The December 3rd prompt, as assigned by Domina Temporis:
Holmes has just moved to Sussex Downs and all his new neighbors insist on welcoming him to town (bothering him).
Alas, brother mine, I fear that my decision to move from London to Sussex Downs was one of the gravest mistakes I have ever made.
Gone are promises of peaceful nights spent absorbed in the mysteries of insectaria. Tis a joke to think one will be able to muse a newspaper over a pipe and the crackling of fire. And the idea of a passive midafternoon siesta? Lord.
What we fail to appreciate is that the country, in opposition to the city, is not a realm of quiet.
It is a place full of busybody women, prattling children, and men who have a need to support their wives' desire in everything from carpentry to near-constant chatter. A begging remark from a woman determined to feed me black pudding is not welcomed in my moments of quiet retirement.
I fail to understand, Mycroft, how you've managed to last as long as you have in the country. For I find myself unable to go much further with this business. Perhaps Watson would have been able to fend for himself, but I am not he.