Three things have happened in the last two months.
Thanks to Jim Moriarty, Sebastian Moran has a new (perfectly functioning) liver, and somehow sixteen (more or less) murders have taken place under his hand (or his gun). Lestrade and I have been keeping tabs on the cases, with a code name for Moriarty and Moran as to not suspect anyone at the Yard into trying to arrest. We all know where that could lead. We’ve also identified two “moles” in the Yard working for Moriarty- something else we can’t do much about, but the knowledge is liberating in the least. So much for a break.
In addition to that, Lestrade and John have become very good friends, which is a bit worrying as Lestrade is one of only less than seven people who knows more about me than I possibly do about myself. This is romanticizing the idea of course, but the principle is true: Lestrade could be telling John anything from embarrassing stories to dark secrets I told him never to disclose to others. Though it is John.
And finally, Victor Trevor has written me two letters. I haven’t read either- I’ve been putting it off for unexplainable reasons anyway, but I can tell from the type of paper he’s used and the way he wrote the second letter the plans on visiting London again soon. He’s in the States now, I should try to give him excuses ahead of time as to why I won’t be here when he comes. I just have to find one.
And as for excuses (or rather, distractions), I’m leading John away from asking about the letters for now with an appointment to see Darrel and Antoine. One good thing Mycroft is for of course, rescheduling my anxieties. John should be happy about this, at least.
In fact, he should be home soon. I haven’t showered in three days but the least I can do is make him a cup of tea, and give him the good news.