Dear Mrs. Hudson,
I am writing to you as promised. I cannot believe that I have allowed myself to pick up a pen and compose a letter. Tedious. I am sure you are equally surprised. I had no intention of holding myself to the sentimentality of keeping you ‘up to speed’ as you so ineloquently put it, of my health, physical and mental. As well, I will not impart to you the prices at the shops nor inform you the flowers look lovely for the season. I am not, as you are well aware, the sort to chat about the weather and the local gossip. I would not listen to it nor would I convey it unless of course it leads to an interesting murder or even perhaps a jewel theft. No such luck. I would text you and say I am fine, and I have arrived in this hellhole and I am safe, safe but utterly, utterly bored, but the house has not yet been connected to any sort of Internet, and the mobile signal is dreadful. Therefore, I am reduced to an old fashioned and outdated mode of communication.
I can tell you that I will definitely be thinking of new and inventive ways to kill Mycroft. Don’t be alarmed. I probably won’t. Mother would not be impressed. I still blame him for kidnapping me and sending me here to recuperate. I was shot for God’s sake not invalided. And it is not my fault that I picked up a hospital-induced illness as a result. But kidnap me he did, as you are aware, claiming the air would be good for my lungs. He has also forbidden me to smoke, not that I can between his bribing all of the local shops into refusing to sell cigarettes to me and that I double over in agony as soon as I inhale. Scratch that. I do not. You are not to imagine me gasping on the floor nor are you to inform my brother.
I am reluctant to admit I have been sleeping better since I arrived. I had wondered if I would miss the noise and the traffic and the excitement of London. I do, but there is something rather tranquil about this place. Do not speak of this to Mycroft. He would be unbearably smug.
You would be interested in the house itself. It’s quite old, typical English garden, pokey rooms, and creaky staircase. The view from the room I am presently in looks out onto the back garden. There are bees, far more than I have ever seen and the caretaker, who thankfully minds the garden, so I don’t have to, informs me the neighbour to the West keeps hives. I am thinking of wandering over and poking around. Yes, I know you are worried I will get into trouble, but I promise I will ask permission. Maybe.
The house itself belongs to a Miss Harriet Watson, an elderly, but sharp woman who lives in the small town with her Lesbian life partner. Dreadful term. As you have both reached a similar age, you would enjoy listening to her ramble on about the goings on in the local area. I, however, do not. She did have some mildly interesting stories to tell about the house. It belonged to her great uncle, a Captain John Watson. Here is the one mystery that may be worth my time. The one little bit of unsolved drama in the whole county. Captain Watson returned to his home after serving during WWII to establish a medical practice. One night, under supposedly suspicious circumstances, he mysteriously disappeared. No one saw anything, and no one heard anything. Just gone. If I find I am bored beyond redemption, I may peruse it and unearth all the sordid details. See what I am reduced? Should be easy. Come to think of it may not be worth my attention whatsoever.
I have surprised myself by the length of this letter. I must be bored. I believe I will write to Lestrade next. I am sure London is falling apart, and the crime rate has blossomed since I departed. He will require my assistance. I will mention that I am available to consult once I get a landline installed. I was told it would be at least three weeks.
Such a dull place. Nothing happens here.
Sherlock stretched and shook his cramped hand. It had been a long time since he had sat to write a letter by hand. He wasn’t sure why he had felt the need. Deep inside the recesses of his mind he knew on some level he did indeed miss Mrs. Hudson, something he wouldn’t have thought possible.
Carefully folding the letter, he stuck it into an envelope he found in the old writing desk, and addressed it in his spidery handwriting. He would take a walk into town later and mail it. It wasn’t far, and he needed to stretch his legs. Being confined in the hospital for weeks and then coming down with pneumonia afterward had drained him of his former vitality. His transport had failed him, and he was no longer able to run and jump and climb throughout the streets of London.
He tapped the pen against the desk and stared out into the back garden, which blended into the roll and swell of the hills. Grass and wildflowers dotted the distance. Supposedly there was a herd of wild horses that roamed the area. It was all beautiful and peaceful and calm.
He might just go mad and start shooting the wall if nothing new happened soon.