From: Sherlock Holmes, to Molly Hooper, 11 November 1940.
Molly,
News has come through today that the unit that was aiming to move towards Taranto has come under attack from Italian aircraft. Near Malta, so they say. I can't really describe how it feels to have such news come through. On one hand, there's a palpable sense of relief that we're making some sort of progress, that at least one of the units is able to move on. On the other, I know that soon our unit will be told to march on, move on, make progress; and I'll be one step closer to you – to my return – but, in geographical terms, it feels like I'm a thousand more steps away from Baker Street, Mrs Hudson's determination, Mary, John, everyone.
Well, not a thousand. I'm sure that even the best trained of soldiers couldn't walk a thousand steps in a day. Perhaps over a period of time, they could. Tell the truth, I'm so exhausted, I can't calculate it. Everyone's exhausted now. That fervour of going to war, and being one of Britain's brave boys, has worn off. What keeps them going now is the idea of victory. It's not "We'll Meet Again" that they sing or hum now, but "White Cliffs of Dover".
Christmas is what keeps me going. I don't want a gift, nor do I need one, so save the expense. I am terrible to buy gifts for, as I think I've proved before now, and I'm a terrible gift buyer on top of that. Overall, Christmas and I haven't really got in the past. What was it John once described me as? Ah yes, Scrooge. He just reminded me as such. (Seems he's picked up Lestrade's annoying habit of reading over my shoulder.) This year, I think Christmas may be able to tolerate me though. And I might be able to tolerate it back. The snow, the carols, and the endless and relentless cheeriness of others – but I have a feeling that I could cope with it this year...
As to your papers coming through in your post, I confess I don't have a clue who exactly could be involved with that. (If it pleases you to know, John just snorted and rolled his eyes beside me.) But I know that you'll be good at whatever it is they assign you to do. I have heard that work in the munitions factory can be awfully hard – in one of his rare letters, my brother mentioned as such – and that the hours are long, but you've coped with worse. If you can work with me and tolerate me for as long as you have, then the munitions factory will be easy.
It amazes me, actually, that a woman like you, a woman who bears her heart with pride and can make me – me! – speechless, should think she could ever run out of words. Molly, did I not tell you before? I treasure every word you write in your letters. I treasure them as much as (I assume) you treasure mine. I feel your fear, that fear of loss. I've never had the opportunity to have such warmth and kindness so near me, ready at any moment for me to pluck out of my kitbag and read at my leisure, during the quiet moments here. I keep the majority in one of the front pockets and some in the kitbag itself – space is a luxury here, and it is a struggle to fit every letter you write into the damn thing, but luckily paper is foldable. When I return, you'll find your words extremely crumpled and faded, sorry about that. I can't cherish them as you do. Like there's a difference between seeing and registering something, I believe there's a difference between treasuring a possession and cherishing it. It's probably something to do with the use of language. "Treasure" is a lyrical word; "cherish", though it carries as much sentiment, is the more visceral of the two, I find. "Cherish" invokes romantic ideas of clutching something to one's chest, never wanting to let go. I've not quite reached that level of romance. That level comes hand in hand with poetry, and as you know, I am not a man who is gifted in that area. Nor comfortable.
I am comfortable in saying that I love you. And that I smile, even laugh, when I read about how much you love me. It's not a thing that I've ever fully involved myself in. I've experienced it, as you have also, but I've never been one to jump in feet first and declare wholeheartedly my feelings without shame or hesitation. I've stood at the precipice, if one can call it that, but I've backed away at the last moment and ended up treating it like it was nothing but a concept, breaking it into down into mere semantics and chemicals in some attempt at understanding the thing. The circumstance dictated that, but I think it's also to do with trust, and whether the feelings you have are reciprocated. After all, there's no use declaring something if there's no-one there beside you to support you. Where would all the politicians and the scientists and the lawyers and the doctors be in this world if they didn't have at least one person agreeing with them? Shouting needlessly at nothing. In that way, I am rather at an advantage, even if I am hundreds of miles away – because I have you. I have your words. I have the promise of Christmas.
In fact – do you want to know something strange? I've always maintained love is a vicious motivator – but I think my experiences here, what I've seen here, necessitates a change to that. The only problem is that I don't know quite what the change should be. It'll come to me in time though. That I'm sure of.
Yours,
P.S. It's stupid, you having to use that flimsy raincoat of yours. Use my Belstaff. Then I shall have a proper reason to claim it back on my return…