I look quietly through my post that morning. I do everything quietly nowadays- it's not as though I'd disturb anyone, but the rest of the room is so quiet in comparison. There isn't anyone else in it. The boy's out on an errand. It's just the old doctor and his post.
I sieve through the rubbish, pause out of vanity [there isn't anyone to see me] on an autograph request, consider whether my nails need trimming; proceed to a parcel I've been saving until the last. It has a familiar scrawl- all sharp vowels and long loops, and the crosses on the "t"s are comically long in both directions. It's Holmes.
I don't need to squeeze the parcel to know its contents, and when I carefully tip it out [don't want to break the glass], sure enough there is a pot of his latest honey. Probably better than the last batch, though I wouldn't know because I'm about three pots behind on honey consumption. There's only me to eat it.
On the inside of the envelope is a letter from him, and this is what I want much more than the honey- word from my friend. Even if I saw the man every weekend it would be a stark difference to how we used to live, and as a result I've begun to accept that I probably need him. Anyway, here's the letter.
My dear Watson!
Here's the latest batch of Sherlock's Finest, though you probably didn't taste the last. I do remember you preferred marmalade and tobacco for breakfast.
I'm coming down to London, not on any particular business, just to be back in town for a while. If you don't invite me to yours I shall be forced to camp.
Send my regards to the capital and Lestrade. I heard he's going to be made super [all hush-hush though I think].
Yours, S.H
"Fancy thinking he could invite himself over" said I, and broke the silence again, clattering for my best pen.