Nothing
Appears
To be
Between the ears of
The lazy sunbathers
Too jaded
To question stagnation
Dear John,
This place is hateful. I loathe it. I imagine you would like it, though. And perhaps try to find some way to make it appeal to me, too, though I doubt it. It's hot and the sun is relentless. How on earth did you tolerate being in the desert for all that time?
People just lay about here. Lazy and boring people. I don't see the attraction in lying out in the sun all day. Getting drunk on watered-down cocktails. Some of them read, but rarely it's anything more challenging than the latest issue of Heat. I loathe them all.
But I force myself to join them. I sit out and let the sun transform me. Using my watchstrap as a marker, I see I am becoming quite bronzed, which is no easy feat when one is as pale as I and prone to burning to a crisp.
Sometimes the women try to talk to me. Sometimes they are young and wearing tiny swimsuits and they giggle when I tell them to bugger off because they think I am joking.
Why does everyone think I am joking when I tell them to go away?
So I have to make them understand in plainer language. A few times I have received a cocktail in the face as a result. Usually something overly sweet and tasting of artificial coconut. Repulsive.
Sometimes they are older and I occasionally engage them long enough to deduce their motives. Most are unhappily married or recently divorced and looking for a bit of holiday romance to recharge their batteries. Some of them don't mind paying for it. Some of them are already paying for it, but looking for some variety.
Sometimes it's the men who seek my company. Mostly older and quite discreet. A few times I was tempted, simply to break the monotony. Do you see what I have been reduced to, John? It's pathetic. I don't want to talk to anyone. Except you.
Thankfully I won't be here much longer. It was arranged to bring me here to recover from the fall and to let the dust settle, so to speak, before beginning my pursuit and dismantling of Moriarty's network. After the bruises healed and the bones knitted I started working on my tan. I tried to cut my hair myself, but botched the attempt. In retrospect, perhaps it was unwise to make the attempt using a box-cutter. Mycroft begged me for photos, but as if I'd give him the satisfaction. Fortunately there is a hair salon in the resort.
I don't care what they say; blonds do not have more fun, John.
This is the least fun place I can imagine. But next week I leave for Prague. At least that will be more interesting. Until then I can only hope someone is murdered here at the resort so I can occupy myself until I can leave this blasted place.
I don't sleep very often and when I do, I dream about the fall. Being on the roof at Bart's and hearing your voice on the phone. I can't imagine what it must have looked like, John. And I regret having to deceive you like this. If I survive this mission, I hope some day to return and make you understand.
Until then, all I have are these letters. Letters I can't send. Letters that aren't really letters because I am not writing anything down. Can't take the risk. No point if they're not going to be sent, anyway. This is what I do, John. I sit in the sun with the other morons and I think letters to you. I'm told you are coping. I suppose that's the best anyone could hope for. I do hope you have kept the skull. Try talking to it. It helps. I could use it right now. I have neither you, nor the skull. Just the lazy sunbathers and a wretched half-life of an existence. I hope it is not that way for you, John. Keep living and being the good man that you are. This is what I want to see when I come home. And I am coming home. Just wait and see.
Yours,
Sherlock
