From: Molly Hooper, to Sherlock Holmes, sent 4 November 1940.
Dearest Sherlock,
Bonfire Night is tomorrow, and though I've never really held much care for the thing, I think it'll be nice to see the sky lit up with colour and sparkles and fizz-bangs and whatever other word you can think of to describe a firework. We all need a bit of a spark, now and then. I'm sure it won't come as a surprise for you to know that I'm looking forward to Christmas so much more. It's practically all I can think of. Day after day—Christmas, Christmas, Christmas! There's nothing in the shops as of yet that I can buy for you on your return (do you even want a gift?) but I'm constantly thinking about it, what with helping Mrs Hudson with her own preparations for her party. She's invited practically everyone you know! And she's eating incredibly frugally, saving every scrap she can. (I keep attempting to sneak portions of my own rations to her, but she always presents them back to me, telling me I must've forgotten it on my last visit to her. She's too wily for her own good, but I will keep trying.)
Then, when I've gone home and I'm away from Baker Street and alone in my flat and in my bed, I imagine what it's going to be like. Us, together. The Molly Hooper of years past is jumping for joy inside my head, running around and screaming happily. Every letter you and I send is one stepping stone closer and God, I haven't felt like this in such a long time, having this excitement bubble away in the pit of my stomach, an excitement that I can barely contain.
It's going to be so lovely, Sherlock, Mrs Hudson's party. Everyone is going to be so happy to see you. And questions will be asked of you, you must be prepared for that. Mary will probably ask you for updates on John. She's so happy for me, for us, but she is (rather inevitably) envious too. After all, I'm getting three weeks with you, the man I love; meanwhile John, her husband, is still sitting there at the front. Are you sure there's nothing you can do? That Mycroft can do? Maybe the strings can be pulled a little harder? I know that it is short notice and that it's a lot to ask, but Mary is so unhappy, even if she tries anything to hide it. It's her way.
I will tell you though, that the funniest thing happened to me this morning. I was woke up and went downstairs to check my post when I discovered a series of papers, accompanied by an official looking letter asking me to write down on the papers what sector of the war effort I would like to work in. I won't go into full details now, but I'll just say that I'm to go to Coventry and start work in one of the munitions factories in a couple of weeks. Mary received some too. She's going down to work in the drawing office. You wouldn't have had something to do with that, would you? No, surely not. I'll put it down as a well-timed coincidence! I'm sure the factory work will be hard, very hard indeed, but I cut up bodies for a living. I will cope.
But… oh. I'm sitting down here, in the kitchen, with pen to paper, and I think I've run out of words. I can't think of a single one to write to you. Instead I just keep re-reading your words. That's the trouble. Part of me thinks they'll disappear and fade away one day, leaving them lost forever. Sometimes I feel like I'll end up with only sheets of paper, your words gone from this world, from me. I want to preserve them, to frame them, but then I'm gripped by this stupid fear that I won't be able to touch them—I won't be able to believe that in some way, some stupid way, we're reaching out to each other. I'm giddy, sad, listless, energetic, hopeful, joyful and terrified all at once! And yet, I honestly don't think I would want to be anything else.
For I love you too Sherlock. And I feel it; I feel that love, fresh and new with every day that passes between now and your return. I know it's only for three weeks and that's barely any time at all but oh gosh! You are coming home. You're coming back to me.
You, however, you must put your mind at ease. Your memory has caused me no offence whatsoever. I still remember that pin. Sadly, I threw it away. I would not have done so if I'd known it had led to me gaining a permanent place in your mind palace! I'll have to see if I can buy a similar one, or one just as memorable. Though, thinking back, I do remember your silence. I thought it was because you were angry with me for throwing my shoe at your head. (I never did apologise for that, did I? Well, I am sorry for it; but at least it helped you learn not to invade the locker room!) So I chattered about nothing, just babbled, as I always do when I'm confronted with an awkward situation. If such a situation goes on for long enough, I find myself saying the silliest things imaginable. It's a miracle people still interact with me on a daily basis.
Though I am sorry you have to endure so much of the cold at the front. If it helps, it is incredibly cold back home too. I have to wear two scarves instead of the usual one, as well as the usual raincoat. So when I popped into Baker Street to visit Mrs Hudson, and she saw me swathed in scarves and coat (along with my gloves) she understandably burst into laughter. It was when she'd calmed that she declared she would have to knit me a nice thick winter scarf. It'll take her a few weeks, she said, so until then I'm stuck with the two scarves but again, I marvel at her kindness. Everyone's so much kinder these days. There's still the occasional person who will barge into a queue or two, and there's still the grumpy sod who mutters irritably about the ways of the world when you take a little too long paying at the till of the shop but overall everyone is kinder. Or maybe I'm noticing it more. It is difficult in life after all, when everyone's so busy and rushing (myself included), to notice little acts of kindness. But, well—it is so lovely when we do.
Impossibly yours,
Molly.
