March On
"I can only help you if you completely open yourself up to me."
"That's… not really my style."
Sherlock took a deep breath, letting it out slowly through his nose. He was secretly proud of himself when it didn't shake. He had told her that he needed her help. Needed her help in saving John Watson. A task he had previously thought was simple, impossible to fail at; John was impossibly infatuated with him and rarely left him alone long enough to form an intelligent thought. And… he was his friend, too.
Mary had been his friend. And she was dead.
He had made a vow to both her and John, and Rosamund before she had even entered this world. He had told his brother not on my watch. He had promised to keep her safe. He had gone to the ends of the world to find her, protect her, bring her home to John and give her the life that she wanted. It was a life Sherlock had promised to give her.
He had promised. And she was dead.
It was… killing him.
He'd made promises, broken promises, all without guilt or hesitation. He faked through cases, through relationships, through life, all with a smile– or tears, if the situation demanded– and he didn't look back. He didn't like regrets. He didn't have many. He had had less before he had met John Watson, and now his biggest was tearing him apart.
God he'd spent the first night in tears.
Strange thing, that. Properly crying wasn't his forte; emotion was tedious and distracting and proper emotion was exhausting. And he'd been helpless to that the first night, just as he'd been helpless to get a hand on John to help him out of the aquarium; John had jerked away and given him a look as though he was the scum of the earth, and in that moment, and those following, Sherlock believed it.
It was both fair and unfair, but Sherlock didn't want to dwell on that. He was more focussed on trying to save one-half of the two people he had left to take care of. He had already lost Mary. He couldn't lose John or Rosie.
He wasn't sure what he'd expected, seeking out Ella as though she had all the secrets to John's inner workings and what Sherlock could do to make it better. (He knew he couldn't. How could he make it tolerable? How could he stop the prickling beneath his skin, the pressure behind his eyes, the hand plunging into his chest and clawing at his– their– hearts?) Ella wouldn't tell him anything about John, and therapy had never helped Sherlock before. He'd been to his fair share of shrinks. He'd always come out feeling more irritated than anything else and sitting there today was no different.
Except it was. He wasn't irritated. He was just… sad.
Opening up completely about himself wasn't his style, but maybe talking a little would get rid of this feeling pressing down on his chest. Maybe, once that went away, he would be able to visit John, he would be able to help him, maybe he wouldn't hate him, and maybe he wouldn't hate himself.
Maybe he could help instead of hurt.
Doubtful, a voice whispered in the back of his head, and the words froze on his tongue.
Ella sat patiently across from him.
Sherlock looked over her left shoulder.
The clock was ticking.
.
Unhindered by loss, time continued to march on.
A/N: I intended this to actually go somewhere but I feel Sherlock's so wrecked right now that it really didn't but that's how grief is. He wants to go to therapy to help save John, but I think he also knows - maybe without even really realising it - that he has to help himself first. It's a process, so there's no real resolution just yet. They have a long way to go... and so do we I'm gonna cry every Sunday oh my god not mary why did she have to die so soon oh my god T_T
I do not own Sherlock. Thanks for reading!
(PS if you have a request for something from The Six Thatchers, let me know! I'm planning to pick through a bunch of moments to write for, so if you have any in particular you'd like to see, lemme know. I'm also on Tumblr so much more than I am here so you can find me there too xD)
