"In reality, we are eachother's heroes because
we are the embodiment of a different set of givens and
choices. We are all heroes, yet, as a result,
none of us can be. We are, in the end, equals."~ Anonymous

"My best friend, Sherlock Holmes, is dead."

Ella looked satisfied with the confession, but John wanted nothing more than to scream. In that moment, he hated her. He hated the situation. He hated having to talk to anyone, and the fact that he had been the one to make an appointment didn't seem relevant. Ever since that day, he had been tip-toed around and showered in pity, but it was all such bullshit. John was a soldier and a doctor. He had seen men die almost constantly for years before he was shot, and he had seen countless crime scenes. Death was nothing new.

"Good, John, good," Ella smiled, leaning in. Maybe it was supposed to indicate for him to keep speaking, but there was nothing left to say. Sherlock was dead. He had been proven a fake. Wrong, a voice in John's head said, but he pushed it back. Sane people don't talk to themselves. Then again, most sane people don't have a therapist. He was fine though. He'd just made the appointment as a kind of experiment, to see if there was any stock in what Ella had been doing.

It had already been half a month since... what had happened. John was ok. Sure, he'd had more nightmares, but that was normal. Everything was just that- normal. He was still living in 221 B, although he was only paying the part of the rent his Army pension would allow. Mrs. Hudson had been kind enough to give him some slack until he could get a job and hopefully be able to pay her back.

The flat hadn't changed much in the past few weeks, either. Mycroft had gotten whatever money Sherlock had been holding in the bank, but he hadn't touched what was still in 221 B. The coat and the scarf stayed in Sherlock's old room, where John no longer went. Everything that was just too... him had been stashed there, out of sight. John knew it was there, but he didn't have to look at it constantly. Sherlock was still there. That was what was important.

"So, have any symptoms of PTSD resurfaced?" Ella asked in a strangely clinical tone. She usually tried to stay conversational. John knew because this had often bothered him. She was paid to be there and to asses his condition, and trying to be best friends was not part of that arrangement. He already knew there was something wrong with him; he wasn't stupid. He had made the appointment in the first place.

However, John had to nod. "Yeah, just nightmares and paranoia mostly."

"What do you think is the significance of that?"

"I could be wrong, but isn't that your job to figure out?"

"You are a doctor. You know this."

"Well, if you already know what's wrong with me why don't you just enlighten me! I don't think I can provide a fair second opinion when I'm the patient." John really did hate all of the dancing around the topic. Why did he have to say everything first? He knew Sherlock was dead. He knew Sherlock had been a fake. He knew that he may be starting to lose his bloody mind!

Ella sighed, "Alright then. I think you've lost your distraction. Losing Sherlock has brought back memories of losing other friends in Afghanistan, which you've only pushed back, not dealt with. Do you agree, Doctor?" Bullshit. It wasn't just losing the men who had become his brothers that had brought him to Ella in the first place. It was the bombs, the fear, the anger, the constant threats, the sense of failure, and the sense of boredom! She had never quite gotten that, though. He had tried to explain this to her before, but it was useless. John didn't know why he had come back, but he did need to talk. There was no one else he could just talk to without knowing that they would try to send him here anyways. It was like taking a short cut to avoid the crippling pity that would be hurled at him if he were to try getting a hold of Greg or Molly.

"Yeah," John eventually responded. "Yeah, I get it." They then fell into a long and thick silence. Ella observed John as he sat there, staring out the window, pretending he didn't notice that she was staring him down. John sat perfectly still and open, not letting his own body language betray him.

"Why are you here?" She finally asked, but John didn't move.

"You know why. I already told you."

"You never want to talk and act as if you were dragged in, but you weren't. So, John, what finally made you come back? What was the straw that broke the camel's back?" It was so simple, painfully so, but he had no response. My best friend, Sherlock Holmes, is dead. Wasn't that enough?

John said nothing, resorting to staring out the window. "You need to open up, John. To me, to your friends, family, anyone you can talk to. Acting like you're alone in your grief won't help anyone, especially you. It will also begin to hurt those around you if you let it progress," She stated. It may have been true, but saying it was so easy. Doing it seemed impossible and counter intuitive. By opening up he may open a whole new can of memories that would land him back with Ella, talking about his feelings again. That was a lovely thought.

"I have nothing to open up about," John finally shrugged. "Nothing ever happens to me."

Ella sighed. "Before our next appointment I expect you to change that." As if that could ever happen.

Thank you all for reading, even if the first chapter was a bit short. This is my first story for Sherlock, so any and all criticism is welcome. I will be posting once a week, and each chapter will take place on the 1st or 15th of each month. The full story will cover a full year, meaning 27 chapters. As it progresses, I will talk more about John's life at home, but I just needed a foundation chapter to start out with. Anyways, I hope everyone enjoyed!

~CG