My Dearest Sherlock

To John

Dear John,

Why write when you can text? Our society has evolved far beyond the need for pigmented resin on sliced tree corpse. I would even stoop to a call at this point. You can anytime. I'm sure you know the time difference makes no difference at all to me.

Though I almost there is something alluring in the penning of a letter. Archaic, perhaps; Sentimental, most definitely; Traceable, most of all so. But I find myself not caring—or at least, I'm more interested in how one might go about covering one's tracks in postal communication. As I write to you, in fact, I'm attempting to infiltrate the Royal Mail. It would have been boring, but bloody Brexit has left me oodles more rules to learn—and loopholes to exploit. By the way, when you send your next letter. here is an international stamp. I picked it from a particularly volatile higher-up. Launders a lot of illicit stamp & postage revenue.

Oh, and as should be obvious from my admission to these "crimes" (Mycroft insists they are so but au like to think of them as "necessary discrepancies with laymen's regulations!) Burn this letter upon reading; And douse the ashes, preferably with perchloric acid. Now of course the tea is bad, John. They steep it in the bloody Boston Harbor. Try not to contract any diseases from it.

Speaking of diseases— based on the Google Maps picture of Leo's parents' car, I see that Leo has a rather strong affinity for trains. Please let him know that if he would like pictures of British train cars, I can provide some. I would enclose them here but am at present too busy to crop out the bodies. Although, on second thought, that may be a good lesson in the importance of train safety. Let me know?

As for Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson, they are both well but claim to be at their wits' end with me. Mrs. Hudson has. on multiple occasions, insisted on trying to train me in housekeeping skills and forcing me into a maid outfit— photographs of which do not exist, don't even ask.

As for the case, it is regrettably at a standstill. My homeless network found the thief dead of an overdose (heroin, black tar, and 49% shoe polish— hardly worth it, I'd say) and I have not to uncover the opal. I just can't find where... it is so close, it's staring me right in the face. I'm certain of it. Lestrade has tried to placate my frustration with cold cases, but it's about as interesting as watching a 56th Jack the Ripper documentary. Which is to say bafflingly dull.

Please come back to Baker Street soon, John. I find myself rather lost without my blogger— and my lover.

With an embarrassing amount of sentiment,
Sherlock Homes

P.S. Try to nick me some American body parts. I'll use my postal connections to help you get them by customs. xo