LETTERS // PROMPT MEME. (accepting) — @decrstalker007. a letter written in the case of my muse’s death
Mr S Holmes221B Baker StreetMaryleboneLondonNW1 6XE
At the risk of sounding entirely too cliché, if you’re reading this, then the likelihood is that I'm already dead. I’m sure this fact won’t come as much of a surprise to you— apparently I am simply unable to stop getting myself into trouble, even when actively avoiding it. And if you don’t believe me after my last ‘stunt’, well, I don’t suppose I can really blame you. The words ‘boy’ and 'cried wolf’ immediately come to mind. I guess you’ll just have to take my word for it.
To give you a bit of context, for the past fortnight I’ve been held by what I can only assume is some form of terrorist cell, somewhere in the south of Pakistan. Though my knowledge of the dialect is admittedly more lacking than I’d like, I’d make an educated guess that we’re just north of Karachi. Though, I could be completely wrong— I did spend the majority of the journey gagged and blindfolded in the back of a van. A taste of my own medicine, apparently. Untimely use of morbid humour as a coping mechanism aside, it seems I really have upset the wrong people this time. My execution is scheduled for just after nightfall. A very Tudor-esque fate, I’m sure you’ll agree.
Surprisingly, however, my captors have allowed me to send this letter as my dernière volonté. I have one of them watching over my shoulder, of course, but I suspect the prat can barely read Urdu, let alone English. Even still, I won’t be using it as some sort of final plea or request for rescue— I’m afraid you’ve already heard me beg once more than I had ever planned. I’m not really certain why I chose to write to you of all people. It is, of course, essentially your fault that I’m here in the first place, and not at the plush safe-house in Bermuda I’d had in mind (God, what I’d do for a rum cocktail on the beach right now). I’d like to think it’s because that blasted address of yours is one of the few I can remember in full under the circumstances. Though, I’m sure you’d beg to differ, and in all honesty, I’m not certain I have it in me to argue any more.
Christ. My last hours on this earth and I’m choosing to waste them on you, Sherlock Holmes. Just what can you deduce from that? I’d love to know, if only to hear a familiar voice. I’m getting rather tired of my own thoughts at this point, and conversations are never as fun when they’re only being had with oneself. Hence the incessant rambling you’re receiving from me now, I assume. This is the most intellectual interaction I’ve had in weeks and it’s with a piece of bloody paper. How drôle.
People are usually expected to confess in their final moments, aren’t they? It’s not really my style, all of that nonsense. I can only imagine that my sins are far beyond any form of repentance, as I’m sure you’ll understand, but I do appreciate the drama of it all. Somehow, though, I fear that my some of actions may have confessed for me far more than any words could have done long before I knew of my imminent fate. Your fault again, detective. But what tragic foreshadowing! And yet ever so funny, depending how you choose to look at it. My pulse was what lead to my downfall, and in just a few short hours, it won’t be there at all. Taken from me, both times, in two very different ways. God, how disgustingly symbolic.
Right, then. I suppose this is it. But before I go, there’s an overwhelming part of me that wants to thank you. I’ve always loved detective stories, and you went and made me part of one. How’s that for ticking off a bucket list?
Goodbye, Mr Holmes. We’ll have that dinner when we meet again.