Arthur Conan Doyle | "A Scandal in Bohemia" | 1891

My Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,

You really did it very well. You took me in completely. Until after the Adventure of the Copper Beeches, I had not a suspicion. But then, when I noted the civility and care with which you treated Miss Hunter, I began to think. I had seen hints of your respect for women many stories ago. I had been told that, if a woman could have a problem taken seriously by one investigator in all of London, it would certainly be you. And your generosity had been relayed to me by Dr. Watson. Yet, with all this, you still surprised me with behavior that countered my suspicions of you as a chauvinist. Even after I became aware of your willingness to work on what you considered to be a trivial problem for a female client, I found it hard to think fondly of such a calculating, unemotional man. But, you know, I have been accused of being cold and calculating myself. Unemotional reasoning is nothing new to me. I often take advantage of the clarity and logical conclusions which it gives. I re-read the tales of your adventures, pondered quietly, and came to my conclusion just as you concluded your last documented case.

Well, I followed you to the end, and so made sure that chauvinism really was not a flaw of the celebrated Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Then I, rather imprudently, wrote you this letter, and retired to once again ruminate over your many successes.

I thought the best resource was a pseudonym, when addressing one so formidable as yourself; so you will be unable to respond to this letter unless you choose to exercise those many talents which have brought you so far as a consulting detective. Still, I imagine that you will feel no need to do so. You may rest in peace knowing that your admiration and, in fact, true respect for women--particularly The woman--will remain untold by me. I have made a record of it only to preserve your legacy in coming years, and to preserve a weapon which will always be at the ready in case you go a bit too far in making merry over the cleverness of women. I remain, dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,

Very truly yours,
Michelle

Arthur Conan Doyle | The Valley of Fear | 1915

Mr. Holmes,

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,
Evangeline Tyson-Sell

Arthur Conan Doyle | The Hound of the Baskervilles | 1902

Dear Dr. Watson,

I have been following your work for some time now. Although I enjoy hearing of your exploits with your friend Mr. Holmes, it seems you are relatively silent when it comes to your own tales. Do you have any exciting stories from your time in Afghanistan and the east? It must have been something to see the influence of a tiny island effected half-way around the world. I wonder, was it difficult to live in such an exotic locale? Is there anything you miss about it? You must have had your pick of the most delicious teas of the region. I, myself, am a self-proclaimed theic, though I trust you will agree with me on the restorative powers of the tea leaf.

I can only imagine the difficulty you must have living with Mr. Holmes. Based on your descriptions, he is never satisfied. And I must apologize for my contemporaries who have portrayed you as a bit daft. There is something that makes this generation praise the troubled and belittle the steady. Those of us who are paying attention, and there are many, know that a man who is a doctor, who has served overseas, and who has earned the friendship and trust of an individual as intelligent and manic as Mr. Holmes, must himself be a man of the highest order and given to his own scientific discoveries and bouts of logic equally deserving of acclaim.

I wish you the best in your endeavors,
Meaghan Walsh