From: Sherlock Holmes, to Molly Hooper, sent 28 October 1940.
Dear Molly,
Autumn has most certainly arrived to the front. It's not felt so much in the days, as we're all too busy completing our own tasks, but at night, when we're huddled in some part of the trench, that's when it bites. It's so much more savage here, the cold. The wind whistles endlessly, and the rain is so much that one can barely see through it half the time. The only thing that keeps me going, I'll admit, is you—or rather, the thought of you. I think about not just your mouth on mine, but your eyes, your body. Your humour too, and your intelligence. That's why, I think, I cherish every letter I receive from you. Like you, I feel you there with me, sat beside me and whispering your words low into my ear. I don't know why I visualise you in that particular way. Maybe because it's so bitterly cold here, and your warmth is something else I yearn for. (Christmas, where the hell are you?)
I do hear the other men though talk of their girls 'back home' in the most excruciating way. One soul went on about the colour of his wife's eyes for about half an hour. I believe, by the end of it, he was comparing them to leeks. Obviously, his previous occupation was not that of a poet. My rough guess would be that he was a boxer, mostly by his nose and finger, both of which were previously broken in a bout of some sort.
I can't exactly blame them of course; it's the knowledge of knowing someone is there, waiting for you and supporting you that gets us all through. I can't—don't want to—imagine how I would've fared here if I didn't have your letters here with me to read, over and over again. John, like me, tends to keep his fawning confined to his letters but he still mentions Mary, from time to time. Lestrade hasn't mentioned anyone as of yet, but I can tell there's someone he thinks of. Rather interesting, that. When you're in love with someone, it somehow becomes so much easier to tell when others are in love too. For I am in love with you, Molly. I haven't said it before, only inferred it, but I'm saying it now. I love you. I am in love with you, and I'm rather sure I will continue to be in love with you. How could I not be? Useless for me to even try and forget you.
Actually, that leads me to confess something. Something that will probably bring you offence, but I suppose we can chalk it up with all the other times I've been what John would term an "arse". In the past, I have tried to forget you. I've tried to erase all existence of you, tried to… leave you behind, really. I remember the last time I realised I had to do just that.
I was working on a case. You might remember it; it was a butler, accused of not only murder of his master, but abduction of his master's wife. It turned out that the butler had nothing to do with the murder at all, and hadn't actually abducted the master's wife, but was enjoying a rather nice time holidaying with her in the South of France. The pair of them had been so lost in one another that they didn't know of her husband's death until the French police had stormed into their hotel room and frogmarched him out of their bed. Not one of my most interesting cases, devoid of the usual twists and turns, but definitely one of the more entertaining ones.
There was one day, during that case, when I came into St. Bart's. I immediately went into the morgue to seek you out and demand the body to inspect. Then I'm told by Stamford that you'd just got into work and was, at that point, in the locker room. In those days, I had much less respect for privacy—though I think the shoe you threw at my head as I walked inside helped me learn my lesson. And well, um, seeing you there, even briefly, stunned me slightly. (Thank God Lestrade has given up his habit of reading over my shoulder while I write.) I waited for you outside, and when you came out, dressed and ready to go, you were chipper as ever as we strode into the morgue, chattering and talking, but I couldn't think of a word to say.
You had a pin in your hair. I remember that. I've never had too much of a predilection for remembering women's accessories (unless it was relevant to a case) but I remember that. A pink pin, with silver lined against the edges. Tucked neatly into the side of your hair, pinning it back. It's strange, what details my mind picks up about you. With other people, the details fall into place, like some kind of puzzle. It's the same with you but also… not the same? The details do, as I said, fall into place, but it's always growing. You're never fixed—you are never just one set of images. I suppose that's why forgetting you has always, always been impossible.
That pin was what made me decide that I had to get rid of you. You were distracting me, I told myself, putting me off. So I sat down in Baker Street that evening, violin in hand and delved into my mind palace. Usually, deleting something is an easy process. I go down into my mind palace, stroll along the corridors, open and close a few doors, eventually find what I'm looking for and then delete it, and there. Gone.
You though. You kept coming back, thankfully. As soon as I believed I'd forgotten you, I'd see you there with your sweet smile and that same pink pin. It took me a long time to realise the entirely obvious. You were, you are, too important for me to forget.
Significantly yours,
Sherlock.
P.S. Tell Mrs Hudson thank you, from me.
P.P.S. Having the date of my return circled in your calendar is not pathetic, Molly. After all, I have it marked down in my journal.
