Dear Sherlock,
As if I ever needed reminding of how broken I am. I was fine, feeling much better about myself, and making dinner for us all. So I asked Mrs Hudson for a knife to peel carrots, and, seeing that I was feeling fine, she brought me one. I thought I'd be able to handle it. I was wrong.
As soon as I saw it, I froze. Then when she offered it to me I started screaming and holding my scars. I was crying and screaming and it was dreadful. She didn't realise that she'd brought the knife I'd actually used. There are still bloodstains on the handle. She ran away with it, and Nina came and pulled me in the shower, fully clothed. She left me, sat there under the hot water, still screaming and holding onto my wrists as though they would burst open again.
They called Greg over, and he came without need of an explanation. Why would he be needed in such a situation was a mystery to me but I was glad that he was there. It turned out that I'd scared the girls, and they couldn't do anything because they were afraid that I'd hurt them or myself. They called Greg for some muscle power.
I'd scared them, Sherlock. I'd scared the only friends I have left in the world. There is almost no worse feeling than to know that the people you love are afraid of you. It's horrible. I don't know how I can ever forgive myself now. I've ruined so many lives, and mine most of all. They were afraid that I would hurt them, but I would never and they should know that but they didn't, Sherlock. They doubted me and now I don't know how they will act around me now. Will they always be scared of me?
They're increasing my anti-depressant dosage. I won't be able to trust myself at all. I don't know whether the next letters I write will even be real.
I'm scared now, too, Sherlock.
Your John.