Dear Sherlock,
As I said I would, I went to see Mycroft at the Diogenes Club. I waited there for two whole days, sitting in the chairs, drinking Mycroft's expensive liquor when I got thirsty, not eating anything. Eventually they found me in there and forced me to leave without seeing hide nor hair of your brother. He's definitely avoiding me and I would love to know why. I haven't done anything to him, so there's no reason for him to be like this. Actually, I did have a go at him on the night before you fell, when I found out that he'd given Moriarty your life story. He said sorry. In fact, he told me to tell you that. I was too angry at the time to actually do it, and I didn't pass on the message. Bit of guilt. So, Mycroft said he was sorry. There.
But if anything, I should be the one avoiding him and he should be crawling to me, begging for forgiveness. Not that it'd do any good. I can't forgive him for this. You're gone because of him. And what did he get out of the trade with Moriarty? Nothing? He certainly didn't get the keycode.
Sorry, I'm ranting. Your brother is just so infuriating. I don't know how you could bear growing up with him.
So asides those two wasted days, life's been good in Baker Street. Or should I say as good as it could be with a depressed man, an abstract and often distracted painter and a wonderful landlady who works all day. We're a funny bunch, and not quite a whole one. There's one very important person missing from our patchwork family.
What I was going to say was that Nina's art has really been selling recently. She's found a group of extremely wealthy and interested customers who will buy her work mostly without question and at any price she asks. Her work's become more publicised since, and now she's been offered a one night for an exhibition at the Hickman Gallery. The Hickman Gallery. The Golem, the Lost Vermeer, Miss Wenceslas, The Van Buren supernova. "It's a fake." Yep. There you are, Sherlock. That's your genius at work right there. Yeah, that painting was a fake, but you weren't, Sherlock Holmes. You were very, very real.
If you remember, you saved my life that day, and I saved yours. That was... What we were about. You and me, there for each other, looking out for one another. Under all circumstances and without limits. I miss having you watching my back because now I have to watch my own. Makes life so much more difficult, especially since you were the world's most observant person, and now my own inadequate talents of observation will have to suffice. I may as well give up, because if someone wanted me dead now, I'd be dead. Full stop.
Let's not think about that, though, Sherlock.
Love,
Your John.