Dear Sherlock,
They changed my bandages first thing this morning, and let me tell you, the stench was horrendous. The cuts are infected now, and it's bad. They say I should rest my arms, but I have to write to you. My wrists are inflamed and the right one's swollen a bit. They still don't hurt, and the doctors have been injecting antibiotics into them for the last five hours. They barely leave me alone.
I've been moved to a different ward, where there's only me and this other bloke who drank some bleach. He's been screaming for them to kill him since he got here. Morphine isn't doing enough for him, apparently. Poor man. It makes me look like a silly bastard in comparison. He wakes me up in the night, yelling and wailing. It annoys me sometimes, but I have to remind myself that he's not mentally stable, and in a lot of ways, just like me. A man with no options.
When I sleep, I don't dream. Too many drugs in mys system. My mind can't function properly anymore. It's driving me to distraction. It's so boring just to lie in a bed all day, strapped down so that I can move nothing but my arms and head. I sleep all the time, even when I'm not tired becuase there's nothing else to do. Mrs Hudson brought Cluedo the other day, but I took one look at it and she knew I couldn't play. So instead I have the papers, which I've demanded be left with these letters when they're delivered to you.
They're so worried about me, and I feel terrible for causing them to be anxious. I was so selfish and so not like me that I look back and wonder how I could have done such a thing. But don't you worry about me, Sherlock. I'll be fine, I promise. You should know that I always keep my promises.
Love,
Your John.