September 25, 1891
Holmes,
I am supposed to be writing the next installment on my Strand stories, but as I sit here surrounded by notes and memories, the task seems a bit too daunting, if not, painful. The idea of continuing on with the stories without you there to criticize their romantic outlooks makes the project seem void and pointless.
Part of me likes looking back and reliving all the adventures we had together. But the other part shies away and never wants to pick up the pen again. The story I have in mind to write today is the one involving Mr. Homer Angel. What a pretty little puzzle that was. I will never forget your audacity in reaching for your riding crop as if to punish Mr. Windibank yourself.
These memories make me smile and add a certain lightness to my soul. Perhaps they will end up being therapeutic; like the journal I kept after my return from Afghanistan. I seem to fancy that in sharing these adventures with others, they too will have an appreciation for you and your profession.
Do they receive Strand subscriptions in the afterlife? The idea of winged angels talking over the headlines on the gold paved streets of heaven seems a bit too whimsical, even for my tastes. But wherever you are, I'm sure you will catch word of my latest story and will be able to critique it from there.
Mary likes to read my stories. Having been a governess at one time or another, she has great talent for editing and going through the errors I have little patience for fixing. I remember the first time I ever attempted to put my feelings for her into written verse. She loved the sentiment and kept it in her dressing table drawer, but it wasn't until some months after we were married did she take it out again and show me the rather embarrassing misspellings.
I wonder if she would like to play editor for me again. I'm not sure I dare ask her after all the worry she already has on her. She did apologize for her abrupt matter the other day. She blamed it on exhaustion and not feeling well, but the truth of the matter lies a bit deeper than that.
Her worry about her upcoming role in motherhood is what plagues her mind the most. I've seen her talking to her neighbors and friends who have children about what to expect. The other day I even caught her questioning the milkman about his wife's recent delivery.
But I do like the nights we used to spend together, curled up on the settee with my arm around her shoulder as I read my latest manuscripts by the fire. She always knows the right places to laugh and the best moments to act somber. I like the way she bites her bottom lip while thinking as the words pour off the page. It makes me think that perhaps my writing has some type of merit to it after all.
Wish me luck, Holmes.
Watson