My name is John Hamish Watson and I hate diaries.
My name is John Hamish Watson and I hate therapists.
"Well, since your blog didn't work out," she said to me at our last meeting, "I think we should move on to something more private. Something only you can read. I recommend starting a journal, John."
I scoffed. "I'm not a teenage girl."
Her eyebrows rose the slightest millimeter as she flipped through her notes lazily. "I think it's your best option at this point, John."
I frowned, staring very hard at the ugly rug that carpeted her office, concentrating on the vomit brown pattern. "Why?" I said flatly.
She sighed and crossed her legs. "We've tried blogging, meditation, outdoor recreation, and sleep therapy. I convinced you to start playing tennis to clear your mind, so why can't you write in a journal?"
"Diary," I muttered.
I could see she struggled not to roll her eyes. "Try it," she said. "Just until our next appointment."
I did the math in my head. "That's ten days."
She nodded slowly. "Yes. Write down something each day. I won't read it, of course. And if by our next appointment you still feel it isn't working for you, we'll try something else."
"I have to write in it every day?"
"Yes."
"For ten days?"
"Yes, John," she replied, unable to keep a hint of annoyance out of her voice.
I thought on it for a moment. I'd never kept a journal, not even in Afghanistan when some of my fellow soldiers felt the need to jot things down. I'd always figured that if something's important enough, it will stick in your brain. "Okay, I'll do it."
The cashier at the convenience store quickly flashed her eyes up from the magazine plastered with celebrity candids that she was reading to look at me, and then back down. I made my way over to the stationary aisle and looked at the lacking selection.
There were a few leather-bound tomes, miniature little blocks of paper which were completely useless if you wanted to write anything of meaning, and one solitary spiral notebook with a horse prancing through a field as its cover. I went straight for a leather-bound notebook, but then glumly returned it to its shelf after seeing the ridiculous price.
The horse looked up at me from the spiral notebook, its coat glossy and sleek.
I smirked to myself, thinking, Well, if I'm going to keep a diary, I might as well do it properly. I picked it up and flipped through the pages. It was much less expensive, so I went ahead and found a hideous, glittery pink pen with a tuft of purple sticking out at the back end.
I walked up to the counter with a stupid grin on my face. The cashier gave me a warm smile in return. "Birthday present?" she asked as she rang up my purchase.
"No, it's for me."
Her eyes widened as she passed me the plastic bag over the counter. "H-have a good day," she mumbled, clearly unsettled.
I chuckled to myself and walked out of the shop, heading towards my flat. People on the sidewalk made way for me and my cane, their eyes sliding quickly away from my crippled self. Of course I wasn't really crippled...
No, John. Stop right there. Dangerous line of thought.
I sighed and dug my hand into my pocket, fishing around for the flat keys. Once I'd managed to find them and insert them into the lock, I hurried in and slammed the door behind me. The hallway was dark. I rested against the door and took a deep breath.
No John, don't you dare think about it, a snide voice said in the back of my mind.
I turned on the light and entered my flat. My leg had required I rent one on the first floor, for stairs were the bane of my existence. I dropped the bag with the journal onto the floor and went to put the kettle on. It was only after I'd had my steaming cup of tea for the night that I remembered the journal.
I settled down at my barren desk with the horse notebook and the pen. On the inside cover there was a label that said, "This diary belongs to..." I filled in the space with "JHW." The pen's ink was a sparkly blue. I felt extremely childish as I turned to the first page.
It only took a moment to decide what was on my mind. It took a bit longer to summon the will to write it down.
My name is John Hamish Watson and it's been three months since my best friend died.
That night I had trouble sleeping. Then again, I always had trouble sleeping. Usually I was able to get at least a few hours of shut-eye near the rising of the sun. Tonight I just watched my ceiling lighten, my brain running in an endless cycle.
Don't think about him.
I miss him.
Don't think about him.
I miss him!
Dammit, John! Get some sleep!
I tossed and turned, kicking the blankets off when I was too hot and scrambling for them when I became chilled.
At four in the morning, I'd had enough. I felt around for the light switch and groaned when the artificial white blinded me. As my eyes adjusted, I reached for my cane and heaved myself to my feet. My slippers dragged on the carpet as I shuffled to the kitchen, turning on lights as I went. I passed a hand over my cheek and opened the refrigerator, yawning.
You need a shave, John.
You need to stop talking to yourself, John.
There was a knock on the door, and I dropped the milk carton I was holding, liquid splattering everywhere. It was four in the bloody morning, so who was at the door?
I looked down at the pool of white milk seeping into my clothing. "What a right mess," I muttered, and cautiously made my way to the door. I wasn't going to sweep it open in case some crazed murderer or homeless man was lurking on the other side. I cracked it open a sliver.
"Molly?" I opened the door wider. "What the bloody hell-"
"Shh," she said, stepping in and closed the door behind her quickly. "I was walking by and saw your lights were on."
"Walking? At this time of night?"
Molly blushed. "Well... no. I just... I need to speak with you, John. If that's okay with you, of course." She was still wearing her lab coat, her hair tied back in the usual ponytail. She peered around me and spotted the mess that had become my kitchen. "Er... Is this not a good time?"
"Sorry, what?" I said, turning distractedly to the milk. "Oh... no... I was just fixing myself some-oh never mind." I walked over and started to clean up.
Molly fluttered about, trying to help me. In the end my leg started to complain so I let her take over. When she'd cleaned the floor, I thanked her profusely. It was then that I noticed that I was half-naked in my pajamas. However, Molly didn't seem affected by it.
"Here, why don't we sit down," I said, gesturing to the armchairs by my pitiful excuse of a fireplace. We sat in the semi-darkness, the light from the kitchen not quite reaching us. "So... what's on your mind?" I asked her.
She twisted her hands in her lap, biting her lip as she often did. "Please... don't... freak out, alright?"
I waited.
"It's just... I know it's been hard for you these past months. It's been hard for everyone."
I swallowed loudly, sure Molly could hear the lump in my throat getting caught.
Molly took a breath, as if to steady herself. She squared her shoulders and looked me straight in the eye. "John, I don't think Sherlock Holmes is dead."
