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I started my catharsis by writing like a madman. The words poured from me like bitter water, flowing onto the paper in waves. I could not stem the tide, nor did I wish to. It was like balm to my wounded soul, and I was determined to keep going until I ran out of words.
Some of the things I write of are not for the eye of the public. My personal thoughts, feelings, and anger would not be silenced, so I took up my journal and unleashed them. I cry, I rail, I howl like a demented man, but still, I write.
Once I'd purged my soul of the pain and misery of the past few years, I began to focus on my well-being. I started walking in the evenings, and am pleased that the nasty congestion I'd been nursing for nearly three years is finally loosening its grip on my lungs. My skin is loosing its spectre-like pallor, and the enlarged belly I'd been carrying around is diminishing. I take regular meals, and have begun to frequent both my club and the Turkish baths. I shaved off the hideous beard I'd grown, and had my hair cut back to its respectable length. I had no idea I looked so shameful until my barber mistook me for a criminal and started to hand me the day's receipts when I came in for a haircut.
The job as police surgeon is a blessing from above. Not only do I get to use my medical skills, but I also assist Lestrade with those cases which do not have an obvious cause. It is almost as though it was like before.
I still feel the loss of Holmes rather keenly, but I do not sink into despair at the mere thought of him. He is always uppermost in my thoughts, but I have learned to cope with his death. I finally presented my publisher with an account of his death… leaving out the intimate details, and my utter mental breakdown, of course. The account was published in The Strand to rave reviews and much mourning.
Mycroft sent a note telling me that Holmes would be pleased by the account of his death. I ignored his invitation to come to the Diogenes Club for drinks. I've come far, but not that far.
A knock at the door interrupts my introspection, and I haul myself out of the past , and go to the door. "Yes?" I say to the page.
"Telegram, Doctor."
"Thanks, Peter." I hand him a few coins and close the door. I open the telegraph and scan the contents.
"Dr. Watson," [it read] "please come to the morgue at once. There's been a murder, and I need you to look at the body. Mrs. Adair would be grateful for any insight you can give. Lestrade."
I toss the telegram aside, and take up my coat and hat.