A/N - Warning: Reichenbach feels

The silence is killing me.

The tension in the air is ripping at my chest, like a dog with monstrous teeth.

I feel like I'm unable to breathe, silently choking on the thick smoke that really isn't there at all.

And someone is holding a knife to my throat.

A knife made up of the guilt in my heart.

A knife made up of the sadness that engulfed my entire life, a rain cloud following above my head.

I knew they if they cut my throat, all these feelings would disappear, and I would be able to live a normal life again. I wouldn't be doomed to live with a brain that was determined to suck out my soul by telling me over and over that it was my fault, nothing but my fault.

But that won't happen.

Not as long as I want it to happen, anyway.

I'm doomed.

That's when I open my eyes. My gaze meets that of my therapist. Her brown eyes stare into mine, trying to recover every detail of what I remember from that day.

She reminds me of Sherlock a bit. She has the same habit of staring straight into your soul, trying to figure out what's going on in your life.

Oh shit, I've done it again.

Now I have to try to blink back tears, yelling at myself in my mind.

I will not cry in front of my therapist again. I already did earlier today, when I first arrived.

Instead, I bury my head in my hands and rest my head against my knees.

I hear my name being gently said by her, but I don't respond. I have to clear my mind of thoughts of Sherlock, but my mind doesn't agree with me and decides to take me back.

Back to that day I never want to return to.

I hear a sob, and realise it was coming from me. Leaning back against the couch to stare at the ceiling, I start trying to calm down by breathing deeply. I can feel a tear sliding down my face, and in a few moments it has landed on my hand which has since then dropped onto my lap.

'John?' my therapist repeats.

Again, I don't respond. With my eyes fixed on the blank, white, ceiling, I let out one last, long, shuddering breath, before moving my head to make eye contact with the dark-skinned woman sitting opposite me.

'Tell me,' she whispers, leaning forward and clasping her hands together.

'No.' I shake my head. I'm as stubborn as a child. I don't want to tell her. It's none of her business, anyway. I know she's trying to help me, but I just can't find the strength to tell her what happened. I feel like walking out on her, but I don't. I feel glued to the chair, trapped in this room and unable to get out.

Suddenly I feel extremely claustrophobic, and I tense, gripping the edge of the sear. The fast breathing I had managed to slow down a few minutes ago starts up again. I can feel my heart rapidly beating in my chest, and it's like it's screaming to get out of my body. My eyes are squeezed tight, trying to get rid of this feeling.

'John?' her voice is silky smooth all of a suddenly, and it comforts me for some reason, enough to calm me down.

I open my eyes, and for the third time, our gazes meet.

'Tell me why you're so upset, John.'

I go to say no, but stop, and close my mouth. I break the eye contact and instead stare at my hands, clasped firmly on my lap now. Sighing heavily, I hear the rain start to patter on the window. It sets the mood, really.

'My best friend…' I begin, and glance out the window for a moment. I take a deep breath, 'My best friend, Sherlock Holmes, he…' I hesitate for a moment, 'he's dead.'

My voice cracks for a fleeting second as I try recompose myself, trying not to bring back memories once again. The therapist lets out a long sigh, obviously realising that therapy won't be much help for me. She knows therapy doesn't really work for me. She also knows that I don't make friends well, and Sherlock was really, one of my only friends.

Now, he's dead. And there's nothing I can do about it.

Sherlock Holmes is dead.