Dear Sherlock,
I am finally back home. After so much time in the hospital, it is a relief to be back in Baker Street, sleeping in my own bed, cooking in the kitchen, sitting in my chair. I missed it so much.
Defying my therapist's predictions, my limp has not returned, making the point that you will always keep that part of me fixed. It was a good moment for everyone when I walked again.
Mrs Hudson has been a dream these past few days; she's looking after me so well. She makes me cups of tea and brings me biscuits even if I don't ask for them. The only problem is that she's taken all the sharp knives away, and that really doesn't help when you're trying to chop up vegetables to make dinner. I've asked for them back, but she's adamant that I stay away from them, at least for a while. She chops the veg instead. And then she gives me my pills, twice a day. A mixture of anti-depressants and strong painkillers. I hate taking them. They make me feel like I'm not in control of my emotions anymore, and I can't trust myself and the way I feel. But she always makes me swallow them. When I try to pretend that I have taken them when I haven't, she looks so sad that I take them anyway, for her. But it's difficult.
As I assumed, work is off until everyone is entirely convinced that I'm fully recovered. Which could be a while. But at least I only have to convince them. If I actually had to recover, then I'd never get back to work. I want to get back so badly, though. I can't bear to be sat around doing nothing once again. Well, I have my book to write and Greg brings me cases now and again. I'm actually getting better at them. I just look at everything you'd look at - I've heard enough of your deductions to have some idea of what you're supposed to notice. I've so far solved two completely since I've been back. I'm proud of myself, and I hope that you're proud of me, too.
Love,
Your John.