story short: You asked each other all those silly questions that don't give you any valid information about a person. There was not much you could tell, since your life stopped being interesting after my departure. Therefore you told him about your job, which he tolerated, but he did not show any real interest in it. You found that a bit disappointing, but tried to hide it, because at least he was not grossed out by what you do for a living like most men were that you had met before. So after three beers (him) and one Gin and Tonic and one Coke (you did not want to seem like a drunk on your first date) you've decided to call it a night. He accompanied you to the underground. And when it was time to say goodbye, he was unsure if he should kiss you. You were not sure yourself, so you kissed him on the cheek. You saw disappointment flicker across his face, but chose to ignore it. You told each other you should do that again one day, but each one of you will wait for the other to make the next move. Subsequently there won't be a second date.
How did I do? Now tell me: Is that your idea of a perfect first date? I hardly believe so.

Sherlock

A/N: Since some of you have asked me how long this story will be: I'm planning on doing 24 chapters. All of them are already fully or at least partly written. So it's all mapped out and the letters will get longer and more personal bit by bit. It's a constant work in progress, because if I change something in one letter, it affects all the other ones that follow. That's why it always takes some time until I post the next letter.