As a soldier and a doctor, I know that a man who is very badly hurt in battle often feels no pain. If he lives, he remembers nothing about what has happened to him. After that terrible night in Whitechapel, I was like that man. The next day, I woke up and found myself lying in a park. My watch and my money had gone, and I was cold and dirty. I knew that I had spent many hours drinking, but I did not know where I had been, or what had happened to me.
I did not want to go to Baker Street, because I was afraid that Holmes would be there, but I needed a bath and dry clothes. In the end, I paid a cab-driver to knock on the door. The house was empty, so I went in.
There was a telegram from Holmes. 'M has escaped us,' it said. 'He is trying to leave the country, but I am following him.' I did not know what to think. Was I mad, or was my best friend, the man who I had worked with for so many years, a murderer?
That evening, the murder in Whitechapel of a young woman called Mary Kelly was reported in the newspapers. This murder was more bloody, more horrible than any that had happened before. It was clear that it was the work of Jack the Ripper.
I was still reading the newspaper reports of the murder when Lestrade arrived.
'Good evening, doctor,' he said. 'I'd like a word with Mr Holmes.'
I did not know what to say. Did the police already know what Holmes had done?
Then Lestrade saw the telegram, picked it up and read it. 'Running off for a little holiday, is he?' he said. 'Some of us have to work for a living. We've had enough of Mr Holmes and the kind of help he gives the police.'