Sent 28 September 1940.
Dear Molly,
So I've done it—I've written to my brother. His reply was as swift as I expected it would be, but lengthier too. It seems he has 'got wind' of the development of our relationship, Molly and is thoroughly enjoying himself teasing me about it. Such an insufferable man. I know that I've said it many a time before, but he is a rubbish big brother. Yet strings have been pulled, and Mycroft's letter serves as proof that I shall be with you, in London, in Baker Street, in three months' time. It may be a small sliver of hope for you, but as you say, letter writing is a luxury, even though you wouldn't think it, with the speed with which John writes his letters to Mary and the reams of paper he uses; I sneaked a look at one of them. The man writes poetry to her, Molly. Poetry. If I ever make one request to you Molly, during this time, it would be to never ask me to write you poetry. I would struggle, and you would laugh and neither of us would be fully satisfied.
Yet I've strayed from the point. What I was trying to say was that letter writing, if you think about it, is both a freeing and a constricting thing. Freeing because it allows me to speak to you; constricting because despite my best efforts, I doubt I could quantify the magnitude of the hope and the strength the knowledge of seeing you has given me. Christ, but that's sentimental. I'm almost embarrassed that I managed to write that—but that's what makes the act of letter writing such a luxury. It allows the both of us to say things we wouldn't usually say. For instance, I'm sure you would never have told me that I managed to make you cry. You're far too proud, far too protective of me, to do so. Just as I am too protective of you to tell you how worried I am about you. For I am worried, Molly. I worry about how long this war will go on for. Every time I step outside of this hovel (they dare to call it shelter), I worry. We all worry. We worry for ourselves, for our friends, for our families. Admittedly, I don't much worry about Mycroft—he can protect himself—but I do worry about you. I worry about you because you matter, Molly. You count. Not many people in my company do, but you do. You always have, really.
I'm glad though, to know of your growing exhaustion for Vera Lynn. It's nice to have a companion in my opinion; that's something I seldom have. Even if I do, they're usually ten steps behind. In technical terms of course, she's more than competent, but once you've listened to several mangled versions of We'll Meet Again and The White Cliffs of Dover by various troops of soldiers, all with tears in their eyes as they wave goodbye to their loved ones, you'll no doubt understand my disinterest.
That isn't, however, to say that I completely hate all types of popular culture. Have I ever told you that I love to dance? It's probably a surprise, considering how sullen I usually am at whatever gathering I've attended in the past, but I always have loved dancing. Sadly, I have never had the chance. Still, I live in hope. Perhaps… perhaps the right case will come along, one day. Of course, dancing is an entirely pointless activity if you don't have the right partner. That's not sentiment, I should clarify—that's logic. Two dancers must have the same rhythm; the same knowledge. They must be able to read one another. Otherwise it will all fall apart. And you've always read me extremely well, Molly. I like that about you. At first, I was… unnerved that you saw me so quickly, and so easily. It made me wonder if others saw me in the way you did; if everything I had tried to do and tried to be had failed spectacularly. In fact, I was predisposed to dislike you because of it. Yet you were too skilful in your work, and too happy in your demeanour for me to ever dislike you.
Sometimes, in the quieter moments here, I think back on my behaviour to you. I realise how abdominal I've been to you at times, and how cutting my remarks have been. Then I think of how quiet and strong and kind you have been, even in the face of all of that, and I find myself unutterably grateful towards you. Annoyed too, because I know I can never really atone for being so cruel.
But you mustn't apologise for rambling. (Arguably, I've indulged in a fair bit of rambling in this very letter.) While it's true that I do zone most people out when they are not succinct or to the point, it is rather unfairly that I find I cannot zone you out. Everything you say—everything you write—holds a certain weight, Molly. Perhaps it's because you are so aware of the limitations in letter writing, or perhaps it's because what you have to say is from the heart. You speak, you write, with instinct. Instinct is something I can, and do, listen to.
So please Molly, continue talking. I will listen.
Sherlock.
