"Yes, what do you want?" The voice was a low baritone, but the question was abrupt and sounding slightly bored.
John glanced at the phone number on his screen quickly, and down to the pamphlet. Yes, he had the correct number. "Um… this is CALM?"
He could hear the clicking of a pen, and then a low sigh. "Yes, the horrible acronym of Campaign Against Living Melancholy. What's your problem, then?"
The man on the other end of the phone line sounded impatient, like he'd heard it all before. John considered making his excuses and hanging up, but the thought of staring at the ceiling some more seemed even worse than continuing with this.
"I…um…can't sleep. I'm having nightmares. Can't concentrate. Um…" John felt ashamed to admit this. "The therapist they assigned me said I should blog about my feelings but it's not really seeming to help."
"Hmmm…how about the old advice of working a full day or going for a long walk?"
John thought there was a tinge of sarcasm in the comment, but what depression hotline worker would have that when talking to a caller?
Glancing over at his cane resting against the wall, John sighed. "Hard to do either with a bum leg." OK, it was psychosomatic, but it didn't stop the damn leg from making it hard to move around.
"Boring." The low voice on the other end huffed, with a drawn out sigh.
John's eyebrows shot up. Yes, there was no doubt now this worker was being rude, and totally inappropriate. "Excuse me? What did you mean by that?" His voice had a bit of heat now, feeling miffed at this insolent brat.
"Come on, now…" The rich voice started, before stopping with an obvious pause.
"…John…" John helpfully supplied.
There was another sound of impatience. "Oh, how original." The man drawled, voice dropping. "Well, 'John', obviously you are not that serious a case. You are just bored, something I can relate to."
"What?" John couldn't believe the nerve of this worker.
"You are back in London, and you were away long enough not to have close friends or family to turn to with your troubles, so you called here. You didn't go back to Hampshire, so clearly you have been away from there for quite a while too. You said 'they assigned you a therapist' and 'they' must be the army. You didn't choose to come back here. You were invalidated out, and assigned the therapist for PTSD."
John gasped. How could he know all that?
"But it's more than that, isn't it? There's a hint of shame or embarrassment about it all, more than just PTSD. Your tone changed when you said 'bum leg'. It's psychosomatic, isn't it? And it's preventing you from going back to work, something that would be hindered by you having a cane."
"Now look here, mate..." This was all hitting far too close to home.
"You're not the type to navel-gaze and write about your feelings in some blog, John. You joined the army, left England, looking for adventure. You don't need more therapy. You just need to find something that captures your interest again, gives you something besides your past to dwell on. Once you do that, I doubt the leg will trouble you anymore and the severity of your nightmares will fade."
John was sputtering, outraged. "What do you know? How dare you tell me things like this?"
"Was I wrong?"
It was shocking that a man he'd only spoken briefly with on the phone had gotten it all right. "That's not the point! You have been insufferably rude! I called here for help and you tell me I just need a new hobby?"
"Not just a hobby, John. A passion for something. Find what sparks an interest and chase it as fast as you can with that fake bum leg." The man drawled, unruffled by John's heated words. "Well, that's that, then. Goodnight."
And John stared down at his phone. The bloody, bleeding sod had hung up on him! From a depression hotline! Told him his feelings were all bollocks and he just needed to get over himself.
John laid back on his little single bed in the drab bedsit, staring at the ceiling as that man's words ran through his mind, again and again, pissing him off more as he was shocked at the gall of that blunt, rude man.
When he eventually wound down enough to sleep, he slept without nightmares, for the first time in months.
The next week, John went through his daily routines. Visiting his therapist, writing his damn blog, working at piecing his life back together. The bullet to his shoulder had damaged more than just the joint. It had unraveled his whole life. He had been in the army for so many years. His life had been directed by his C.O. Work, lots of work, and then the easy camaraderie of soldiers between shifts. Brothers and sisters in arms. They had been his family for so long, it was odd to be on his own, alone. Rattling around, trying to fill the time. No sense of urgency in anything he did.
He kept thinking back to that strange conversation from the middle of that night. It almost felt surreal now. Was he mis-remembering it? Surely that worker hadn't been that rude and abrupt? John hadn't been sleeping well then, and was feeling depressed and frustrated when he had called. Maybe it had come across as worse than it actually had been.
The conversation kept repeating in his mind though. Funny how we always focus on negative comments more than positive ones, instantly springing to defensive thoughts to refute the negativity, to poke holes in it until it deflated. Trouble was, the comments of that deep-voiced stranger weren't so easy to dismiss. How had he been able to read John so accurately over the phone?
Such an unusual man. John tried to reflect back on that stranger. What he could he tell about the man from that short telephone conversation?
He was obviously intelligent, but cocky about it. Likely educated at the best schools, and therefore from a wealthy family. This was supported by his upper class accent. He was dismissive and abrupt, not afraid to offend others. That hinted that he was not afraid of being on his own, maybe a loner type. A bit of a show-off, the way he had rattled off those things about John, confident in his ideas. He reminded John of a know-it-all teenager, smart but missing social graces and tact.
And then there was his voice. A low, rich baritone. Carefully pronounced words, a preciseness to them. Expressive, whether he was groaning about being bored or running through his explanations. John had the impression that he was fairly young, likely around John's age or slightly younger.
It brought to mind an article John had read in the paper once, that people were quite good at estimating someone's age, height, and weight just from hearing their voice. Somehow, in his mind's eye, he was picturing the hotline worker as a tall, slim, young man. Confident and attractive, but not really caring if he had the approval of others. Brilliant but alone.
"There you go, Mrs. Pinkerton. Make sure you take them with meals, to prevent stomach upset." John smiled as he passed the prescription note to the elderly lady.
She gave him a sweet smile, and he helped her in getting off the examination table. Soon she was on her way. He did his notes into the computer for her file, and went out to call the next patient.
He was still walking carefully, usually without a cane now, not totally confident in his leg yet. But often, he just got involved in his work, focusing on his patients, and forgetting about himself. Finding he moved around and bent down without hesitation. Funny how the mind worked like that.
By the time his shift finished, he was feeling tired and took his time walking home with the cane. Picking up some Thai food on the way, John got back to his bedsit and dug into his dinner hungrily. It felt good to have a satisfying job again. Sure, work at the medical clinic wasn't as exciting as working in a war zone, but it was good to help people, to feel useful again. Also good to work with the clinic staff, getting a bit of the team feeling he missed from being in the army. And there was even an attractive doctor he had flirted with and was considering asking out.
Chuckling as he gathered up the empty food containers, John guessed he had that rude hotline worker to thank for giving him the push he had needed to rejoin life. Their conversation had stayed in his head all these months.
Opening a drawer, John pulled out the old pamphlet from his therapist with the hotline number. What the hell.
"Thank you for calling CALM. What is on your mind tonight?" The voice was a young man, sounding in his early twenties perhaps.
"Um…Hi. I'm actually calling about a call I made to your line a couple months ago. I spoke to a man who was quite unusual…" John started, wishing he had a name.
The young man let out an impatient groan. "OK, hold on. I'll transfer you to my manager. She handles all the complaints."
"Complaints? Ah no, it's not…" John started, but was put on hold, and then the phone line clicked with the transfer.
"Ashley MacKenzie here." A brisk, business-like woman answered the line.
John took a deep breath. "Hi, my name is John. I'm just calling about a conversation I had with one of your workers a couple months ago. I didn't get his name, but he had a baritone voice and was a little rude…" Hmmm… how else could he describe him?
She let out an impatient huff. "That worker is no longer with us. I can assure you, sir, that since his time here, we have tightened up our volunteer training and screening ten-fold. I do so apologize for anything rude he may have said to you, truly."
"Oh, no… nothing like that, Ms. MacKenzie. He was a little rude and abrupt, but it was just –" John shook his head, trying to find the right words.
Ashley broke in again. "If you want to take this further, I can send you a complaint form to complete about Sherlock. I've already had half a dozen come in about him, and he only worked here two weeks."
John sat up straighter. "You say his name is Sherlock?" That was quite unusual. Was that his first or last name?
She sighed. "Yes, Sherlock. Do you want me to email you a form to complete about him?"
"No, actually," John let out a half-laugh. "I actually wanted to thank him for really helping me out. But since he's not with you anymore, I'll tell it to you. I was going through a hard spell, and talking to Sherlock helped me get my life back on track."
"Oh." Ashley said, clearly surprised to hear something good about her former volunteer.
Sherlock. John repeated the unusual name in his head as he opened his laptop. A google search of the name gave odd results. A rather dry website about deduction, with details about identifying types of tobacco. News articles mentioning a Sherlock Holmes in passing related to various violent crime investigations, but not describing what his involvement was very well. Were those all the same man? Sherlock was such an unusual name, so it must be. Frustratingly, there were no pictures.
John sighed as he closed the laptop. A dead end. No other way to find out a way to reach him and thank him. John tried to let the idea go, but it was strange how it lingered.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
A/N: Thanks for reading this first chapter of my first Johnlock story. I will add tags as I go, as I'm not sure which characters will pop up later. Feedback welcome!
Voice Study: In research with experimental subjects who listened to voice samples from speakers, subjects are then just as capable of correctly estimating the height, weight, and age of those speakers with the same degree of accuracy as that achieved by examining photographs of those speakers. They both correctly estimate the height, weight, and age of speakers 75 per cent of the time. This was the conclusion of a study by Dr Robert Krauss and colleagues from the Department of Psychology at Columbia University and published in the Journal of Experimental Social Psychology in 2002.
CALM is based on a real London based depression hotline, targeted at young men. The real acronym is Campaign Against Living Miserably. I probably should have changed the name of my hotline more, but my brain didn't seem up to this. ;)