Dear Sherlock,
I've been using that notebook that came through for my birthday to write a few little notes on the crimes that Greg tells me about or takes me to. I would leave the book here, but I'd be afraid that the groundskeeper would take it and not give it back. And yes, I have convinced Greg to take me to crime scenes again. I blackmailed him into it, saying that my birthday happiness would be ruined if he didn't. He asked me if it was for you, so I told him that everything I did and everything that I do is for you. He doesn't understand why I trust you still, but he accepts it and takes me along to any interesting cases so that I can just jot some notes down in my book. It's the colour of your scarf, and there's even a purple silk ribbon for a pagemarker.
It's the small details that count in a world where all the large pieces are missing. You knew that too, and that's why you were so good at what you did, because you saw all the little things. But what made it useful was the fact that you knew what all those details meant. Something that I've found can only be achieved through experience. You can't make yourself be a genius. You have to go out, explore the world and join the dots between people, objects and places, knowing what details connect them. And so you are able to deduce things from new people, objects and places. Your not-so-secret secrets are out.
So why aren't there more geniuses in the world? Well, not all people have the natural ability to see everything and find practically everything interesting, but that's not the main reason, is it? I think it's that most people either can't be bothered, or even though they claim to want to know everything, actually, they'd just rather remain ignorant.
Am I right or am I wrong, Sherlock? Have I learnt anything from you, anything at all? But you can't tell me, so I'd better just forget it.
Love,
Your John.