Chapter Text
Date: March 23, 2029 18:36
To: John Watson ([email protected])
From: Sherlock Holmes ([email protected])
Subject: There were no sheep in Baker Street
John,
I know you’re terrible at answering personal emails, but I’m resorting to it rather than risk you blocking me for texting too much. Additionally, mobile coverage is spotty—two bars if I stand by the window, none at all in the shed.
I’ve finally managed to unpack all my books. So many boxes here, and even more left at 221B. I can’t fathom how I managed to accumulate this much.
The cottage is becoming functional, thanks in part to relics left by the previous owners. There’s a sagging but serviceable armchair in a ghastly mustard colour, and a kettle that’s stuck on F-sharp. Billy presides on the mantelpiece—decent company, all things considered.
I’ve been going on walks to explore the surroundings. Chalk ridges cut south from here, dotted with gorse. You can catch a faint smudge of sea on a clear day. I think you’d like it here, John. Quite a change from the London air.
There are two neighbours within walking distance. Tom Eldridge owns the lamb farm to the north. A kind man, with little use for words since his son left for university. To the south, Mrs. Whitlock, Mrs. Hudson’s quieter twin and an eternal Fulking fixture. She has come by three times already, with preserves as gifts. Her damson chutney could strip paint, but paired with cheddar it’s not bad.
At night sleep has been elusive; it’s too quiet here. Tom’s lambs bleat now and then, and then the birds chatter at dawn—absurdly early. It’s nothing like London life.
Enough about me: how is Rosie getting on with school? Has she managed to outwit that horrid P.E. teacher? Say hello from me.
Might be coming to London to fetch some books and things I need from Baker Street in a couple of weeks, perhaps we could meet, if your patients can spare you?
Do try to answer before the new year.
-SH