Silent Psalm(JOHNLOCK)

Unnamed letter

The sun shone bright upon the windows of my flat, first thing in the absurdly warm morning. I forced myself to arise and prepare for the day as the sunlight seeped into the room through my thin curtains. I was rather curious as to what my dear Holmes was working on today. Judging by the frantic noise coming from the next room over, I could only assume he was given a new case to pour his expertise into.

I know better than to enter Holmes' room without sufficient reason, hence I made him a cup of warm coffee just as he likes. He has a preference for pure black coffee with precisely three sugar servings, in an exactly 236.6 milliliter mug, one he acquired from Sir Henry during our case in Baskerville Hall. He prefers coffee over tea, despite any social and societal pressure. Holmes typically prefers coffee over a proper breakfast as well, though I believe it to be heavily unhealthy. Despite my better judgement, I proceeded to make my way into the workplace of Holmes.

Hesitantly, I approached the room of my dear friend and attempted to knock, but something nagged at me to refrain from it. Against my own will, I prepared to do so, though I was halted by a voice on the other end of the door.

"You may come in, Watson. No need to hesitate on merely knocking."

I would be surprised if it was someone other than the great Sherlock Holmes, but it is in fact him. To be shocked by his skill despite how long I've known him, would make me less intelligent than a candle near its death. I entered the room, which was beyond filled with tobacco smoke. My breath hitched in an untimely manner. My vision was hazy, though the figure of Holmes' hunched over his desk was by far unmistakable.

"By God Holmes, what has you this stressed? Based on this amount of smoke, I'd likely assume you've been up for hours before the sun."

Almost desperately, he retrieved the cup from my hands, drinking it as if it were his very life source. Considering his satisfied sigh, I determined that he was content with the beverage. My friend had seemed to calm down quite a bit, speaking a bit more clarity than beforehand.

"My dear Watson, I've been subjected to a fairly complex case. I've been given nothing to work with other than a letter written on thin hotel paper and faded graphite. There are no people mentioned nor is there a signature. I feel hatred to admit that I'm struggling with such little evidence that could easily be fabricated. I've also found nothing in the news of this situation. I'm starting to believe that I've been made into a joke, Watson."

Taking a look at the letter in which he was sent, I too was very puzzled.

–

Dearest Holmes,

To start off, I would like to state that I mean to send this anonymously in order to keep myself from falling subject upon being found out. Now, I would like to report a heartless murder, Mr. Holmes. Please come to Leicester Square sometime in a week and three days, nine hours past noon.

–

It certainly was brief, and there were no identifiable details other than the vague mention of a murder. I can see this case has my dear Holmes beyond stressed. I only wish I could be of help...

Holmes had placed the letter back upon the cluttered surface of his desk, where it lay among a sea of crumpled notes, clippings from the Times, and several small, curious objects whose relevance I could not yet discern. He leaned back in his chair, the smoke from his pipe encircling his sharp features like a wreath of pale fog.

"You see, Watson," he began, tapping the stem of his pipe against the edge of the desk, "there is a curious duality at play here...an invitation and a challenge, cloaked in anonymity and calculated imprecision. Nine hours past noon, Leicester Square, and yet not a whisper of the victim, the method, nor the motive. It is either the rambling of a lunatic or the calculated test of a man who knows precisely to whom he writes."