A/N: The therapeutic practices in this story are purely from my non-qualified imagination and should never be interpreted as professional advice.

Ella had been a therapist for 15 years, and she had never had a patient that made her want to rip her hair out until now.

There had been pity-partyers, rage-aholics, stress-to-the-death neurotics, selfishly bitter exes, and people with severe mental illnesses in her office, and many had tried her patience at times. But none made her want to scream and shake a man by the shoulders like John Watson and Sherlock Holmes did. Never in all her years of study and practice had she seen two men so stubborn and useless about just talking to each other.

To be fair, they both had legitimate problems. John still had those pesky trust issues and she still believed he had PTSD no matter what he or some man in a suit said. Sherlock had an addiction and the worst self-esteem she could remember seeing. It both befuddled and broke her heart at how much he hated himself, though he would never put it in those terms. But God, they were wearing her down to the point that she was feeling like she had nothing left to give them.

Today Ella had a session with John again, who had been coming regularly since the Reichenbach debacle. She had expected him to stop again after Sherlock returned, but to her surprise and disappointment he didn't. Then his wife ended up leaving him and, after trying out a new therapist and apparently deciding it wasn't working, he came back to Ella and increased their sessions. She waited for him now in her chair, trying to look over her notes and failing to retain anything that was in them. If it were any other patient, she would have referred him to somebody else a long time ago, but considering his trust issues, that would only set him back since it would take him a while to open up to somebody new. So both of them were forced to continue this charade.

Ella wished she had remembered to bring some Tylenol.

John quietly pushed open the door—as a doctor himself, he was forever afraid of walking in on another patient's session and breaking confidentiality—and took a seat with his left hand strategically hidden in his pocket. Ella tried to muster an encouraging smile.

"Hello John. How have you been?" It was the most hollow, pointless question to ask and they both knew it, but she had to start somewhere.

"Yeah, fine," he said, just as she predicted. "Not much to report. Work is business as usual, we haven't had a case for a while, Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson watch Rosie for me while I'm at work and she seems to be adjusting well to that. Well, sometimes I pay Molly to do it, but usually it's those two."

The bags under his eyes were so deep that Ella kept expecting dark holes to open in his skin. She debated whether to ask about his drinking. "Still writing the blog at all?"

"Some. Haven't had much time for it lately." His hand was still stubbornly stuffed into his pocket.

Ella nearly wanted to groan with the futility of her next question, but her professional training demanded she ask it anyway. "And the other writing we talked about?"

"Yeah it—" He was starting to lie; he always did when she asked a question he didn't want to answer.

"John."

"I can't."

"Can't what?"

He heaved a heavy sigh and shook his head. "I can't write down my feelings, like you said. I just…don't know how. I don't have the words."

"Just use the words you said to me in our sessions before."

He started looking down and Ella knew as soon as he did that their discussion was over. It killed her. He and Sherlock both were those people who expected therapists to be miracle workers. You came to see them, they waved their magic wands, and without any effort on your part, all of your problems were solved. Or, alternatively, you got to relax on a couch and vent and have someone agree with everything you said and have all of your opinions validated and walk out feeling good about yourself, also without any effort on your part.

She snuck a peek at her phone, which she had learned to hide between her legs. Fifty-three minutes to go until she could hit the pub.

"John, you know this doesn't have to be a literary masterpiece," she said in her gentlest voice. "It doesn't have to be eloquently written. You're the only one who will ever see it, so if it only makes sense to you and you choose to throw it out afterwards, that's perfectly fine. I just want you to keep your hand moving."

John smiled a little. "You make it sound so easy."

It is easy, you emotionally constipated twat. Jeez, she hated herself for thinking thoughts like that. John was a war veteran after all, and a mentally ill one at that. What was it about treating this man all these years that was making her so bitchy? At least it was only in her head.

"I promise you, getting started is the hardest part. Once you've begun writing what you feel, the rest is easy. And you'll feel so much better afterwards."

"Why?" The question surprised her. "Why will writing what I feel make it better? Loving Sherlock and not being able to have him won't go away if it's on paper. I've made his life hell."

Confidentiality confidentiality confidentiality. "Well, it won't help as much as telling him how you feel would, but if you're not going to do that, this is the next best step."

The rapid shake of his head and the "No, no, he doesn't do that sort of thing, and anyway he deserves someone much better than me" sank her heart into the ground and made her mentally beg for these next forty-eight minutes to go faster.

Sherlock wasn't much better.

To his credit, he actually had done the writing exercise she gave him, though his was different. "Each day I want you to come up with three things that you like about yourself or that other people say they like about you. Write them down and show them to me at our next session."

She had hoped that, like other patients, he would start to see that maybe he wasn't so bad after all. Their first session together had depressed the hell out of her; no patient had ever said so many different variations of, "He deserves better than me," "I don't deserve to be loved," or "I'm an unintelligent socially inept arsehole and I don't know why anyone is friends with me" before.

"Do you feel comfortable sharing what you came up with?" she asked.

Sherlock opened his phone. "I have achieved favorable results in previous cases. I have yet to be convicted of a crime. My intelligence is higher than many other peoples'. I've managed to remain friends with John Watson. I have a Masters in chemistry." He lowered his phone. "That's all I've got so far."

If John Watson made her frustrated, Sherlock Holmes made her melancholy. His self-positive remarks were basically "I could be worse" and "John still wants to be my friend."

She leaned forward. "Can you think of anything good about yourself that doesn't have to do with being smart?"

Oh God the look on his face was as if she'd slapped him. "I say that not to imply that you're not smart," she said quickly. "You are, very. But I think there's more to you than just a big brain. What about all of the nice things you've done for John, like keeping—" She started to say keeping his daughter, then remembered just in time that she wasn't supposed to know that. This was what made her job so damn difficult: John had no idea Sherlock was coming to see her. Sherlock knew about John of course, but she still couldn't repeat what John had said. "Keeping by his side," she backtracked.

Sherlock wouldn't look at her. "I'm just trying to repay him for everything he's done for me," he said so quietly she risked falling out of her chair just to hear him. "I'll probably always be in debt to him." He sounded almost in tears when he said, "I've ruined his life."

What the fuck on a fucking fuck this had to set the world record for biggest miscommunication of all time. Ella had lost count of the number of times John had said "He saved me," "I don't know what I would have done without him," "If I hadn't met Sherlock, I'd be dead right now." And now Sherlock…if she couldn't get them to finally talk to each other, she may as well turn in her therapist license right now.

"What on earth makes you think that?" she said as calmly as she knew how.

"Everything," Sherlock insisted; he sounded surprised she had to ask. "I didn't tell him about my plan with the rooftop, causing him grief for two years. He's been in danger because of me over and over. I've been letting him down by being high. I mess up our flat. Just…everything." His voice cracked on that last word.

Ella closed her eyes, thinking hard. She chose her next words very carefully. "Sherlock. As someone who has sessions with John every week, I can honestly say that I really don't think he feels that way at all. You really should tell him how you feel; it will be the best thing for both of you."

Sherlock blinked and was quiet. So quiet. He looked like he was thinking—dear Lord in heaven, was he actually going to do it? Was one of these men actually going to listen to her? Maybe things could change for them. Come on Sherlock, you're so smart, please.

"He's got enough on his plate already," Sherlock finally said. "He doesn't need to be burdened with this too."

Fucking hell. And she still had another thirty-seven minutes to go.

By the time Ella got to the pub, she had already contemplated moving to a new city under a new name with a new hair color and switching careers when she got there. It was a chickenshit way out, but it was easier than telling those idiots that she had no idea how to help them.

"I need the strongest drink you've got," she said, relieved that she could finally speak in something other than her therapist voice.

The barman, bless him, didn't ask any questions but instead set a glass in front of her. She wasted no time in chugging it, and when she did she already began to feel better.

"Another," she said, then quickly added, "please" to avoid seeming too rude.

"Case of the Mondays?" he asked while filling another glass.

"You have no idea." She snatched the second drink out of his hand before he could even set it down and chugged that one too, wishing he hadn't reminded her that it was Monday. That she'd have to see Sherlock again on Wednesday and John on Thursday morning and Friday afternoon. Only Tuesday was sacred anymore, and even then she had other patients to see.

"When was the last time I took a vacation?" she asked the barman, as if he would know.

He laughed. "Probably much too long ago. May wanna slow down now," he said as she started to open her mouth again. "Wait a half hour at least, and I'll make you another."

"Can't I at least have something light while I wait?" she whined. "I promise I'll take a cab home."

"All right, but I plan to hold you to that," he said, and poured her another drink. It couldn't come soon enough.

Still, Ella did her best to savor this one. She tried to take her mind off drinking by looking around the pub. It was just starting to get busy now in the time when late afternoon faded into early evening. The music in this place sucked; she had never like EDM and couldn't fathom why anyone would, but other than that it was a decent place to drink.

You're turning into your patient, her inner therapist said to her. She couldn't really deny it; she was being a bit of a hypocrite telling John that alcohol wasn't a healthy coping mechanism when she was getting blasted on a bi-weekly basis. But she was only doing it to cheer herself up for a bit, and this new fruity drink the barman had made really was good. John was sitting in the corner booth way over there; he wouldn't even see…

Oh dear God John was sitting in the corner booth.

Ella turned away and hid her face in her sleeve, her vision already blurring and her head beginning to fill with cotton (she always had been a lightweight). No no no please not here, not now. Ella could feel how drunk she was and she imagined she looked and smelled it too, to say nothing of the three empty glasses in front of her. There was no way John wouldn't notice if he got close. This will make for one hell of an awkward session.

But it was okay, he hadn't seen her. She lifted her pulsing head slowly. Swallowed and cleared her throat. Turned to check that he was facing the other direction.

"Jesus, is that you, Ella?"

Fuck him.

"'Lo, John," she mumbled. God, she was so not in the mood for this. It's not fair, she whined internally. Don't I get enough of him already?

He stood up and came over to her because of course he did. "Are you okay?"

"Oh yes, I'm fine," she said, struggling to sit up straight and look respectable. "Just relaxing after work."

"Is that three glasses?"

Ella nodded and immediately wished she hadn't; her head was already hurting. "They were light drinks." She caught the barman looking and gave him the eye that said she double dared him to say one bloody word. He held up his hands; not my business he seemed to say.

"Ella?"

Oh fuck.

"Sherlock, hello. You two enjoying a night out?" Never in her life had it been this hard to smile.

"You know each other?" John asked, looking between them.

Shit.

Sherlock came to her rescue. "It should come as no surprise to you that I know who your therapist is, John. I am a detective."

Evidently that was enough for John, since he said to Ella, "Just needed to get out for a bit. We've been spending all our time with the baby or working." John was giving her the doctor look and Sherlock was no doubt deducing her state.

He proved her right a second later when he said, "You're angry with us."

"What? Why?" John said when she waited too long to deny it.

The barman subtly slipped her a fourth drink. Every one of her professional instincts screamed not to take it, but the rest of her overruled them and it went right down her throat.

"Rough day," she said. Please go away. Leave me alone to drink away my frustrations and yours.

"Sorry to hear that," John said. He took a big sip of his beer and Ella knew right away he was about to do something he was using the drink to work up some courage for. Could it be…

"Sherlock, would you, um, ask the barman over there how much their whiskies are?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in an I-know-what-you're-doing fashion. "If you need money, I've got plenty—"

"Please." Sherlock gave a little shrug and went off to speak to the barman, who was conveniently mobbed with orders at the moment and probably wouldn't be free to speak for a few minutes. John, could you be any more transparent?

John wasted no time in claiming the counter stool beside her. "Listen, I'm glad I ran into you because I actually wanted to tell you something. I've made a life decision of sorts."

"Mm?" Ella sat up, trying to look interested and ignore the invisible hand squeezing her head.

He glanced backward, saw that Sherlock was making progress with the barman, and spoke fast. "I'm moving away."

"Wha?"

"I'm moving," John said, dropping his voice so she nearly went sideways off her stool trying to hear him. "I've decided. It's killing me being around Sherlock but not being able to be with him that way. I think it's really unhealthy, and I found a clinic in Manchester that will hire me, so. I'm moving."

Thank GOD. At least that was what she wanted to think, but instead she just wanted to cry at the waste and tragedy of it all. Leave it to John Watson to think moving away and uprooting himself and his daughter and leaving a city he loved was easier than having one fucking conversation. But before she could say a word, Sherlock had returned to tell John that the price of their whiskey was six pounds per glass. What was worse, he was looking at John in that way that Ella could only describe as "worshipful". John was going to break his heart and the bastard didn't even know it.

"I'm gonna lose my therapist license," Ella declared.

John smiled and nodded, then frowned and said, "Sorry, what?"

"I'm gonna lose my therapist license," Ella repeated, and God it felt strangely good to say. "Maybe even get arrested, who the hell knows? Confidentiality is a bitch."

Even Sherlock was baffled. "What are you talking about?"

Ella stood up and clapped a hand on each of their shoulders. Those irritating instincts were screaming that she'd regret this, that the alcohol was making this seem like a better idea than it was, that she'd be doing more harm than good. She no longer cared.

"He loves you. You love him. I am currently counseling both of you for the same fucking problem because you dumb arses won't talk to each other."

Their faces were something she would never forget, even as drunk as she was. "You are both in love with each other but too scared to tell each other," she said slowly and clearly. They weren't even looking at her. Instead they locked eyes on each other, mouths slowly falling open. Sherlock was blinking at the speed of light. The pub had gone quiet except for the music.

Ella's stomach was already sinking like a stone. She was going to pay for this, big time. And yet…she had also never felt better in her life. Her head was already clearing. She smiled bitterly and said, "I'll leave you to your long overdue discussion."

Reality hit her hard the next morning. Ella was fairly surprised the police hadn't shown up at her door. Her phone was vibrating itself silly and she fumbled around her bedside table until she'd gotten her fingers around it.

Alerts and voicemail messages lit up the unlock screen—she had missed her morning appointment and her patient was rightfully furious. And oh no, there was a message from John.

She took a deep breath, keeping her eyes closed to better handle the oncoming wave of agony that her head had in store for her. Almost against her will, her finger hit play.

"Hi Ella, it's John. I'm…still a little in shock over last night. And I'm pissed as hell, both as a doctor and as your patient." Ella started to nod and groaned as the wave crashed. "But in a way I also have to thank you." Her eyes flew open. "You were right. Sherlock and I should have talked to each other, and you can imagine how silly we both feel now. We um, we worked through a lot of stuff last night and I think it's all very, uh, good."

He really was shit at expressing himself. No wonder Sherlock constantly complained about the bad writing on his blog. But Ella couldn't stop herself from grinning almost maniacally. "Anyway I just wanted to say that I don't think I—or Sherlock—will be needing any more sessions. I think you did exactly what we needed, although I can't exactly recommend it as a treatment method. And I hope you're feeling better and I'm sorry for being such a pain in the arse. I know Sherlock and I probably aren't the easiest patients, so you don't have to worry. We won't tell anyone what you did. So uh, thanks for everything. Bye now."

Free at last! And that wonderful man had even thanked her. Ella sat up and felt fifteen years younger. She knew she owed them a real apology, and had every intention of giving them one. Maybe a little parting gift too, or a way of saying congratulations. As she thought of ideas and readied herself for her next appointment, Ella's head began to clear and she found herself humming and smiling.

Every session she had flew by that day.