One foul, foggy morning he found himself on Baker Street and couldn't remember how he'd come to be there, couldn't remember why there was blood worked into the seams of his hands, didn't even remember his own name until someone caught him by the bad arm and fresh pain broke through the wall of exhaustion.
"You all right, Doctor?"
"No." The truth spilled out. "I've lost..." Lost my patient, lost my wife, lost my friend.
The constable led him into the telegraph office, made him sit. He heard the whispered discussion distantly.
"Ain't there no-one we can send for?"
No-one.