First. I'm looking for John Watson. I don't know if you're through the door or not, so I thought it best to look for you here.
Second. Though plans have stalled, Coventry is looking for a drummer. If you're interested, leave me a note here, or give me a ring at [number]. I can provide more details if you would like, as can my bandmates, Noah and Simon.
[The following is written in black ink, with a borderline illegible script. It's the writing of a man who so to speak, did not give a fuck what Sister Edward Michael Joseph said about his handwriting.]
These things should come with manuals. There's only so much piecing together one can do about reading these things. Do the voices you all hear take over that often? It's made me a bit more thankful that mine doesn't talk much unless it's about that damned door.
Ignore the above question and let's get a more serious one. I'm out of reading material and the only books in the Venetian's store, I wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole. Where's a good old fashioned Annie's? Hell, I'll take a Barnes and Noble even.
[The number was taken from a passing banker on Baker Street, at random.]
[Same text to all parties. Irene A., at her original number. Mycroft H., at the number no one is supposed to know except someone he has cuppa with weekly. John W., expecting his number to be the same.] Alive. - SH
[Written in black ink, fairly neat letters but with no flourish at all. From John W.]
So these are my choices. Trapped in the brain of a girl that's too daft to realize I'm there, though at least I got her to go through the damn door. Or trapped in a city in a flat that is nothing but bad, and that I frankly can't afford any longer. Reenlisting is beginning to look better and better. Someone talk to me before the boredom drives me mad.
[Public] Am I the only one who feels rather better about this entire mess after visiting that hotel? Now is the moment to insult me, for those of you in the audience who enjoy such things.