Dear Sherlock,
This week in the news:
There's been a reported kidnapping of a woman named Lilian Biggs. She was 28, and lived on the outskirts of London. She went missing yesterday.
There's not actually that much else to say. I'm sorry, but I tried.
Sarah and I went out last night. Got some Italien food from that place around the corner. It was nice, I guess. But it was no Chinese circus.
Mrs Hudson sold your lab equipment the other day. I hope you don't mind. But it had to go somewhere, and we weren't using it. Now the flat's even emptier than before. You could call it tidy or organised, but it's just a reminder to me that you're never coming back.
It feels like you're slipping away sometimes, as gradually more and more of your stuff gets put away into boxes and shunted into your bedroom. That room is like a morgue itself. A tribute to you. I hardly ever go in. There's so much dust on the floor that sometimes I wonder if I can see little mouse footprints in it. I hope we don't have mice. They're bastards to get rid of.
I haven't seen Molly at all recently. I don't see her at the hospital, and she never drops in. It's like the only reason that she ever came round was to see you. That's probably true. You know how she felt about you.
Well, this letter was you read it, you'll probably think I'm an idiot (again). But there you go. We can't all be brilliant all the time.
Oh, and Sherlock, have you noticed that the letter's I've been leaving keep disappearing? I leave them on your grave, and by the next day they are gone. I'm guessing it's just the groundskeeper picking up rubbish, or keeping people's hopes alive. Or reading the letters because he's nosy and disrespectful. Oh well. Can't really do anything about that, can I?
Your John.