March 10, 1892

Holmes,

I write this letter to you from a small cottage belonging to one of Mary's dearest friends. Mary insisted that she needed to take a holiday to get away from the London smog and the house with all its painful memories and I could not deny her the need to escape. It was against my better judgment to let her travels so far, but we have been here three days and there is already marked improvement in her disposition so perhaps the trip was a good decision.

While Mary insists that the trip is for her benefit, I have a sneaking suspicion that it is for mine as well. She would never say it directly, but I believe her hopes in coming out here are to somehow boost my spirits. I have not been myself lately, and for that I am sorry. But the burden of the last little while has become increasingly hard to bear and to discuss emotions openly seems weak. I have put in extra hours at my practice, not because need demands it, but because I can spend time in my office alone to let the grief rise to the surface without anyone there to notice.

I refuse to let myself turn to drinking. The habit has always been particularly nasty to me and I want no part of it. That is what my poor brother Henry did. Do you know how he died, Holmes? Of course you so cleverly deduced that his alcoholic ways where what killed him, but there is more to his story than meets the eye. He died a drunkard and alone. Completely and utterly alone in his own selfish grief. I do not want to let myself fall that far, but part of the senselessness seems appealing in a morbidly disturbing way.

No, I cannot do it. What would become of Mary? I must be strong for her and not let my own selfish sentiments get in the way of the woman I love. I am a wretched man. God's mercy should not be given to one such as me. Is it wrong to still feel bitter? I do not know what else to feel. All other feelings have been washed away like antiseptic on a wound leaving nothing but the raw aching beneath to simmer in pain.

I am trying to accept that this is God's will, but I am finding it incredibly difficult. Why is life so hard? Why do trials seem to prevail while the happy times are but a moment? I want to understand, but at the same time, the truth seems intimidating. Humankind has always prided itself on being ruler over the earth, but when one steps back and takes a look at the larger image, our presence is but a small piece of the perspective. Who are we to invent machines, to conquer nations, to call ourselves great? God must be humored by our prideful foolishness. It is but the Tower of Babel all over again.

I have become rather philosophical as of late and I apologize. You would find my constant musings to be a nuisance if you were here. I should do best to simply shut my mouth and carry on. A dreamer's notions are just thoughts, not facts. And my mind is too preoccupied to search for answers to the impossible.

I shall have to inform you of how this little excursion carries on. It has been nothing but sunshine and picnics so far. I suppose I will put down the pen and wander outside in the fresh air. The crocuses are beginning to bloom.

Watson