"John, you need to relax."
Her hand is on his arm again. She grips his shoulder and eases him back onto the couch, asks him to close his eyes. This time he complies. He takes a breath and holds it. He doesn't know what kind of material he's lying on. It's not entirely comfortable, but he can't say that it is uncomfortable either. Almost frustrated, he clenches his fists. Sherlock would have known. Sherlock would have known the manufacturer and the thread count and not only the type of material, but its dye and chemical make-up. But without him, it's ambiguous. It's nothing. The world is nothing. It may as well not exist.
"John," she reminds him gently, thin fingers prying open his hands. "This won't work if you're stressed."
John has never not been stressed. It's a perpetual state now. He's developed quirks that won't go away. A fear of tall buildings. He's using the cane. The psychologist told him last week for about the fiftieth time that the returned symptoms are all psychosomatic. He stood up calmly and swung the cane at her glass table.
Psychosomatic? Was my best friend's suicide psychosomatic too, then?
John, she put up her hands, no one is questioning that it was traumatic for you.
He broke her vase on the way out, cane gripped like a bat.
"Are you ready to start?" The woman's voice is soft and tranquil. John remembers to breathe and nods, eyes still shut. "Okay. I want you to concentrate on your breathing, and the sound of my voice. Can you do that?" A pause follows, filled only by the sound of the air rushing into his lungs and back out again. Funny how such a simple task hurts so much. "Good job. You have to be open to the memories, all right? If something frightens you, remember you're here, right here in this room, and you're safe. Nothing can hurt you. Do you want to proceed?"
John nods again. He tries to focus on inhaling, exhaling. He keeps thinking about the memory… is it going to wrench his heart apart? Is it going to be like the first time? Is this actually going to work? His shoulders rise with panic. What if this is it? What if he never gets another chance to find out what really happened? What happens if he can't relax enough to—his muscles tighten.
"John, please," beneath the unequivocal calm, exasperation colors her tone. "I understand how difficult this can be, but you must let go." She presses the palm of her hand against his shoulder, and he hears the rustle of her skirt as she gets to her feet. "I'll go make you some tea, and we'll try again in a bit, okay?"
She leaves the room. John lets his head fall back and sighs. He reaches off the edge of the couch to wrap his fingers around his cane. That night, the first one, comes back to him. The taxi and the restaurant. All of that running. He forces himself to catch his breath and doesn't let it out. It pricks his lungs, excruciating fire, need and want and the hurricane of it begging him for air, but he won't, he can't, because maybe, just maybe he can suffocate it, drown it out, that hole digging inside him. Pieces of himself that he didn't even know were ever there to lose, ripped right out of his chest. How unfair to give him no warning. Suddenly, he's on his side, panting, holding himself together. The hypnotist comes back into the room and sets down the tea. She rushes to his side, but John uncurls himself and assures her, like he assures everyone, that he's fine. He lets go of the cane.
A cup of chamomile later, and they're trying again. She counts to ten, he breathes, the world darkens. Her voice slips into his consciousness effortlessly. It shakes him at first but he slides back into the same serenity her voice echoes. "Go back to the beginning. Where did you first notice something was wrong?"
Driving. The cab stops and his mobile rings. He picks up, rushing down the street.
"His voice."
"What about it?" she asks.
John presses it to his ear. "Sherlock?"
"He's so afraid. He's never worried."
"Just do as I ask." His voice breaks. "Please." John turns around, scans the gray sky. Everything is all the same somber shade, and then…
"Oh god," he breathes. "Oh god."
"John, what is it?"
"He's on the roof. Why is he up there? Why is he on the roof?" His heart beats like bullet fire in his chest.
Hands press against him. Her voice, never wavering, firm, "John, it's okay. Don't panic. Focus on what he's saying. Can you tell me what else you see?"
It doesn't make sense. A black shape, pressed like a cutout against the horizon. Sherlock turns, just a little, for a brief second, looks away. "I invented Moriarty." John, staring up through air which seems to gel, light which almost blinds. "I'm a fake."
"No, Sherlock!" Begging.
"What's happening?"
"Stay exactly where you are." It's important for some reason. Sherlock's deep voice reverberates over the line, commanding but anxious. Sherlock leans and John steps back, appeasing the towering gods. He puts up his hands. A building stands between them, a sentry. It doesn't make sense. None of it makes any—
"This is his note. He's saying good bye...he…he wants me to watch." He shakes his head. His lips tremble. "Why? Why do I have to see this? Please, I don't want to watch this. Not again. Please."
The ledge falls away beneath Sherlock's feet. John freezes. The fall is too slow, Sherlock's limbs spread and flail. John is screaming. Screaming his name. It hurts… and he's running. Running and not believing it… A terrible noise, bone and concrete. A man on a bike, the ringing in his ears, and a crowd, a crowd gathering. Disbelief makes him sick, he wants to retch. Blood and rain dampen the sidewalk. Why won't they let him through, he's a doctor? The wrist he grabs has no pulse and suddenly his knees given way, joints snapping limp. Nurses grab him and it all blurs. The body's blank eyes take in the rain.
Sherlock. Sherlock, please.
"Oh god, please, no…"
"John, focus."
His heart rends forward, aorta throbbing, ventricles tearing and tangling, and oh, god, no, not again. No. The soldier inside him crumples like burnt paper. Sherlock…they cart him away… just like that. Like he's nothing.
The hypnotist shakes him awake. She's breathing heavily, like she's been trying for a while, and sits down, pressing her shaking hands between her knees. "I'm sorry, John. I don't think this is working out."
He pulls himself upright. A deep breath. God, the pain. "No, I suppose you're right."
"If I knew how much it was still hurting you, I would have never suggested—" She stops and looks at him, sympathy polished and professional in her eyes. "Did you remember anything new?"
John presses his lips together and picks up his cane. "Thank you for your time." She nods and doesn't even try to stop him as he hobbles by her. He reaches the door before she speaks again.
"Maybe there's nothing new to remember. Perhaps there's nothing to discover. I don't know why you're so determined to find something."
He walks out and faces the glass doors of the main entrance. Outside it's raining. With a sigh, John steadies himself and opens his umbrella. He staggers out, into the downpour, glances up at the building tops, and shuts his eyes, forehead wrinkling. "It's Sherlock," he argues. How could he possibly let go? "There has to be something to find."
The air doesn't respond and John releases the umbrella. It tumbles to the ground and the rain starts to soak through his coat and drip through his hair. Hoping no one can see, he wipes at his eyes. "Please, Sherlock. Please. There has to be."