[in somewhat scrawled
Victorian penmanship, and with a few splotches of blue ink dotting the page in frustration. The underlines are especially aggressive]
No sign of Holmes. No sign of Holmes
anywhere. He's gone off again for God knows where to do God knows what, and I'm left having to attempt deduction in order to find a hint of a direction in which to turn. He loves these games. They give him a thrill. I ought to know the drill by now. If he's managed to get into a scrape, I shall be
entirely put out. Especially if he's trying to prove some damnable point about how he cannot function properly without me -- an assertion I am beginning to believe!
Also, my service revolver seems to be missing. I take this as a somewhat distressing point.
Mercifully, both Mrs Hudson and Gladstone are well. Small mercies etc.