Author's Note: Nope, this fic isn't dead. Just slow going, because life stuff. Thanks to all who have been so kind and left reviews and followed and favourited. I promise, big things are planned for this fic, but they are long term plans which will take a while to come into fruition. Again, because of life stuff.


From: Sherlock Holmes, to Molly Hooper, sent 14 October 1940.

Dear Molly,

When I sat down to write this letter, I sought to comfort you. Then, out of the blue, Lestrade walks in with another letter from you, imploring me to forget your words. So, understandably, I'm a little confused (consider that a privilege as I rarely am), because in asking me to forget your words, you yourself forget one, crucial point: I don't want to.

You've heard me – and John – talk about my mind palace. People tend to have a misconception about it. They assume I remember everything. That isn't necessarily true. I can remember anything, but I don't remember everything. No-one can. What separates my memory from others is that I can recognise what is important and what isn't. Every section of my memories and my knowledge has its own room. Science, English, Mathematics, childhood, etc. have their own place. When I'm in need of the memories or knowledge contained within them, I make my way down the corridors and slip inside and… browse, for want of a better word, until I find what I need. Sometimes, it takes me an hour. Sometimes, it takes me a few minutes. The point is that I only keep what is important. Surely that must say something to you?

As the days go by, news trickles through the ranks of Germans attacking RAF bombers. They're putting up a good offensive; I'll have to give them that. Even Major Barrymore—he's the man who leads the unit and he's perhaps the most stubborn man I've come across in this war—has admitted as much. It hasn't stopped him harping on about King and Country and our duty to the girls and boys back home. I think he genuinely believes what pours out of his mouth as well. Have you ever met that sort of person, Molly? One who spouts pure propaganda, and believes every single word? I hope you haven't, and I hope you never do. They're utterly insufferable and entirely intolerable. (To be honest, his head would probably explode if he ever met you, Molly, with your sensibleness and level-headed views. Someone who considers the other person's point of view? Surely there can't be such a thing!)

I think even Lestrade—who is perhaps the most patriotic of the lot of us—is getting tired of Barrymore's constant pep talking. I swear I heard him mutter something about punching the man a few days ago, though he swears blind he didn't.

But tell Mrs Hudson, from me, that her efforts for my return are well appreciated. Personally, I do feel tempted to write to her and tell her that a celebration isn't exactly necessary—I am only going to be there for three weeks after all, it's not even a month—but I have a feeling that any protestations I make will be ignored and brushed off as "silly". A lot of things are silly according to that woman; myself especially.

And I'm glad you are safe Molly. I doubt I could describe just how glad without cocking it up, somehow. I have a knack for cocking things up, as you well know. So I'll say that I'm glad, and leave it at that.

I look forward to Christmas with every passing day.

Sherlock.