Sent 21 September 1940.

Dear Sherlock,

I… I don't quite know what to say. Your letter has thrown me, and I'm not quite sure if I'll get over it for a long while yet. I think I must have read your words almost a hundred times already—the ink has already begun to fade. I'll try and savour it a little more, but it is so difficult. Reading your words is like hearing your voice—and you know how much I love your voice. Mary spotted me reading it on the bus into work this morning, and she said nothing. Only smiled, in that way of hers. She understands I think; how hard it is for us, to know that you are there, fighting for us, and yet your only reward is the promise of a brief return home and these letters. I think that's why I'm so hesitant in what I write to you. Letter writing is a luxury, and I can't—don't want to—waste it.

I'm sorry that your journey has been arduous—though I did tell Mary of your frustration with Vera Lynn; she laughed. I'm afraid to say that I did too! Your disdain for popular culture has always amused me, Sherlock. But in a good way—it's, well, it's sort of refreshing. (I have to admit, I'm getting a little tired of Vera Lynn too—they keep playing her on the radio.)

I think of you as well. It's part of why I was so glad to receive your letter. But I still feel I should apologise, if only briefly. My embrace was sudden, you're right; but that's only because the urge to do it was so sudden. I could not simply leave you with just a wave goodbye, now could I? And you did look rather shocked, yes. For a moment, I did fear you hated me, but your eyes were far too expressive. (They always have been.) Did you know that dilation of pupils can mean attraction? It's a small piece of trivia I once learned from a colleague of mine. I could barely see the blue of your eyes when you looked at me on departure day. It's why I felt such an urge to kiss you. You'd given me hope; I couldn't stand back and not return the favour. So to know that you are thankful for that memory… it makes me happy. Gives me a certain kind of relief, really.

If you are to come back for Christmas, confirm it for me quickly. It will be a pain, admittedly, to know I have to wait three more months to see you, but it is a lesser pain than, well, the other option. Though writing to your brother! I've sent some chocolate to you; perhaps that will be a crumb of encouragement for you. I don't know. I hope it will.

Now I must reply to the portion of your letter that I have re-read the most. Is it silly of me to confess just how much your words have moved me? Most likely, but I'll do so anyway. You made me cry, you silly man. This really wasn't fair of you, especially considering how I was on the bus at the time! One young girl even asked me if I was okay! And you know me—I'm usually so good at keeping quiet and unnoticeable. Trust you to make people notice me.

Yet I am rambling, and rambling about nothing. I should stop that. But I don't particularly want to, not really. The longer I write, the more I am talking to you. I like talking to you, Sherlock. I like listening to you. I like everything about you. Even when you insist on being a total and utter arse, I like you. I like how your honesty, where it wounds me, heals too. I don't know how, and I don't know why, but it does. Hopefully, my honesty will heal you too. And if I can't be honest now, when will I have another chance?

I long to be more than a friend to you, Sherlock. I long to be everything you need me to be. Will you let me?

Your pathologist,

Molly Hooper.