Dear Sherlock,
They're going to keep me cooped up here in the hospital until my wounds have fully healed, to make sure that I don't try to pull the bandages off or the stitches out. They don't understand that I don't feel that way inclined anymore. I have never regretted anything more in my life. I'm having to get Nina and Mrs Hudson to deliver these letters now, I give them to them when the come to visit me. So now I have to properly seal my envelopes, because I don't want them to read what I write.
I can hear the nurses talking with them about moving me to some sort of depression clinic after they release me from here. I just thank God that Mrs Hudson is having none of it. I think she can see how defeated I am and that I'll never try anything of the sort again. She's fighting my corner, but I know the nurses are doubtful of her judgement.
I don't know what drugs they're putting in my drip, but whatever they are, they seem to be working. I don't feel depressed, but I couldn't say whether it was genuine recovery or just artificial happiness. I can't feel any pain in my wrists, so I must be on an extremely high dose of morphine, but when I move them, I feel the strangest tugging. Like now, as I write.
You would be distraught if you could see how I am now. A hollow, depressed, lonely man with no forseeable future. This could have ruined everything for me. My work, my relationship, my everyday life, my friendships.
I thought that if I could escape from the insanity of living without you, I'd be free. But it turns out that when I failed, it put more limitations on me than I'd have guessed was possible.
Love,
Your John.