A/N: This is a project for my tenth grade English class, Honors Humanities, affectionately abbreviated to HoHum. My current plan is to update this every weekend, depending on how things go. Horatio is my favorite character in both the original play and the many movie adaptations of Hamlet. I hope readers can find some inspiration for their own school projects in this, or at least some reasonable enjoyment. Comments and criticism are welcome and appreciated. All actual credit for the characters does, of course, go to Shakespeare. Enjoy!

Standing Alone, Drink in Hand

-Prologue-

"So," the cushions squeaked against one another as she shifted in her seat, reaching for a clipboard on her desk. Her face cracked into a painfully fake smile while she avoided eye contact.

"Yes?" her client replied, studying his knuckles intently.

"What are your thoughts?" she inquired, tilting her head as if stretching her neck.

"About what? R- right now?"

"Yes. Your thoughts right now."

"Why? You going to scribble them down and tell … me I'm m- mad?"

"Is that what you want to hear?"

"No, not r- really."

"You've developed a stammer since we last met."

"No, it's just gotten worse."

Scratch, scratch, scratch went the pen. "This c-couch is far too … sunken. Old. Worn- worn down."

"Yes, I suppose you're right about that. Why don't you tell me a little bit about your week?"

"There's not mm- much to tell, h-honestly."

She scratched her face with the end of her pen, eyebrows furrowed, and questioned him further despite the man's obvious discomfort. "But have you tried any of my suggestions? The exercises?"

"The breathing? It's ri- ridiculous. Doesn't do m…me one bit of good. Still waking up with chillingly cold sweat dripping down my- my face, hearing his godawful coughs. Seeing that bloody… sword. There is no re- relaxing."

"Hmm, yes, alright," she muttered under her breath. The man sitting on the old, too worn down couch sighed and dropped his head heavily into his hands. The dark hair on top of his head was wiry, greasy with weeks of stress, and it poked at the scabs covering his knuckles.

"Will you tell me again about the dream?"

"We've alr- ready been over this."

"Well, tell me again."

His jaw clenched, and he ran an rough fingernail down the bridge of his nose with frustration. "Every night. Every bloody night I-… It's the bodies. Their bodies. Except in the dream they can- they can speak. And they speak to me. They ask why I didn't stop it all b…before it was too late. Why didn't I pr- provide the logic? He trusted me! He did! And I let him down, all- all over again, ever… every night. He trusted me to-" he cut his words off quickly, all at once afraid of his own thoughts.

"Trusted you to what?"

"I'm not even su- sure anymore. But it's my fault. They all tell me. Every night."

"Who trusted you? Who relied on you so heavily that you think their blood is on your hands?" suddenly she was curious, showing an interest in his words rather than her ballpoint and clipboard.

"Hamlet," he replied despondently, his dark, wise-beyond-his-years eyes staring into a patch of space some three feet in front of him. "Gertrude. Laer- Laertes. Probably Claudius, too."

"How?"

"How what?"

"How on earth did you manage to kill all those people and get away with it? What's your secret?"

"What? No, you don't under- understand. I didn't actually-"

"Aha!" she cut him off. "You didn't actually kill them. You've admitted it to yourself. So why place all the blame on your shoulders?"

"They relied on me!" he bellowed. She was taken aback by his sudden aggression. "'Let's ask Horatio,' they said, 'He has answers,' they said, 'He'll never lead us astray,' they said! I was the logical one! I was the one who proved reason! It was my job to keep situations under control, damn it!" He sank back down, not having realized that he stood up at all, and rubbed the week's worth of stubble that shadowed his jaw. Horatio glared at a fake fern quietly gathering dust in the corner, and refused to meet his therapist's eyes.

The room was suddenly stiflingly silent, the pen's scribbling echoing in Horatio's ears. The writer 'hmmmed' to herself. Horatio waited for her to say something, but he heard nothing. Growing impatient, he turned his glare on her and had to struggle to keep a growl out of his next word. "What?"

"You didn't stutter once. Your speech impediment vanishes when you're angry."

"Oh. Mm- maybe that's- Oh, for fu-"

"-Watch yourself, Horatio."

"R- right. Sorry."

"I'd like to go back to what you said a second ago. They relied on you to keep situations under control? Tell me about that."

He put his mask back on, face going slack and eyes becoming almost bored. "People take up different r…roles in a group."

"Can you give me an example other than yourself?"

He threw his head back with a kind of a snort, exasperated. "This is stupid. Don't you have any friends?"

She looked offended, a dark flush creeping its way into her face. She pushed her hair behind her ear, and her pen rolled onto the floor. "Well, yes, of course I have friends. What that has to do with anything, I don't-"

"Wr- wretched is the one without company," he sneered.

"Or perhaps a bit introverted, Horatio. But we are not talking about me, we're talking about you." Her clipped Yorkshire dialect cut through his thoughts, taking his drifting gaze away from the fake fern and back to her.

"Miss Robinson, are you quite alright?"

"I'm fine, thank you. Now, Horatio, tell me some more about the dream. Everyone was relying on you. Right. But you said that the dream's been invading your thoughts more frequently during the day as well, correct?"

"Like flashbacks."

"Flashbacks? Okay, that's good." She scribbled accordingly. "Are they in small increments that take you by surprise, or something that wandering thoughts frequently come back to?"

"Like war flashbacks. In the mm- movies."

"Alright, alright. Can you tell me a bit about the scenes?"

"No."

"Oh. Well, okay," she sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Short and to the point." She glanced down at her watch, and struggled to hold back a smile. This client was rather difficult, and her last of the day.

Horatio noticed her glance, and smiled ruefully. "Time's up?"

"That's not a concern of yours, Horatio."

"Goody."

"Mmm, yes," she muttered under her breath. She stared down at her notes, eyes scrolling across the page tiredly. Suddenly, her eyes brightened and she sat up. "Horatio?"

"What?"

"Have you been looking for anything to take your mind off of these flashbacks and dreams? A lot of people find that things such as writing, or running, music, reading, things like that, can really help in a situation similar to yours."

"I find it hilarious that you should me- mention that because I actually have."

"You have? Oh, good. Have you found anything in particular to be helpful?"

"Drink," he said with a caustic smile.

She sighed dejectedly, berating herself for it, but deciding to address his answer in a later meeting. "Alright, let's move on. Can you tell me a bit about Hamlet? Not from your dream, but the friend you had in him."

"If only he could see me now," he muttered. "Used to say I was his- um- his rock." Horatio noticed her distress and thought that he might try to be a little more cooperative. "He was- we were the best of friends. We met at Uni. We were roo- roommates. We only had a few classes with one another at first; he studied political sciences and I social. He started studying psychology wi- with me in our second year, though. I think he rath- rather enjoyed it. We work- worked well together. He d… drastically improved my social exploits and I his academic," Horatio grinned for the first time in a long time with the memory of some long-forgotten parties. "We were so close, in fact, that- in fact, that on more than one occasion, we were mistaken for a couple," he added with a wistful smile and a breathy laugh.

"And were you two, you know, ever romantically involved?"

Horatio returned from the land of nostalgia with a start, saying, "Oh, God, no. No. He had, um, he had Ophelia."

"What an unusual name. Have you spoken to her since your loss? I'm sure some sympathy and support could easily be shared between you."

"She was a part of the loss. D- drowned," he said tersely, jaw clenched.

"Oh." Ms. Robinson sank further back into her chair. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. She was pl- plenty mad by then. Lost her dad and all."

"She sounds like quite the tortured soul," her brow furrowed as she scribbled this time.

Horatio thought for a long, quiet moment and she waited, much more patiently now, for him to speak. "Am I?"

"Are you… what?"

"A tor- tortured soul. Am I mad?"

This question rather surprised her. "Are you mad?"

"Yes. I. Am I mm…mad?"

"Well, Horatio, I don't know. You tell me."

"I think… I think I may be." His eyes bore holes into the faded and fraying carpet.

"And does that scare you?"

"Like hell," he whispered.

"Can you describe it to me? How it feels?"

"Bloody-!" he sighed dejectedly and ran his hand through his hair quickly, nervously. "Yeah. Yes, I- I suppose. It's like- it's as if- I feel like I want to… to go home. As a small child would."

"And is that a bad thing?"

He turned his glare from the carpet and onto her. He took a long time to answer, as if rehearsing his words a few times. "There isn't any home to go to." His voice cracked violently, and Miss Robinson flinched under the pressure of his unwavering scowl.

Desperately searching for something to tear her eyes away from his, she glanced down at her watch for a few far-too-long moments. Horatio snorted.

Miss Robinson sighed and began the process of standing up and putting her things away. "Horatio, I think you've done really well today. You made some good breakthroughs. And I have some suggestions."

"Great. Fabu- fabulous. For what?" he asked curtly, angrily.

For the first time that day, she stuttered as well. "T- to- to help with your visions. I'd like to see how you'd feel trying to write about what happened to you. I'd like to see if that would change anything."

"That sounds terri- terrifying, honestly."

"I know. But I'd really like you to try. Start a journal. Please. Bring it with you to our appointments, but write as if no one will read it."

"I can cert- certainly try. I guess. As if no one will r- read it, you said?"

"As if no one will read it," she repeated. Horatio ground his teeth, thinking on it before nodding once.

And with that, Miss Robinson very nearly pushed him out of the door.