There was something almost liberating in making that small gift. It was a little thing, nothing at all to give Lestrade a knife, but it seemed to mean something to him, and that... that was a valuable thing.

"He did." Watson touched his breast pocket, his face clouding a little. "I really must stop carrying it about with me, I suppose. I will ruin it that way..."

He removed the letter, unfolded it, glanced over it. "It isn't much," Watson admitted. "He couldn't exactly have been... well, sentimental, or private. But it's something. Did you... did you want to see it?"