Silence filled the room. Well, nearly. There was no sound at all, aside from the continuous ticking of the clock, and the occasional sigh of the therapist sitting in the chair opposite John. She was waiting for an answer; he hadn't even been aware there was a question. The therapist cleared her throat again, and sighed once more.
"You've got to stop this, John," she said finally, breaking the silence. John didn't think that it needed breaking. "It's unhealthy." He sat silently, motionlessly, not looking up from his tightly clasped hands, knuckles whitening slightly. "It's a coping strategy. You're trying to compensate for your loss, a way of adjusting to civilian life again. But creating someone new isn't going to bring back those you've lost."
But neither is anything else, John thought, so I might as well give it a try. He didn't voice his thoughts aloud.
"I know," he said instead, in barely an audible murmur. He didn't care for her opinion, even if she was an 'expert'.
"I mean it, John. You're a fully grown adult. Too old to be playing make-believe games. because thats all this is, isn't it?" John switched off at 'I mean it'. It was the same lecture every week, same thing every damn time, and it wasn't helping. He didn't need help, didn't want it. He wanted to be left alone.
The woman opposite drummed her perfectly manicured nails on the blank page for a few seconds. John gave no response, and she sighed again. That sighing is a very annoying habit, John thought, glancing up very briefly at her. He didn't say anything, and pulled his gaze back down to his hands. The therapist scribbled something down in shorthand- she'd learnt not to trust him when it came to their session notes- before glancing up to the clock on the wall.
"That's it for today," John made to stand up, looking away from his therapist as he pulled his coat off of the back of the chair. "But really. At least try to cut it down, just once before next week."
She looked up at him, with an almost pleading look on her face. He was a difficult patient, John knew that. Doctors nearly always made bad patients. But it had been, what, two years now? Two years of therapy sessions every week, and absolutely no change. If anything, things had gotten even worse.
"I'll try," he replied, flashing a very small, brief grin, knowing that was never going to happen. "I promise, I'll try." He'd gotten so good at fooling himself that doing so to others was a piece of cake. Over the course of the two years, John had picked up a few small things that made his lies more convincing. Eye contact and smiling seemed to be most effective, and he used them both here, nodding at the therapist, who looked doubtful. He turned away from her, smile disappearing the second his back was turned, and heard her sigh again. John gritted his teeth in irritation, but again didn't comment on it. As he reached out for the door handle, he heard the therapist stand up behind him.
"Sherlock Holmes is not real, John. The sooner you learn that, the better."
