A/N: Once again, me not being able to sleep has resulted in another short fic. I'm not sure if this has ever been done before, but I'm excited to try. For some silly reason, I keep thinking that this is where Sherlock would go before he saw John. I dunno. And please try not to think too disparagingly of Sherlock's dialogue; I am nowhere near smart enough to come up with anything he would ever say, but I've tried my best. I hope you enjoy!
Sherlock hated waiting rooms, mostly because he hated waiting. Waiting right now was especially frustrating; the woman in the room next to him held the answer to every question he had about his doctor, his blogger, his best friend – John Watson.
He never thought he would be sitting in the waiting room of John's therapist; but then, he never thought he would have to resort to faking his own suicide. Begging Mycroft for her information had been humiliating, and he kept the memory tucked in the back of his mind so he remembered to punish him for it later. Tugging at his scarf, he glanced around the small, welcoming waiting room, trying to distract himself from the anxiety bubbling painfully in the pit of his stomach.
Suddenly the door across from him opened, and a woman of about twenty-five walked out, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. A sigh escaped his lips; he didn't have the time to learn anything about this woman when he was so close to learning about John.
Dr. Thompson didn't look up from her desk when he entered the room, which worked to his advantage. It gave him time to sit and make himself comfortable before the inevitable confrontation.
"Mr. Wilson, I presume?" He waited patiently for her to look up, and when she did, he was not disappointed. Her eyes grew wider than he thought possible, her jaw dropped , and her pen clattered to the floor.
"Sherlock Holmes. Pleased to make your acquaintance."
His pleasant tone was contradicted by the tightness of his eyes. He had to give her credit; she came to her senses fairly quickly, shaking her head. The laugh that came from her mouth was tinged with fatigue and something he decided to call relief, and she gathered a pen and a pad of paper before coming to sit in the chair across from him.
"Why am I not surprised?" Her voice was pleasantly low, warm but firm.
"I suppose you shouldn't be."
"From what John has told me about you, I think it's safe to say you're not here to discuss your own mental health. So, I'm curious. Why are you here?"
"I'm sure you can make your deductions."
She gazed at him for a few moments, tilting her head to the side. Sherlock was in no mood to play games, but he couldn't help it; it was in his nature to always let people know he was the smartest person in the room.
"Patient information is str – "
"Strictly confidential. I am aware. However, I'm sure you can understand the circumstances – "
"John has been doing his best to get over your death. Why would I help you impede his progress?"
Her tone surprised him; she truly did care about John. Her words, however, were patently untrue, and he was not here to play games.
"Please do not insult my intelligence by lying to me. I happen to know that John has not tried very hard at all to move past my death. What I need to know is if my…return…will be received well by him."
"I'm not psychic, Mr. Holmes. How am I supposed to know what John's reaction will be?"
"You know the state of his mental health. You know what he is capable of processing. I need to know – "
Dr. Thompson leaned forward, clutching her pad tightly.
"What are you expecting to happen, Mr. Holmes? You knock on the door to the flat - he never moved out, no matter how much I encouraged it - and he's a little upset that you lied, but ultimately glad that his best friend is back in his life?"
Sherlock shot up from his chair, squeezing his fingers together tight enough to break the skin of his palms. He embraced the sharp pricks of pain; the physical was much easier to deal with than the emotional. How dare she patronize him, as if he hadn't suffered just as much as John these past three years, if not more? As if faking his death had been an easy thing to do, leaving the only man who had ever cared about him had been something he'd enjoyed!
"I am not daft, Ms. Thompson," He spat, "I realize I have caused irreparable damage. I know it will be a long time before he trusts me again, if ever, and I know my return will cause more damage, but I need him!"
For some reason this declaration surprised him, and he covered his hands with his face, digging his palms into his eye sockets until he saw spots. He knew he and John had a complex relationship, one that couldn't be labelled with words such as 'friends' or 'colleagues' or 'flatmates' or even 'partners.' These terms had all proved terribly inadequate, and so they were just them - and Sherlock knew he cared deeply for John, but need? It wasn't such a far-fetched idea; he rarely ate without John, held no regard for propriety or his own safety without him, so why did the words he had just uttered shake him to his very core?
"Have a seat, Mr. Holmes. You're in a safe place." She gave him a few moments to collect himself, leaning back in her chair and scribbling something down on her paper.
"What you need to understand, Mr. Holmes, is that this is an extremely delicate situation. I won't lie to you, I've never fully understood the bond you and John have, but I do know that he loved you very much."
Her use of the past tense didn't escape him.
"I cannot tell you what his reaction will be when he sees you. I can tell you that it will be extremely complex. John Watson is not the man he was when you fell. He is different in many ways, not all of them for the better."
"I know!" Sherlock snapped, aware and uncaring that he sounded he like a petulant child.
"And I'm sure you also know that this is not something that can ever be fully fixed. John will of course be glad to know that you are alive, but he has spent three years believing you to be dead – burying you was the hardest thing he – "
"I am not here to sit and listen to you try to make me feel guilty!" Sherlock barked, whirling to face her. Fury burned in his veins, and the worst part was that he wasn't angry with her – he was angry with himself. His reasons for the fall had always seemed logical, the fall inescapable, the only way to ensure John's safety, but somehow things had changed. He wasn't quite sure how or when, but they had changed, and what was so infuriating was that ever since the fall, the number of things he was wrong about had increased at an alarming rate. John had been devastated by the fall, he hadn't gotten over Sherlock's death, found a partner, moved out of the flat, it had taken him a year longer than he had anticipated to find Moriarty - everything he knew had crumbled down around him, and now he was home, to see John, and he wasn't even sure that was the right thing to do anymore.
"Mr. Holmes, the only way you are ever going to find out is by going to see him." She paused at the look of fear that flashed across his face. "But let me ask you this - do you think he hasn't had nightmares where he sees you fall over and over again, wondering what he could have done to stop you? Do you think he doesn't see you on the street, hear your violin, or hear you knocking on the door to the flat, calling his name?"
His heart clenched painfully in his chest. It wasn't that these things hadn't occurred to him - they had, of course, but the fact that she was asking him meant that John had told her all of them, and that was what truly drove the knife in deeper. That John was as haunted by the loss of Sherlock as Sherlock was the loss of John.
"Of - course I realize -" He choked on his words, cursing himself for the traitorous tears pooling in his eyes. "I just want to - I thought that maybe if I..." He hadn't the faintest idea what he was trying to say. Matters of the heart were not his area, and he realized that now that John wasn't here to tell him what to do, how to act, what to say, he had to fend for himself in this area, and he was doing very poorly indeed. If he asked himself what he truly wanted, he knew the answer was only John, John, John, but seeing John again didn't come without a price. Anger, resentment, relief, hatred, and what if the relief went away and the rest remained? He wasn't sure if living in a world with John hating him for his deception was any better than living in a world without John, and the thought of never seeing, speaking to, hugging, or smelling John again was what finally broke the dam. The tears he had held in for three years began to slide down his cheeks, unrelenting. He did not make a sound, did not move; he simply sat in the chair across from Dr. Clarke, crying silent, thick, painful tears.
She silently handed him a tissue, waiting patiently. He took it but did not use it to wipe his tears away; they were washing away his icy exterior, and though his first instinct was to label them as a sign of weakness, he welcomed them. The tissue crumpled in his hands, and he began to slowly rip it to shreds.
"Mr. Holmes. This is one of the most volatile situations I have ever had to deal with. I cannot advise you on what to do, simply because I do not know what John is capable of handling. If I had to tell you something, I would say...tell him. Tell him you're alive. Explain exactly why you did what you did, answer any questions he has, and don't ask him for anything other than understanding. If he asks for space, give it to him. If he hits you, let him. If he asks you to leave, leave. Do anything he needs. He holds all of the cards, and you must let him know that."
Sherlock nodded, closing his eyes tightly. He knew she was right, and John had always been a special case, yet he hated relinquishing control, much less giving it to someone else.
He reached up a hand and wiped at his eyes; the tears had stopped falling, and somehow he could see more clearly. When he looked at Dr. Thompson, he did not miss the strange look on her face, and the way her eyes kept darting toward the door.
"Thank you for your time," He said quietly, "Are you anxious about your next patient?"
Her eyes widened slightly, and then it clicked.
He jumped to his feet, panic creeping up in his veins, and looked around frantically. Mycroft, the little shit! He had intentionally given Sherlock the wrong information, and Sherlock hated being blindsided, especially now. Did Mycroft think this was a game?
Dr. Thompson stood as well, looking from him to the door.
"There isn't another way out," She said quietly. He cursed, stuffing the shredded tissue into his coat pocket.
"I can't!" He snapped, "I'm not ready!"
"You don't have a choice."
He stood there, frozen and helpless, as she walked slowly over to the door. Hand on the knob, she turned to look at him, pity and understanding in her eyes. He could hear his pulse in his ears, and distantly wondered if he was dreaming. She turned the handle slowly, opening the door and greeting the man that stood on the other side.
"Hello, John. Please, come in. We have a lot to discuss."