Author's Note: Gonna throw in the usual disclaimer here. You'll only get it once. None of the characters belong to me. Ta-duh, the end, enjoy.
"Say it."
"I can't."
"You can, John. Say it."
"Sherlock Holmes… Sherlock Holmes is dead."
Finally, he'd choked it out. Every session began with those four painful words. Every single session. In fact, his therapist refused to talk about anything else until he managed to say those four hateful words, curses, pleas, and tears notwithstanding. They had spent two whole sessions just sitting in silence because he had refused to say them, but that had been weeks ago.
Intellectually, Dr. John Watson knew that she was only trying to help. He knew that he was still so far away from accepting the concept represented by those four horrible words. Emotionally, though, John was just exhausted. He was working so hard every day just to keep himself from falling apart. And once a week, he had to force himself to say the four worst words in the world.
"Thank you, John. I know that was hard."
"You don't know anything about it!" He nearly shouted, surprising even himself with the outburst. "You can't know how hard it is. How hard every single day is." He had come to the point with Ella that he could speak far more freely about how he felt during their sessions. Early on, he had tried so hard to keep his pain and anger to himself, to keep quiet and stoic, but that was no longer an option. Ella had threatened to drop him as a patient if he didn't start offering something to their discussions each week.
"I can't know, John, you're right." She said, her quiet voice cutting through his anger, deflating it as easily as she'd conjured it. "I can't know because you don't tell me. I see you once a week, not every day. I can't know what you go through." John took slow, deep breaths, trying to listen to the truth and meaning of her words. Of course she didn't know. No one did. No one saw his daily struggles, the moments he simply froze and stared at everyday things, suddenly unsure of their use or purpose. He was alone so often now, sitting silent in 221B Baker St, alone with the memories and the loss. John finally tuned back in, just in time to hear Ella's take on his isolation.
"You need to talk to someone more often. Someone who knows you, and more importantly, someone who knew Sherlock." He was lucky that Ella didn't see his wince at how easily she said his name. It would have been the whole topic of discussion for the next thirty minutes. "Find a friend, John. Let someone in."
Honestly, that was the last sentence that really made any impression on his mind for the rest of their time together. He mulled over it for a long time, making sure to answer her questions at least cursorily, but the rest of the session stayed on far more mundane topics than those with which it had started. His attention drifted a lot these days, something that his friend would surely have frowned upon, but he couldn't seem to help it. Nothing was interesting anymore, not the way they had been for the months prior to… the incident.
When he left Ella's office, the struggles of the Four Words were once again buried in the dark corners of his mind, places he avoided looking at too closely. Despite, or perhaps because of, this avoidance, his doctor's advice played again and again as he walked into the coffee shop next door. Find a friend. Let someone in.
When he had his coffee, he stuck one hand in his pocket, the other holding the steaming cup as he sipped and further mulled over the idea. Maybe she was right. Maybe he needed a friend to help him through this. The real question was: who? His quickly ran over the list of people who met the criteria Ella had discussed. Someone who knew him, someone who knew… his friend. The list was rather short.
Molly Hooper. She was sweet, smart… but honestly, she was almost as torn up about the incident as John was. She wasn't someone he needed to burden with his problems.
Mrs. Hudson. Again, sweet and caring, but she too was having a rough time dealing with his absence.
Sally Donovan. No, of course not! His mind rejected the idea almost before it was formed. It would be an insult to his friend's memory, and honestly, it would probably just be adding insult to his own injury.
Mycroft Holmes. Another immediate no. He'd have to think about things he would rather avoid, and honestly, Mycroft had just lost his brother. John was just missing his best friend.
D.I. Greg Lestrade. Out of all of the names so far, Greg did seem to be the most likely option. After the Baskervilles even, they'd been a little more cordial, if only so John could help make up for the behavior of others. And after… the incident, Lestrade had come to John to apologize for ever doubting Sherlock. (There, that's not so hard, is it?) They were having a hell of a time proving anything at the Yard but he was trying.
With a sigh, John finally reached the door of 221B and pulled of the signs and post-its that had appeared since he cleared off the morning's lot. They had become common sights on his door these days, and if he was honest, all around London. They featured two themes equally, along the lines of "I believe in Sherlock Holmes" and "Richard Brook was innocent." He hated them equally as well. As much as he appreciated the support offered by the one side, it still made him think of the scandal… the name he worked to avoid. Honestly, that's why he'd stopped reading the papers weeks ago as well. They couldn't get over the back-and-forth between Brook/Moriarty and Holmes: Genius or Fraud?
John trudged upstairs, back straight more out of habit than anything else, and threw the new posters on the table, not sparing them a second glance. His empty cup went in the rubbish bin, his coat over the back of an armchair. He went through his mindless routine, not seeing anything he didn't need to. He sat down on the sofa, opened his laptop, and sat staring at the empty 'New Blog Post' page.
And stared.
And stared.
And stared.
With another in a long line of heavy signs, he shut the laptop and pulled his mobile out of his pocket. Scrolling through his contacts, he paused on each of the names on his list, then stopped on Lestrade's entry. He took a deep breath and hit send, holding the phone to his ear.
The phone rang once, twice, three times. Just as John was about to lose his courage and hang up, the line clicked and the confident, if somewhat frantic, voice came through the connection.
"D.I. Lestrade, Scotland Yard, Homicide." Again, John almost lost his nerve. He was going to feel like a fool for asking for this, and he didn't know Lestrade that well, did he? "Hello?"
"Hello, Greg. This is John. John Watson." He wasn't sure why he felt the need to fully identify himself, but Greg didn't acknowledge the slip, if it was one.
"Ah, John, of course. Do you need something?" For the third time in two minutes, soldier and military doctor John Watson almost lost his nerve and made up some excuse to hang up. Only Ella's words in his head kept him from taking that course.
"I could use your help with something, but it would be better if we could talk in person. Are you free for lunch?" There was a marked pause on the other end of the line as Lestrade either checked his schedule or though over the offer.
"I'd love to help, John, but I-"
"It's about Sherlock. Greg, please." The plea was hard, especially with that name right in the middle of it, but he knew he needed help, and he needed Greg to at least hear him out. Ella was right. He couldn't sit in silence like this day after day. When D.I. Lestrade finally answered, his voice was softer, tinged with pity and mutual sorrow.
"Of course I'm free. Meet at noon, the pub down from your flat?" John nodded in response before remembering he was on the phone.
"Thank you, Greg. That sounds fine."
"Alright, John. See you then."