I stared straight ahead, clutching my favorite tea mug tightly, mind completely numb,
feeling nothing as I stared his chair across from where I was seated.
It had four months since Sherlock had jumped from the roof and I finally gave up with
the therapy.
'Why would you ever think that therapy would help?'
Sherlock would have snorted. 'You
know that they don't actually care and that it's nothing more than easy money to tell someone
what's wrong with them and give fake sympathy. They don't actually observe anything.'
And as of now, I was starting to believe him. Therapy was pointless. In fact, it almost
seemed to make my condition worse. I didn't like thinking about what happened. The more I
thought about our adventures and how all it lead up to was his death, the more depressed I felt. I
brought the warm mug up to my lips and took a sip. My phone rang in the distance and I reached
to answer it. "Hello?"
"John."
"...Who is this?"
"John, I need you to listen carefully." The deep voice said urgently. "Please."
"What is it? Who is this?!" The voice sounded strangely familiar.
"John, you know exactly who this is."
My body froze. "No… it can't be… there's no possible way…"
"Yes there is."
"Sherlock?!" I almost dropped the phone.
"Yes."
"H… How?! This is impossible!"
"No, it's really not."
I took a deep breath. "Okay, okay. What's so urgent?"
"I need you to be a soldier again."
"What are you talking about?"
"I need you to be strong. For a little longer. I promise, I'll be there soon."
"I-... Okay."
"I'll talk to you soon, John. I promise." He murmured before hanging up. I disconnected
and set the phone down on the countertop beside me.
He was coming home.