Adjusting to a new life is difficult, if not impossible. John Watson struggles to go on and find peace after Sherlock's fall. But it is hard to rebuild himself that much if his own demons keep bringing him back down. Post-Reichenbach.
This is my first Sherlock fanfiction. There will be no Johnlock, because I felt inclined to give poor John the benefit of the doubt and believe his frequent protests that he is "not gay!" That and I am fascinated by the as yet to be introduced character of Mary and so often she is turned into a sad figure or and obstacle. So here's to seeing if my take on her will become something else. Sorry if that makes you leave, but there will be no slash. But there will plenty of angst. LOTS of angst. Please review and tell me your thoughts!
John Watson is good at faking life.
He does all the things normal human beings do everyday.
His flat, a couple rooms on the bottom floor of an industrial style building, cheap because one can hear the constant coming and going of the streets at all hours, is clean and organized, despite the fact that it can charitably be called "cozy", and "minuscule" is more appropriate. The lack of much furniture or personal effects ameliorates the cleaning process.
He has a job in the emergency room at the hospital nearby. Not St. Barts, he will not step foot in there anymore. He shows up for work punctually and does his job efficiently, and even takes on extra shifts often for other doctors who want to go on holiday or have to meet someone. John never takes holidays.
He buys groceries, he makes dinner and tea for himself, he even sometimes puts out scraps for the stray cat that hangs around.
It's all a lie. He goes through the motions automatically, following them because it is expected and he honestly can not think of what the hell else to do.
The job is the best he could hope for. There is some small excitement in the rush and drama of the emergency room, and the patients move on too soon for him to have to remember their names or for them to become attached to him. There is no question of whether or not he will become attached to them.
Even so, he hates the job, hates having to go every day, hates getting up in the morning. Hates the fake smile he has to put on for the patients and their families. Hates that he gets pissed almost every weekend, and some weeknights, to keep himself going.
And then there are the dreams that plague him nightly. About war and falling and blood and— He will not say his name. It hurts. Everything hurts.
He is alone. Seeing old friends merely brings more pain as he watches them regard him warily and dance about the elephant in the room, trying to figure out how to address it. Harry stops by sometimes, without warning. She seems to think John needs someone to take care of him. He finds this funny, the drunkard sister taking care of her older brother, the responsible doctor. It is the only thing he finds funny anymore.
Not that he tells his therapist this. Dr. Ella Thompson. John does not tell her much of anything. He goes to her more out of habit than anything, and to keep Harry from bothering him about it. Maybe that is why sessions with her never seem to help him. Maybe it is because he does not do any of the methods of coping she suggests. Maybe it is because she still can not grasp the extent to which this has affected him. How completely his entire world has come crashing down and smashed into irrevocable pieces with one phone call and a jump.
Dr. Thompson says John is "adjusting".
John wants to tell her "No shit".
But he does not. And instead he just nods and fakes attentiveness.
Sherlock, its lines, and characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and BBC One.