By the time Sherlock writes his new letter, it's starting to get colder and the trees are changing. He's had to wait a little bit to write because of a few things that came up for him, a big murder case in the news that he's been trying to get someone to listen to him about. Naturally that means he's a bit obsessed with it and everything falls to the wayside under his single-minded focus. And it also means that when he does sit down and write, he's a little upset.
~oOo~
Dear John,
The world is full of idiots, and most of them have decided to work for Scotland Yard! Have you heard about the serial murderer in London, the one that likens himself to Jack the Ripper? It's so obvious, but I can't get anyone at Scotland Yard to listen to me, not even Detective Inspector Lestrade, who I believed previously had faith in my abilities. They are all idiots of the highest order.
I could tell from the meager descriptions from the various news stories that this is the work of more than one killer. Oh yes, some of them were done by the same person, but there is at least one other person involved, either as an accomplice or a copycat. I wouldn't know that unless I was allowed to examine the actual bodies, but instead I am stuck in this bloody facility!
Unsurprisingly, I was able to gain access to some crime scene photos, and I have seen that they missed virtually everything of importance. And while they ignore my advice, more young women are being killed. They think that there is no pattern to the women but they don't see the truth. They see but they do not observe. The hair! They haven't looked at the hair! All of the victims were brunette's, though of course some of them dyed their hair, apparently it was not dramatic enough for them to notice during the autopsy the curtains didn't match the carpet, to use a crude phrasing. They also all had similar skin tones. Some of them used artificial tan to achieve it, you can tell by the very faint orange tinge to some of their skin, but the medical examiner seems to have completely missed that! Or they don't think it's significant, since lots of women want to appear tan and fit, especially coming out of summer when they are not able to enjoy the sun's rays the same as they were previously and they are oh-so afraid of being the least bit pale!
There is no possible way that the crime scene investigators could have been so incompetent as to miss some of these clues! And here I am, willing to give them the clues, not asking for money or fame in return, and they choose to ignore me!
This is all I can do, write letters. Write to another idiot who asks such inane questions such as who am I romantically involved with? The answer is no one. There is no one. There is nothing but the Work, and if my elder brother had not had me committed, I could have had this case solved two murders ago! He's always interfering with my life, keeping an eye on me because he claims to care about me, yet he is the one who says caring is a disadvantage. He is ten years my senior, you see, and he was more of father to me than ours who was never around. And Mummy treated my intelligence and deductive skills as a disease, sent me to psychiatrists and doctors for most of my youth until I learned to just stop talking around her unless it was to be the good little son, an act which I became very good at. And the reason I now avoid all family functions. My brother was and is the politician, the one who is good at saying the right things to people and getting them to like him even though he is an insufferable arse.
I want out of this bloody place. And I want a goddamned cigarette!
After that last sentence, one of the workers came in to see what the commotion was about after I threw a vase across the room. I was not sedated, but they took me outside until I could calm down. I thought about re-writing this, but I did say that I would not do that, that you would have to deal with whatever passed from my mind to my pen. And now you know of my temper. Everything I said, however, is true. Even about my brother and mother. My father passed away some years ago, so the only ones of my family left are my older brother who holds a position in the government, and my mother, who chooses to wile away her years with her friends doing who knows what, or staying home.
I hope you won't be too upset by anything I said. My anger got the better of me, it seems. I hope you are well.
Sincerely,
Sherlock
~oOo~
After reading the letter, John sits back in their new barracks for the doctors and medical staff, staring at it a little. He can see and feel the deep indentation from where he pressed harder on his pen at certain points through the paper in his anger. It surprises and worries John that Sherlock is that frustrated and angry, not because the anger itself scares him, but because he doesn't want the detective to do anything to harm himself. No doubt by now the younger man has forgotten all about his verbal outburst since the date on it is nearly a month prior to him getting it. Knowing he has more things to do and cannot reply right away, John looks at the letter once more, running his fingers over the words slowly before he nods, folding it neatly back up into it envelope to tuck it away with its companions.
Bonus chapter for you all because today I reached 100 Followers! Wow. Seriously. You guys are awesome. I am so glad you guys think that this strange little idea I had is worth your time. :) I love you guys. And thank you to everyone who has reviewed as well, I love knowing you guys enjoy this. :) Thank you again!
Reviews/Comments as always, are most welcome. :)