Journal Entry 2
Dear Sherlock,
I thought I should let you know that I've started seeing my therapist again. You probably already knew about her, even though I've never explicitly told you about her, so this shouldn't come as much of a shock to your brilliantly-deducing mind. I haven't told her about this journal yet—I'm sort of afraid she won't let me use it anymore. Is it stupid of me to think that? I'd rather not risk it. She's trying to help me work through my issues, but it's hard to help a guy who can hardly say two words about you without shutting completely down. I guess I'll have to work on that, but for now she's usually letting me just sit and chat about other things—anything that isn't you. Mrs. Hudson also convinced me to get my hands on some antidepressants, even though I don't really take them. Should I? I know I'm the doctor here, and I probably shouldn't be asking a consulting detective and high-functioning sociopath about my prescription drugs, but I want to ask your opinion anyway. I feel like this is something I should work out on my own. Oh, and by the way—I did check earlier to see if your chair was bolted to the floor. I should've known that it wasn't, but with you I'm never sure, so sorry for falsely accusing you in my last letter. Even though I know that, though, I'm still not going to try and move it anymore. My dates can just deal with the couch, I guess. Speaking of your chair, it's still blocking potential storage space for all the files and body parts and however many laptops you left behind, and I've started looking through them. There's nothing important, of course; Mycroft and his gang came to make sure all of those were removed from our flat. The ones they left really are interesting, though. I didn't quite grasp what a genius you are—were—until now. And no, I don't believe that you were a fraud. Someone as impressive and mind-boggling as you couldn't be a fraud. I'll never believe it, no matter what the media tries to tell me.
Your loyal friend,
John H. Watson