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My Dear Henry,

I have just received my orders. I ship out for India on the 19th. Would you have time for me to stay sometime before the 11th? My preparations for sailing will not allow me to come later than that. I would very much like to see you and be introduced to your fiancee (heartiest congratulations, of course!) before I leave the country.

Yours,
John

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My Dear John,
I wish you every success and all safety as you begin your military career. We will miss you here in England, but you will do great things and do well.

I wish you could stay for a few days, but unfortunately I am leaving myself on business and will not be back until after the 11th.

I do have a favor to ask: could you take possession of Father's watch? I fear I should do something silly with it if it remains in my hands. You have always been so steady that I know it will be safe with you.

Sarah sends her regards and wishes that she had a chance to meet you, my only brother. Please come back safe so that one day she can.

Yours,
Henry

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My Dear Henry,

No, I absolutely will not take Father's watch. He left it to you, and I refuse to believe that it will be safer on a battlefield than in your hands. Have no fear of doing something silly with it. Sarah will steady you. Lean on her if you are tempted. I will return safely.

Regards,
John

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My Dear John,

I understand your refusal to take the watch. Be safe in all your travels, and write us soon.

Yours,
Henry

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My Dear Henry,

I have arrived at Bombay at last! It is even hotter than I expected. The city is interesting, but it seems I am not fated to see much of it. My regiment has already left for the front, and
I go to Afghanistan to follow it. I will start for Candahar tomorrow and shall let you know when I arrive. I do not know where I will end up, but letters addressed to the base there should reach me. I will write soon. Give my regards to Sarah.

Yours,
John

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My Dear John,

Sarah has thrown me over. It is my fault, though I must say I am not sure what I did. I was drunker than I should have been, and I must have said something, or done something. I still don't know what it was, only that she wrote me and sent the ring back. I tried to call and apologize, but her brother escorted me out the door rather firmly. No doubt I deserved it.

Keep safe and be brave. You might as well bring some honor to the name, since it's quite clear I won't.

Yours,
Henry

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My Dear Henry:

I am most sorry to hear about Sarah. I know you fight a battle as much as I do. Exercise your will, be strong and brave yourself. You have lost Sarah. Do not lose yourself the way Father did. Let his watch be a reminder to you.

The regiment is moving again. Tomorrow we go on to Maiwand, but I assume we will have moved much farther than that by the time this reaches you.

Yours,
John

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Colonel Marcus Williams
Royal Berkshires
Candahar
1 August 1880

To Mr. Henry Watson

Dear Sir:

By the time this letter reaches you will have heard of our retreat. Captain John Watson was not among us when we arrived back to Candahar. At this point his status is Missing in Action. He is a brave soldier and an excellent surgeon. I will notify you should his status change.

Yours respectfully,
Col. Marcus Williams

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My Dear Henry:

Col. Williams has told me that he wrote to you that I was missing. I hope you have not been too anxious about me. My orderly, Murray delivered me safely to the base. I was wounded in the right shoulder and my clavicle (collarbone, sorry, I am getting medical in spite of myself) was shattered. There was some injury to the artery as well, but both have been skillfully treated here at the hospital in Peshawar. I am now recovering well. In fact, yesterday I was able to get up and move to the verandah for a bit. I expect to be discharged from hospital for a short leave soon and then return to my regiment.

Keep yourself strong. Write to me soon.

Yours,
John

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Dear John

I pawned the damned watch. I drank up my funds to pay the rent, and it was either pawn the thing or be thrown out. I can make the money back and I will redeem the pledge. I just do not want you shocked to see the broker's scratches inside it someday. Like Father, like son.

I am glad you are doing better. I hope they let you have a decent leave before sending you back to work.

Yours,
Henry

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My Dear Henry,

Unfortunately I did not get my leave at all as I contracted enteric fever here in hospital soon after writing to you. I am still weak and ill and have just received the report of the medical board. I am to be discharged not just from hospital but from the army as well. I depart for Portsmouth on the Orontes in two days. We are expected into port sometime between the 10th and the 20th. Will you be able to meet me?

Do not worry about the watch. Seeing you will be enough.

Yours,
John

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My Dear Henry,

I missed seeing you when we arrived in port. Are you able to come see me here in London?

Yours,
John

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My Dear Henry,

I have not received any response to my letter. Are you well?

Yours,
John

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My Dear Henry,

Please write. I am well myself now and am concerned about you.

Yours,
John

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My Dear Henry,

I am going to call on you on Monday. Please let me in.

Yours,
John

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My Dear Henry,

Thank you for receiving me on Monday. I believe you when you say you did not wish me to see you in that state, but the solution is to pull yourself out of it. I am willing to provide you with every assistance in my power. I will not call again if you do not wish it, but write to me at any time and I will come.

Yours,
John

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James Darner
Solicitor, Darner and Fox
17 Golding Street, London
30 June 1882

To Doctor John Watson

Dear Doctor Watson,

Please accept my condolences on the loss of your brother, Henry J. Watson. I was engaged in settling his affairs and am aware that you are his next of kin.

I was able to settle his debts out of his accounts, but no money remained once this was complete. Indeed, to obtain sufficient cash to cover all debts it was necessary to sell the great majority of his belongings, wit the exception of a single watch. As you are aware, Mr. Watson left no will, but his neighbors in lodgings have advised me that he had expressed the wish that you received the watch.

With that in mind, the watch has been cleaned and we can place it into your possession. Please present your identification at our offices at any time during business hours and our staff will be pleased to turn it over to you. If at any time we can be of service to you, please do not hesitate to write.

Yours respectfully,
James Darner

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"Which is it today, Holmes, morphine or cocaine?"

As my friend Watson has noted, our relations with Scotland Yard in general, and Inspector Lestrade in particular, became more cordial after my return from my travels. It became his occasional custom to stop in at Baker Street of an evening to discuss cases, his and ours, past and present.

On the occasion to which I refer, Lestrade had just finished the case referred to in the papers as the "The Chelsea Horror" and was consequently in a very cheerful mood. He had arrived a few minutes earlier than usual, and Mrs. Hudson was still clearing away or supper things when he came in.

Watson congratulated Lestrade on his success and mentioned that we ourselves had just finished a private inquiry and found ourselves at leisure.

" Will you be writing this one up, Doctor, or is it too private for that?" asked Lestrade.

To this day I do not know what made me say it, but I spoke before I could think. "Of course he'll write it up. He'll just rename her Violet like all the other single ladies in need of protection and go on as usual. That's what he's done to almost all of them ever since I got back. Violet Smith, Cadogan West's fiancee, even that haughty creature from the Gruner case. They're all named Violet"

Suddenly, several things happened all at once. Watson turned white as a sheet, gasped as if I had stabbed him, and staggered out of the room. Mrs. Hudson lifted her tray so suddenly the dishes rattled, looked at me with reproachful eyes, whispered, "How could you, sir?" and left herself. When I recovered from the shock of these events, Lestrade was looking at me with more disappointment than I had ever seen in his face. He spoke low, so Watson wouldn't hear.

"Holmes," he told me, "that was out of order. They were Mrs. Watson's favorite flowers, you know. Violets, especially the blue ones. The day before the funeral, I called in at his house to see how he was. The maid said he had left for she didn't know where in a state of agitation several hours before. She seemed concerned he might be doing himself harm. I took a look around for him, just in case. I finally tracked him down, running himself ragged from florist's shop to florist's shop, looking for the bluest violets he could find. He couldn't stand to see her buried with the purple ones the undertaker provided."

"Two days after the funeral, I heard one of my youngest constables jawing his mates down the pub about it. She died in April, you see, just about two years exactly after you disappeared. This young jackanapes thought it was a laugh that the Doctor bought the cheapest, most in-season flowers he could find to bury her with. I had to take him down several pegs to get through to him.Never once did I think I would have to do the same to you."

I gave Lestrade the only excuse I had. "I didn't know. I never saw the violets."

"That's just the point," he told me. "You weren't there. I know you had your reasons for needing to get away, but you could have come back long before you did. Your best mate walked through hell and you weren't there."

Just then, Watson came back to the room. He was still pale, but his step was steady and his hands did not shake as he poured himself a glass of water from the carafe. "I'm all right now. I didn't even realize I was naming them all Violet. Mary didn't deserve to have that Miss de Merveille compared to her, but her eyes were so blue. I must have been remembering her eyes."

Lestrade looked at him with concern in his eyes. "As long as you're sure you're all right, Doctor, I'll be going. You and Holmes have things to talk about." He slipped out, leaving me to face Watson alone.

"My dear boy, I am so sorry. Lestrade is right. I should have been there. What can I ever do to make it up to you?"

"Be here now. Forget the violets and be here now, he told me."

And I will be, forever more.

https://youtu.be/hoqMpJC0tZY

I slept poorly the night after our chase on the moor. I woke to a feeling of great dread. The convict remained. The new man spied upon us. The death of Sir Charles remained as mysterious as ever. Even Sir Henry's missing boot in London seemed to point to some wild conspiracy, too dark to be seen clearly.

The rising sun in the distance did nothing to calm my fears. Any other week I would see i's colors with joy, but now they only brought to mind the sailor's rhyme, "Take warning, take warning.". I sorely wished that Holmes would come and make all clear to us, before some calamity burst forth.

A little suspense. Use this music or one of the YouTube related suggestions to inspire your work today. If you use a different piece, be sure to link it so we can all enjoy!

I used the prompt as a picture prompt only. Music makes me dizzy, so I didn't listen. ( Inner ear issue, I'm working on it, infodump here if desired:
https://www.hopkinsmedicine.org/health/conditions-and-diseases/superior-canal-dehiscence-syndrome-scds

Please let me know if the writing makes no sense with this music.

"Watson, your dates are ridiculous. You have me solving "The Second Stain" three different times. Why can't you take the care to get your notes in order before you publish our cases?

"Because, my dear Holmes, no one believes an unreliable narrator. If I cannot be correct about the dates, how can I be correct about your retirement? How can I be correct about how amazing you are? People might enjoy my stories, but with a little care I can keep them from our door."

Author: Upstairsfromreality
Length: 100
Universe: BBC Sherlock

Harry fingered the invitation in her purse once again. As a graphic designer, she hated its off-center names, but she knew why John had refused to include his middle name. The more irritating part of the card was the message. Her little brother, the only family she had left, was getting married in three weeks. A whole new person had come into his life, which meant she had one more chance to decide whether she had finally fallen out of it. That simply could not happen. She stood up and said "Hello, my name is Harry and I'm an alcoholic."

Author: Upstairsfromreality
Universe: Elementary
Rating: PG-13
Length: 76 words

She liked her coffee. It was a necessary stimulant in the morning, a welcome break in the afternoon. It was fuel when a cop made it. It was nectar when a cop didn't make it. It was a lubricant for conversations with her mother and her informants alike. It was a routine, but every cup was a treat.

"Oh, yes," Elena told the assassin. "Her coffee will be a very good choice for something to poison."

Joan had been in a hostage situation before, but found the thought no comfort. Her last captors were pros. Her efforts to assist them , to make them see her as worth keeping alive, had ended in them shooting the man she tried save.

This time, her captor denied wanting anything she could provide. Her referral to a colleague was treated as a joke. The gun was just as loaded as the time before, Sherlock was on just as tight a deadline. But Joan knows that Jack is not Marchef. She believes the right words can bring them out of peril.

My leave did not come through, of course. It never did. Never in that stream of young bodies to my table did we get a break long enough for me to actually stop for a few days, a week, or wonder of wonders, two weeks. The most that I, or any surgeon, got during those awful last few months was assignment to more minor cases, just long enough to let me catch my breath before going back to gangrene and gassed lungs and shattered limbs. That was how I found myself walking towards the post-surgical ward, checking on the American soldiers whose light wounds I had stitched up the day before.

As I approached the door, I heard one of them say to the other, "Bull biscuits, Miller! You're no more eighteen than I am." I waited ten seconds before opening the door, so the boys wouldn't know an officer had heard them. I strode up to the most likely culprit for the speech, a handsome lad in spectacles whose pallor had more to do with worry over his future than his very slight blood loss.

"Private Potter, is it? I'm Major Watson. I operated on your arm yesterday." I always asked the name the first time I spoke to one of the lads. Identity discs got blown off and charts mislabeled all too often for our patients.

"Yes, sir. How am I, sir?" asked Potter.

"You'll be fine. In fact, we're sending you back to your unit soon. The bullet was easy to see on your X-ray. Didn't hit any bones or nerves, so all I had to do was pluck it out, stop your bleeding, and stitch you up. Only odd thing in the case was, the X-ray showed your bones haven't stopped growing yet. Thats not common in an eighteen-year-old. Looks like you've got another inch or two of height coming."

The boy smiled, since even lying in bed he looked almost too short to be accepted in the army. I expected him to try to cover his mistake, but he was curious, instead. "Can you really tell how old I am from an X-ray picture? I've read about them, but never seen one?"

"Of course we can, private. Growing bone looks whiter than bone that's growing. Here, take a look."

I showed the boy his X-ray and was surprised to hear him muttering, "Just missed my ulna, then."

Looking over, I noticed his intent expression as he inwardly compared the picture to something he had seen before. A specimen? An anatomy book? Or maybe just bones in general. "Are you interested in medicine, Potter?" I asked.

"Yes, sir," he said. "I just finished high school before I signed up, so I'll be able to go to college and then med school as soon as I get back to Missouri. If I get back. I want to be a surgeon." He flexed his fingers experimentally, wincing as my stitches pulled.

"Don't you worry about that.," I said. "Your hand will be fine. I told you no bones got hit." I didn't mention the risk of infection, which could still kill any boy in this room. No need to worry them.

I turned to go, but something held me back. "One more thing Potter. Don't worry about not being eighteen yet, either. You'll do fine. There's only two ages in this war anyway. Too damn young — and too damn old."

"Yes, sir. Thank you sir," said the Potter lad. I hope this was his last war, just like mine.

Kitty Riley had another scoop on the suicide of the Fake Detective. Scotland Yard had found Richard Brook's body on the roof of the building Sherlock Holmes had jumped off. She filed her copy and went home to mourn for Rich, whom she had loved, at least a little.

Arriving home, she found a disagreeable package waiting for her. An almost perfect wax apple, with one bite taken out and the letters PIF carved in. She reported the threat to both her employer and the police.

The police must have taken the report as connected to either Brook's or Holmes's death, because they sent not a bored sergeant, but a DI, all gray hair, brown eyes, and Estuary accent. He assured her that they would investigate closely, but when he called later it was only to say that there was no DNA on the apple and the bite mark was a match to an anatomical model, available online, in most dentist's offices, and at a handful of GP surgeries as well.

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Greg burst into 221B without knocking like always.

"John," he demanded "You've got to stop this. I can only cover up so much."

John barely looked at him.

Greg asked again, "Did it make you feel any better, paying that IOU in full?"

John said, "No, not even a bit."