Dear Readers,

It is with utmost regret that I inform you that Charity is currently buried under a mountain of volumes, which she insisted upon piling in an enormous stack to “prove” how much research she is doing on her novels. I warned her of the high probability the pile would collapse on top of her, burying her in a mass of historical references, but she sneered at me and told me to “bugger off.”

Since spending so much time figuratively buried in British material, I suppose some picking up of common offensive slang is to be expected (if not tolerated). Still, I sensed a degree of fanatical energy in the outburst, which accompanied the fevered gleam in her eye, that leads me to suspect an impending emotional breakdown.

What started this event was she chanced upon a copy of The Times left lying in our front room. (Watson left it there. He insists it was me, but it wasn’t.) She was thumbing through it, in search of entertainment / distraction from her research, when she chanced upon a picture of She Who Must Not Be Named.

(At this point, Charity’s hand emerged from the stack and she shrieked, “Don’t you DARE say her name!”)

“She” is, of course, a rather popular (as I understand it, I don’t read fiction, it’s a total waste of time, and one must keep one’s brain attic cleared of distractions) Tudor-era novelist, whom Charity complains is highly inaccurate, reducing various historical figures to murderers, incestuous siblings, rapists, and such. Well, midway through the article, populated by various sounds of a most displeasing and indignant nature, Charity cried out (she really is loud), “OH NO SHE DIDN’T” and fell into her stack of books.

It teetered for a precarious moment and then the largest volume, with one Cardinal Wolsey on the front, hit her on the head and the rest collapsed. I attempted to render aid (Watson is better at this sort of thing, but alas, since he married whatever her name is, I no longer see much of him, reducing me to self-medicate with cocaine) but she pushed me away and, in a rather melodramatic fashion, covered the Sir Thomas More volume that landed on her face with her hand and sighed, “Just kill me now.”

She is prone to such hysterics, as most women are. Sigh.

I picked up the offending paper and found not some immense tragedy of diabolical proportions (such as the return of my arch-nemesis, Professor Moriarty), but that She Who Must Not Be Named had said she “thinks twice” about offering any of her new books as potential television or film material, because Hollywood makes a mess of it, which frustrates her, as she takes “such pains to make the history correct.”

When last I left her, Charity had her head resting on a biography of Sir Thomas Howard and was moaning, “What madness is this?”

I suspect I should offer her tea. Or a weapon to fire at the wall. Mrs. Hudson won’t mind, I’m sure.

The bell is ringing. Thank God, a case! I may go insane with This Woman in the house!

– Sherlock Holmes