Dear Sherlock,
To keep myself occupied whilst I wait for my arms to heal, I've decided to write a book. Mrs Hudson brought my laptop over and I started planning for it. You wouldn't be interested and you'd never read it, because it's a fiction. You don't read novels. It's a crime fiction, because I have more than enough experience in the field. You may think that it's going to fail miserably; my plot will be too obvious, my characters too stupid or my solution too unimaginative. But I hope that I've learnt enough from you that you won't be too shocked at it, and say that I have a noticeable lack of writing talent. I'm going to give it a title that you'll probably disapprove of. 'The Stand-Off Comedian'. Yeah, I knew you'd hate it.
The man on my ward was taken in for further surgery on his stomach to make it stronger. The had a difficult time deciding whether or not to carry it out, because no family has turned up to claim responsibility for him, and he's been saying that he didn't want it. But the doctors eventually resolved that he isn't mentally sound enough to make decisions for himself. I'm so glad that hasn't happened to me. Freedom to choose in life is one of the greatest gifts the humanity has been given. I miss being able to make my own way around the world, but I suppose I gave up that right when I chose badly before.
They're coming back for me now with about five different needles. God, I hate them. Alright, Sherlock, I'll write again next week. Do something you enjoy before then, because God knows I can't.
All my love,
Your John.