[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.