Chapter 1- Breaking Down
It had been three years. Three years since Moriarty. Three years since the fall. Three years and over a hundred therapy sessions and all John had 'come to terms with' was the frankly alarming shade of pink that was his therapist's nail polish. Sitting in her office, half sunk down into a sickeningly soft chintz armchair, John felt the urge to laugh, an urge quickly stifled by a golf-ball sized lump in his throat and a sting in his eyes. He was yet to cry in this office and today would not be the day to break that record. He turned his thoughts to his so called 'progress'. John thought he would move on. He was supposed to, because that's what people do. They mourn, but they let go. They say goodbye. John was incapable of doing that, or at least, it appeared so. He knew that instead of thinking these things, he should say them out loud, considering that he was in his therapist's office, but he couldn't bring himself to do so. He felt a constant burning inside of him and if he opened his mouth he knew it would all come pouring out. So he packed it down. He took those feelings and put them in a box where the salt being poured on his open wound every day couldn't reach them. But after the first few months of functioning like that, the box burst open and a tsunami of depression washed over John's life, quickly drowning him. He felt uncomfortable, like someone was watching him, and looked up to see his therapist's trained eye, clearly reading his face like a book. He had the sudden idea that she was reading his mind but dismissed that thought as she asked how Mrs. Hudson was doing. He thought but, again, didn't answer. Mrs. Hudson had undoubtedly gone through the five proper stages of grief and had reached acceptance long ago. John was stuck somewhere between anger and depression. Mrs. Hudson took care of him as if he was a baby. She made his meals, cleaned the flat, boiled tea in the evening and all the while insisted she wasn't his housekeeper. He went numb to the outside world has she carried on with life, she went out to shops, went to book club with friends, read magazines, bought a new rug for her flat. The little things she was doing proved that she had moved on in a big way. But John was stuck. He realized his answer was still being awaited and he provided one- "Fine. She's fine." He knew this was inadequate but he didn't care, as the session was almost over anyway. His thoughts were confirmed as she asked the question that came at the end of each session: "And how are you doing?" with an emphasis on the you. He thought back and he knew how he was doing. Not good. He was breaking down.