Just an odd little oneshot. The idea is pretty neat in my head, so I wanted to see how it turned out. There shall be a cat... I don't know why, but I want there to be a cat. Anyway, please read, enjoy, and review! (Especially review!)
Sherlock exited the taxi, paid the driver his $17.32 in Cuban notes which he had acquired on his last case (the driver didn't notice, what an idiot), and walked stiffly across the street to the tall brick building that matched the other complexes along the street designed to house businesses. He pulled his collar up against the wind and rain, and wiped his shoes on the mat in front of the doors to building two hundred and thirty-six. After a quick glance at the mat (and noting that three of the people that had previously entered the building had been walking their dogs within the past eight and a half hours at the new dog park), he opened the door to the complex and stepped in.
Sighing to himself, he turned down his collar and checked the directory stationed next to the elevator. Suite 320, Dr. Carlisle... Suite 321, Dr. Robinson... Suite 322, Dr. Brinx. That was him. Turning briskly towards the stairs, Sherlock nearly ran up three flights of stairs and burst in his official manner through the door of Suite 322. The sooner he got there, the sooner he could get this thing over with.
"I have a two-thirty appointment."
The receptionist, a female in her mid-thirties, looked down at her papers and shuffled some around until she found the schedule for the day. Within three-point-two seconds Sherlock ascertained that she had been cheating on her husband with a younger man from America for roughly three months, that the husband was having an affair as well, and that neither of the married couple knew of the other's betrayal. His smirk disappeared as she looked up at him.
"Let's see... Mr. Sherlock Watson?"
Sherlock stiffened considerably. "That's Sherlock Holmes. My flatmate, John Watson, made the appointment."
"Oh, I see. I'm sorry, Mr. Watson called yesterday and I suppose I assumed you two were-"
"Can I go in?" Sherlock asked abruptly. He saw no need to discuss his personal life with a dishonest receptionist wearing her shirt inside-out.
The girl tried to hide a smile and nodded, and in a blink the door was swinging shut behind him.
"Sherlock, yes."
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Yes!"
"Fine!"
John looked over his newspaper in astonishment at his curly-haired flatmate clicking away at the laptop (after a year all titles of possession had been given up in the realization that Sherlock didn't care, so it was just 'the' laptop). "...Really?"
Sherlock let out a sigh of frustration. "Yes, John, really. I will go to your silly therapy session, if you will shut up and leave me alone for ten minutes."
"It's only healthy, Sherlock. It's not an easy job, you've been stressed lately-"
"John, honestly, I don't give a damn. Please shut up now, I'm trying to work."
John just shook his head and returned to the evening newspaper he had been reading.
Of course, he had woken up the next morning and, upon realizing what he had agreed to the previous day, tried to slip out of the house before John woke up. Unfortunately, they had been living together for much too long now for his flatmate to be so easily fooled. Waiting by the door with a cup of coffee, he smiled knowingly at Sherlock as the consulting detective tried to creep downstairs.
"Damn it."
"I know you too well for that, Sherlock."
"Damn it."
John sighed. "It's only an hour. You've been through worse."
"John, I don't see the point of this. You realize nothing will happen. I highly doubt that a simple, stupid psychiatrist will be even so smart as to realize what I had for breakfast this morning, much less determine my mental health."
"At least try to cooperate..."
"I don't see why I have to."
"It's that rogue cop, remember. He went insane and shot three civilians last month. The whole police force is having a mandatory psych evaluation, and Lestrade is insisting that you at least have one appointment before he lets you on any more cases."
"I still don't see the point, John. Due to doctor-patient confidentiality, if it's not a mandatory evaluation done by the police, they wouldn't ever be able to know the results of the session, even if I was deemed insane."
"Which you are", John pointed out.
"For the last time, I am not insane, I am proactive and clever."
"Blowing up a bridge with numerous explosives to stop an ice cream truck is not proactive nor clever, Sherlock."
"He had smuggled diamonds in his-"
"But explosives, Sherlock! There was a police car not ten feet away!"
"Proactive."
"Leave that decision to the certified specialist, will you?"
Sherlock huffed, grabbed his wallet and his coat, and headed out the door to hail a taxi.
"Have you ever considered suicide?"
"No."
"Have you ever been depressed for long periods at a time?"
"No."
"Have you ever harmed yourself intentionally?"
"Not in the way that you have in mind."
Doctor Brinx raised an eyebrow.
"I jumped off of a tall building several months ago. Everyone thought I was dead, and my best friend grew a moustache, but that's an entirely different story."
"I thought you said you hadn't considered suicide?"
"I hadn't."
"..."
"I'm afraid that's confidential information."
"I take it you didn't want to come here today", Brinx said, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms.
Sherlock put on a face of mock delight. "Oh, very good!" He exclaimed, clapping his hands together.
The rest of the session went on like that, with Brinx asking questions only to be met with vague answers or none at all, and at promptly three-thirty Sherlock donned his coat once more and whisked out the door, into the humid evening. The rain had stopped, and feeling rather odd, Sherlock decided to go for a walk in the park next to the complexes.
Ten minutes later found himself sitting on an old Victorian-styled bench, a stray black cat gliding over to him. It was one of those rare occasions where Sherlock allowed himself to empty his mind (as best as he could, anyway) and just look at the scenery. Of course, with his busy mind, it didn't work very well, and the black cat started to purr as Sherlock absentmindedly rubbed its back. The purr brought him out of his reverie, and he looked over at the cat with distant eyes.
"I do believe", he told the cat, "That you make a better therapist than Dr. Brinks."
He was hailing a taxi when the thoughts started to bombard him once more.
Why
He was getting in and giving the driver directions as they continued.
Why me
Why him
Why did I drag him into this
Why did I drag him into my life
They were crossing thirty-second street as the thoughts became worse.
Why can I not do anything without him
Why am I so damn dependent
Why can't I deal with it myself
Why can't I leave a mark that I existed other than the pain I've caused them
Why do I exist
They were pulling up to 221B Baker Street as the final thought in the usual chain came, as it always did, with the inward shame.
Is it so bad to want someone to care?
They ended as Sherlock walked into the living room. John looked up.
"So? How was it?"
Sherlock gave him a winning smile. "Torturous." He began to recede to his room, and John looked at him in surprise.
"You all right?"
"Yes."
"Just tired, then?"
"...precisely, John. Just tired."
Well, that's all, folks. Sorry about the terrible ending. Like most of my oneshots, the idea started out really neat in my head and then started to disintegrate after the first couple of paragraphs. Anyway, I've probably consumed about 800, 900 calories in the past day and a half, so I should go to bed before I get a craving, or something else weird happens. Weird things always happen at night. Anyway... hope you liked it, and please leave a review!