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Yujin Mikotoba always had a fondness for writing; his medical career revolved around reporting cases, and even his time in London had him chronicling ridiculous investigations.
So, Mikotoba was one who almost desired the paper format of correspondence. It was less about the romanticism of pouring one’s soul through ink but more of the convenience of practicality that a connection would always hold. When he was younger his circle of friends and relatives were always nearby he could by-pass any sort of postal system to speaking with them directly. But as he aged and made more acquaintances from further afield, both in his career and personal life, penning his thoughts and questions was a familiarity. And of course, with a lengthy and most life-changing trip overseas it was of most import.
Nothing was quite habitual in Mikotoba’s life than his correspondence with the Great London Detective. Usually when he had to take to ink and paper he would sit in his study and scrawl away but writing in his study was methodical; unbefitting for a letter addressed to a close partner. Back in the first exchanges of letters, Mikotoba had truly tried to pen his thoughts as he sat in his study. Trying to put to paper his long journey from the seas to the familiarity of his hometown, was difficult. Though he was unsure if it was the physicality of the study itself or the thoughts writing to a dear friend miles and seas away that made his penmanship slow.
Dearest Sholmes,
I hope you received my other letters from the voyage well. I posted a few at some ports we had docked at. Hopefully, this isn’t the first letter you receive. If not, no need for concern. They were a great way to pass time on such a long voyage, so there may be more than a few ramblings in there.
I’m now writing from my home in Japan. It’s a lot more spacious than I remember and made more so from sleeping in a small cabin and our place in Baker Street. Even though I arrived only this morning, the day has been too long. I feel as though I will fall asleep once I’m done with your letter. My mother has already scolded me for coming to my study at such a late hour, or maybe it is because of my age…
Mikotoba had paused to think of his eventual return to his living quarters. From the long haul of months at sea, his body was drained. If he was lucky his body would pass out as soon as he hit the futon. If not, then he would lay awake thinking of his late wife resting in a place he could not reside, or the home in London he had to leave with such haste the only thoughts he could hold were to write back…
He sighed and tried to pen something lighter, something warmer. And so he focused on his young daughter, Susato: a girl he had not seen since she was born. All he had to see her grow were the photos his mother had sent on each of her birthdays. Both he and she had been awkward and unsure, and Mikotoba did his best to humour the retelling of his first meeting with his daughter either for his friend’s amusement or engagement. This whilst he wondered how Sholmes was fairing with a young child himself. At the time of writing, if Mikotoba had read even one letter from the stacked envelopes his mother had organised during his voyage from England to Japan, he would have chuckled with the knowledge of child-raising in London. But he had not and simply scrawled away.
And as he continued it became more of a journal entry—personal—than it did a letter. When he had glanced over his writing, briefly lest he toss the paper aside in embarrassment, it was as if he was reading one of his writings of the investigations. There were details longer than would have been penned in any other sort of writing. The only telling for the format was the address at the beginning and the author’s closing words:
Yours,
Mikotoba.
…
From that first night returning to his home and meeting his daughter, so old he had missed her—everything, he did not want to part for so long. His mother had joined them on most of their outings but Mikotoba had to admit he had felt a certain pride and love when Susato had agreed to go to the park with him whilst her grandmother went shopping. In those moments, he simply had to take up his notetaking skills; he could not miss a thing. And of course, just as if he was back in England following his partner, he was writing for him too.
It seemed both silly yet somehow closer to take his papers with him to the park or to the local shop. It was not simply recounting events nor simple replies to his friend. It was Mikotoba retelling to relive the moments of his day he wanted to share; it was trying to recreate places and things that he knew his friend would be so desperate to experience first-hand; it was replying to Sholmes’ letters in a location different than the last.
…
Dearest Sholmes,
Susato has taken quite a liking to the sweet desserts shop that has opened up near the university. They regularly switch out their menus so she has found a great excitement and I myself am gaining weight at the delicious thought of returning there.
…
Dearest Sholmes,
The blossoms surrounding the university have bloomed in such a way I sadly cannot describe. I did try but I will have to admit Susato did more to press the flowers than I did. Let me know how they fair the journey.
…
Dearest Sholmes,
I have no idea what you were referring to in your letter. But I did manage to find a pond that is close to the one you described in your investigation last month. I will gladly say there are no loose squirrels around.
…
As much as Mikotoba sat and wrote his letters, he was not without reply. For, he was also the frequent reader. From the moment he had stepped back into his home he had been greeted with a stack of letters and packages. The majority had the familiar scrawl of a rushed but clever detective. It was warming in the knowledge that Sholmes had kept his promise of writing to him. Their exchange most definitely not one-sided. Mikotoba half-wondered if any of the letters were replies to the spattering of letters he had sent at sea, although he had forgotten most of what he had wrote. No doubt if Sholmes had directly responded to something he would have an inkling.
Unfortunately, the detective had lacked the initiative to date his letters so trying to find the first was a deduction of sorts. Mikotoba started from the bottom, assuming his mother had organised his mail with the newest on top; she had. The rest did follow in some sort of chronological coherence. There were some discrepancies; either the postal service had delays or the order of letters were mixed as post was delivered only a couple days a week. It was not only the distinct handwriting that screamed a letter was from his partner but Sholmes’ letters were distinct in brevity though they did not lack wit.
…
My Dear Partner,
My investigations have grown and I’m delivering the most wonderous deductions. They do however lack a certain toe-tapping flair… If you ever find yourself amongst musicians recording an album be sure to sneak in some toe-tapping to send to me. Better yet, learn morse code for me!
…
Dearest Mikotoba,
Do you have the recipe for that rice porridge you made me for when I was ill? If money lets me I want to make some if Iris ever falls ill. Though she is made of tough stuff.
…
There’s no time for introductions! I’ve heard Japanese men have difficulty sporting facial hair?! Is this true? I must know!
…
Over the years, the two had been fond and prompt responding to one another’s mail; and writing a letter almost as one had been sent in some sort of haste of conversation that took weeks. The older they both got, the more relaxed the letters read. They were mixed between lengthy well-thought out pages to short scrawls of an imperative casualness. Mikotoba had wrote a few drunk letters and had debated sending those to save himself embarrassment. Often curiosity got the better of him in imagining how Sholmes would be entertained by his unintelligible writing.
Years meant the variety of topics did not diminish. It only grew. Their daughters were as more frequent in their writings than that of themselves. It was sharing; it was humbling. It was amusing to hear how Sholmes faired in raising the young girl. It had been more than a simple surprise when he received a package of a short excerpt from Randst Magazine. It was not his writing but he saw the foundation he had not been able to hide the flush of embarrassment. Nevertheless he had signed a subscription form for the publications. Mikotoba could not help but chuckle at the sparkle in Susato’s eyes as she relayed in awe of Herlock Sholmes’ deductions.
What he had not expected in the letters he received from London was to find his own daughter talking of his dear dear partner, in close proximity. It was warming to know that his daughter was both in a place and with a person he called safe. His past in that building, in that street, in that city, was a home he wished he had shared more. His letters from England read as though he received two accounts (and an occasional third from the young lawyer) of the life in 221B Baker Street. But if Sholmes merely bragged about his endeavours then Susato was praising the detective even in the most mundane life.
…
Dear Father,
Please do not worry about our accommodation. We bumped into Mr Sholmes again upon our arrival in London and he has been extremely kind to us. Both myself and Naruhodou-san will be lodging with him and his partner Iris Wilson! Wilson turned out to be an incredibly sweet young girl.
…
Dear Father,
I’ve been enjoying cooking and making tea with young Iris. We have been exchanging so many recipes and did you know Mr Sholmes has an unfortunate lack of talent in brewing. I have only seen him in the kitchen once before Iris rushed him out. Though that gives him more time for his investigations, he has said.
…
Dear Father,
It is quite fun following Mr Sholmes’ deductions. You should see him at work. It is a marvel. Naruhodou-san and I were able to connect those clues to our most recent case.
…
The letters were amusing and a relief he knew the proximity of his daughter and her adventures. He could only hope that the kind of investigations and trials she was caught in was enough to sate her curiosity but wasn’t too dangerous he wouldn’t sleep. Mikotoba could only handle so much.
Yet, it was because of his worry over his daughter and the tangles of his past he had to resort to other means. The first time he had opted to using telegrams, was upon receiving the letter regarding the collar. The letter had been curt. No use of address. No light-heartedness. It was not an immediate threat but Mikotoba did not wait a moment to head to the telegram office. As thankful and trusting as he could be that his dearest partner would do everything to ensure the safety of his daughter, he could not risk such tragedy on her nor Iris.
If, in all of those letters, he and Sholmes had omitted the dark trial of London, they may have lost touch along the way. To skirt around something like that would have left holes of mistrust. It was unavoidable; it had been a cause for Mikotoba to leave the country in a haste neither were prepared for. If Sholmes was investigating in England then Mikotoba was researching in Japan. Together partners still. So, maybe it was inevitable they would be reunited.
There had been no time nor need to discuss the years of letters between them. It was unspoken yet so open between them. The vulnerabilities they had left so bare in those letters not so easy to say aloud but the content sat between them in the smirks and the grand gestures between them. In the fluidity of dance it was most certainly not lost: the choice Mikotoba specifically wore a pair of hard soled shoes and Sholmes did not miss a beat of rhythm in words. Because despite the decade apart, it felt as though Mikotoba had never really left the apartment of Baker Street. It was a life so easy to slot back into.
It was not until the SS ship was ready for departure did Sholmes admit his first letter was only the first letter he had sent. It was not the first he had written. And in a moment Mikotoba had an envelope safely in his pocket and the touch of something softer on his cheek. When it was late and Mikotoba thought it best to retire on the ship, he pulled out the envelope. The seal looked weathered as though it had been opened and resealed several times. The paper itself had a softness only age gave. Just one glance was enough to show how brief the contents were. But upon reading, Mikotoba promised he would lay himself more vulnerable. At his age, what was there to lose except for distance. Distance that could be closed with only pen to paper.
…
Dearest Mikotoba,
It has only been eight hours since you departed on your voyage back to Japan, and an hour since little Iris has stopped wailing. She has been quite restless since you left and I have to admit I feel the same. Am I suited to wailing or to be swallowed up? 221B is much quieter and it has not been a day. I sadly can’t say I’m tucked nicely in bed as it feels far larger than when we bought it. Maybe you should have taken the bed and left your tap shoes.
I think I’ll invest in some loud shoes for Iris when she starts walking. Until then, I will do my best to fill this space with your dancing and laughter.
Keep well, partner.