"John? John, eyes on me," a woman's voice cut through the still air professionally and coolly, though there was a soft kindness behind the words. The carefully groomed lady crossed her legs and raised one eyebrow surreptitiously at her patient, the war veteran Dr. John H. Watson, whose languid expression and distant eyes barely acknowledged his posh surroundings.
"Dr. Watson, I need you to keep your focus and talk to me. It's important to help you through this," she pronounced each word clearly, pausing audibly as if by speaking slower her words would seep into the withdrawn mind of John. The weary doctor heard someone speaking; or, did he? A soft hand touching his knee snapped his attention back to the present: therapy sessions, right, of course.
"It's been two and a half years, John. Do you not have anything to say? At all?" John cleared his throat and morosely stared out the immense window to his left; it was raining, just like the day John died. Well, metaphorically at least. John's mind plagued him with the same haunting image whenever he was reminded of that dreadful, unexplainable day. He saw his… best friend, holding his hand out towards him, his words echoing like distant thunder inside John's head, "Eyes on me, John…"
John bit his lip and his eyes eventually focused onto the attractive and welcoming face of his therapist; he finally relented to her implorations and sodding coercing, albeit reluctantly and annoyed.
"I miss the body parts."
John smirked inwardly when his remark caused his therapist a startle, and she gave him an askance look. He must have forgotten to tell her about his friend's "experiments." He continued poking at the subject, oddly amused by the reaction he provoked.
"I mean, the eyes in the microwave might have been a bit much, I confess, but it's sad when I open the refrigerator and don't find some stray fingers or a disembodied head…" John twiddled his fingers innocently and looked into his therapist's eyes from his own tired ones. Although messing with her was enjoyable to say the least, he was weary of this woman and her imploring, ignorant questions and assumptions. The doctor remembered her remarking that John would be better after a year. "The first year's always the worst." John knew better; he spent his entire life searching for a purpose (he even became an army doctor for goodness's sake!), and when he finally found one it was torn away from him, leaving him alone, worthless, friendless. Though, he supposed, it wasn't the purpose he missed; it was the person.
Throwing her hands up in a display of unabashed hopelessness, John's therapist yielded and strategically decided to change the subject.
"How is Mrs. Hudson, your landlady was she?" John's eyes lifted and he straightened his posture slightly; he freely opened up when asked about Mrs. Hudson. At least they weren't talking about him anymore.
"She's doing well. She's glad she doesn't have to deal with bullet holes in the wall anymore. Or experiments seeping through the floors onto the flats below. I think she's taking it well enough. I also think she mentioned something about some bloke wanting to rent 221c. Bless her, another bohemian to deal with…"
"You care about her deeply."
"Well, yeah, of course. She's like a mother to us-"John stopped speaking abruptly; his voice hitched in is throat. He never meant to, but he caught himself occasionally speaking as though… he, was still alive. Still with him. He groaned silently and rubbed his thumbs into his eyes, instinctively trying to cover his face, like the childish saying if I can't see you, you can't see me. He was not going to get out of this one so easily.
"John, you treat the situation as though your friend is still alive. It's not healthy. You of all people should know that. John, you need to find closure, or this is going to get worse. You cannot keep living in a lie; you can't keep Sherlock alive in your mind."
The doctor physically flinched at the sound of Sherlock Holmes' name. His heart began to race and he felt sweat droplets forming at the back of his neck. John hadn't said the detective's name since a week after Sherlock's funeral. He had refused to. Everything about Sherlock: his name, scent, belongings; it all stabbed at John's deepest core and reminded him of the hurt and pain he endured. There was a reason the doctor never went on his blog anymore; he didn't want to see the comments Sherlock left, telling him to focus on the deductions, John! They filled him with guilt, regret. Could I have done something differently? Could I have stopped it? Or at least let him know I cared. He always thought no one cared. That selfish, cold bastard never knew I believed- and still believe- in him.
"Well, at least we coaxed one thing out today. That's more than we usually get. John, look, I want you to go back to Baker Street after we're done, go through Mr. Holmes' belongings, remember the good memories that came with those, and then let them go," the therapist scribbled on her yellow notepad, hand clutching at the clipboard. John's mouth formed a thin line and his brow crinkled. How could he just… let those things go? What did she really mean? There is no way he's throwing out the skull. Or the Persian slipper. And definitely not the hat.
"No. I'm not doing that. Never. You might as well be… asking me to throw him out, throw him out like he's, trash, or a joke, or a fake! I won't betray him like everyone else in this damn city!" John swallowed roughly and his voice rose unsteadily, anger swelling inside his lower stomach, desperate to erupt like a volcano that had been dormant for too long.
"Dr. Watson, if you're not ready yet then-"
"Oh, sod off! You don't know what you're talking about! Mycroft was right; you've got everything backwards," John stood from the green leather chair and gave a frustrated huff, his fists clenched defensively while his posture adopted the stance he learned during his time served in the army. The therapist calmly leaned into the back of her own chair, bracing herself and trying to ignore the uncharacteristically harsh words from her patient. She almost looked like she was going to cry. The doctor immediately abandoned his belligerent demeanor and he stepped back, awkwardly shifting his weight and rubbing his thumb against the side of his pointer finger. He opened his mouth as if to apologize, but he changed his mind quickly and muttered incoherently, "I- I'll just, leave, then."
John's therapist nodded graciously, relieved he would be going and taking this unbearable tension with him. She tentatively handed John the suggestions she inscribed onto her notes and diverted her eyes to the wall which suddenly became immensely interesting. John hesitated for only a moment, crumpled the paper into his coat pocket, then nodded forcefully and began to make his way across the cozy little room to the door leading to reality and work and loneliness. The doctor's hand reached for the golden handle of the door when he was suddenly stopped.
"Dr. Watson, you almost left your phone."
John's eyes widened fearfully and he whipped around clumsily, desperate to retrieve his phone before… oh, shit.
John's therapist held the phone inches away from her, and a disturbed and sorrowful expression swept across her face. She trembled ever so slightly, as though she was afraid to confront John after his outburst, but she straightened her back anyway and strode closer to John, presenting the screen of John's phone to him.
"John, you've been texting Sherlock for two and a half years after he died."