I am writing to check that you are still alive.
Where have you been? I have been awaiting a reply for many months and I am now curious as to why you've failed to reply to my former attempts at correspondence with you. I do realise that you are a busy man, but I have seen nor heard a thing of you since your last case and I really am starting to worry. Please do not make me write to Watson to check if you are alright, it will only exasperate him further as my incessant pestering has almost worn him to the bone these past few weeks. In fact, I think I shall bypass Watson and will personally come to Baker Street and see what is keeping you from writing me back! Most likely you will be working on some godforsaken secret case which is keeping you from the more trivial tasks in life, so I am happy to wait until your head is cleared of such things and you are able to form an appropriate response.
Unless of course you have died, in which case I wish to extend my deepest condolences to Watson and Mrs. Hudson. I do hope you died doing something you love. What an anti-climax to such a remarkable life it would be if you were to have died from illness or old age. Not that I am suggesting you are old, merely pointing out that you may or may not even open this letter and in the event that it remains sealed until the event of your death and a nosey character decides to open the old and dusty letter being used as a saucer for a cup of month old tea, I decided to address the issue.
Then again, I do suppose you are probably just being the insufferable man of whom I should have become accustomed to by this point and that I should probably stop bothering you with these blasted letters. I assume that you will, at some point, read this and write me back.
Hoping that the case goes well (if at all there is one) and impatiently awaiting your response,
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Arthur Conan Doyle | The Valley of Fear | 1915