Thursday 22nd January 1887; Baker Street 221B, N. W. London668Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9QsfIjZRMM
It is absurd for me to write down those words on a paper what should present as a letter, even when I know the reader will never believe it and above all doubt my writing hand. Knowing Watson does it fairly better than I. So I will try to keep it short and clear.668Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwxXNXkPeY6
Since a couple of months I have deduced that Watson's and my world is as flat as a paper bound with multiple other papers together into a form of a thick bound book. Standing in the shelf along with plentiful other books that are or should be fictitious, from classics to grotesque futuristic genre, from thin to thick bound books in German or English. The worst of all is that they all stand there and I included till there is a thin layer of dust, although the owner and reader does her best to keep it clean and read many books as possible. Yet I can see duties of education and time alone keeps her away from reading. Lately I have noticed that she has trouble with sleeping and therefore has then some little time to read. The light of her bedlamp glistens my name printed in gold on the spine of the book and her eyes will always wander to it, immediately I see every time in her eyes the old memories awakening from the time when she read the book, that book, or frankly said Watson and me. Reading aloud the cases Watson and I solved to herself practising British and American English pronounciation. Travelled with her from Switzerland to Germany, Sweden and back during a Sommer vacation. There was a time when she truely believed that Watson and I existed in London many years ago in history, until a person explained to her the opposite, that we do not exist. In her eyes and at times even in her smile I can deduce besides pride and content also a sort of hope that leads in the same direction as believing and admiring us. Trying her best observation of deduction and grasping a logical mind under the skull. She is the only child of the family and thus alone in her room, at times she would begin to hold self-conversations in English and seldomly in Swiss-German. She would be talking of her delights, her surprises, her problems and basically her joys of life. From it I have learned a great deal about her and was surprised to few details. Such as she has taken me as an idol in life, not everything from me but a part of it. As I had it to knowledge, it all felt as if from some sort of strange and vivid dream yet I know perfectly it is no dream, it is the reality. What also surprised me was the caring she has for the books, turning every page carefully and read every word with understanding. The only thing what annoys me and I know for sure it annoys her too, especially in Sommer, are the sweaty hands that cause to a few pages to shape into very small waves or turn slightly to a yellowish hue.
Now that I am coming to an end I think I will finish with those words as a conclusion and hope that the reader will understand what I mean.
Sincerely yours,
S. Holmes
ns 15.158.61.20da2
