My Post-Reichenbach depression has hit a new pitch, after watching Series 2 again with my friend over the weekend. So, in order to dispel that depression, this is my imaginings of what's to come. I'm making assumptions on a few things, as we never saw, for example, if Moriarty was found. Anyway, enjoy, and please review.
It had barely changed in the last five months. There were the same chairs that are supposed to be comfortable, to aid in relaxation, but seem to John to garner a false sense of security; the same view out over the clinics grounds – currently dappled with pink and white blossom – and the same modern looking décor. He wasn't sure if the familiarity was a good thing or not.
She came into the room then. He'd been early by ten minutes, and pointed through to her office to wait. He got up; an automatic thing, really.
"Hello John." They shook hands. Her other hand was holding a clipboard, and he knew his patient file was on it. She gestured him back into the chair, taking her own across from him. After a moment, she said. "It's been a while since your last visit." Five months, one week and 4 days, to be exact...
"Mm." he nodded. "I felt like after the last session, all I could say and do had been said and done. As much as I was having trouble coping, I was using the techniques you had talked about. Writing my thoughts out, um... just generally, trying to not bottle it all inside."
"Has something changed, to cause you to come back?" She had that pen ready, poised over a sheet on her clipboard. He'd found the scratching noises distracting, even annoying when he'd first come here, after Afghanistan. He paused, took a breath in, trying to clear his thoughts of any anxiety. She was a therapist; she would listen to him, his concerns, and help. There was no reason for anxiety.
Other then his self judgement, anyway.
"It's... going to be the six month anniversary of his death this weekend." He intentionally didn't say the name, but she knew who he meant. He'd been here just afterwards about it, after all.
"I see. Are you feeling ready for that?"
"I... don't know. I thought I was getting better, I thought that as the nightmares were virtually gone, that was a good sign, but..." He hesitated, looked away, out towards the view. His body was tensed, and the therapist noted this with a little concern.
"Take your time." She murmured. John let out a sigh, lowered his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was hushed.
"I've had a couple of moments where... I thought I saw him. Or signs of him anyway."
Scratchscratchscratch. It had started. He didn't look up, didn't need to. He could visualise her writing without having to look down, her eyes on his reactions. He shifted in his chair, cleared his throat lightly.
"I've been in a crowd, and thought I saw him disappear around a corner. I've been alone and felt eyes on me, and been sure it's him, but noone's there."
"When did this begin?" Her voice was soft, gently questioning. John took a second to think when it had started.
"A couple of weeks ago now." He raised a hand to his eyes, rubbed his eyes lightly. He had been having trouble sleeping before, but with the start of these... whatever they were's, his sleeping hours had dropped even further. "I just... I saw him on the ground. I checked his pulse myself, I know logically that this can't be real..." He hesitated, and the therapist spoke.
"Often, in grief, there will be denial. A denial that it's real, a hope that the person will walk back through the door. You have already dealt with a lot in your life, John. The stresses of war, the trauma of your injury. It would be understandable if you were struggling to cope with this, on top of the rest."
"That's just it though. Being around him..." John closed his eyes for a second, then made himself say the name. "Being around Sherlock... helped me more then I can possibly say. My limp stopped, my nightmares lessened. I coped again. Now the nightmares are back, but now with added images from that afternoon."
"That is understandable. It will be alright John. You just need to give yourself time to grieve."
John gave a faint smile, but it completely lacked any humour.
"I've grieved. But i've got questions and doubts that i'll never be able to have answered. Unless that can be resolved... I really don't see any way I can move on."
XoXoX
He had questions alright. A lot of them. He could guess the answers to some of them, but knowing Sherlock's mind, he knew that he was probably wrong. He'd been capable of guessing Sherlock's moods, and of analysing some of his actions... but he could never have claimed to completely understand the man.
It was pretty obvious what the first question was: Why had he done it? Why had he jumped? And why had he lied? Why had he said it was him, all him, and not Moriarty? John knew that he had lied. He could be uncertain of many things, but that wasn't one of them. Sherlock's outward coldness, his lack of emotion had all been a front. John had seen flickers of the man beneath, and knew those flickers could not be acted. No-one was that good. He had seen Sherlock's reactions in the days beforehand, had seen his growing fear as the layers of Moriarty's plan had come to light. Others could doubt, but he didn't. He wouldn't.
John had collapsed, right there on the street. In what seemed like seconds, he'd been stretchered into the hospital. Coming to his senses, he'd asked, with growing intensity and alarm, about Sherlock. It had been Lestrade, pale and sombre, who had confirmed his fears.
In the days following Sherlock's death, the press had had a field day. Not only had Sherlock Holmes apparently committed suicide, but his friend had witnessed the deed, and the man he had attempted to frame was found dead on the rooftop of the building he jumped from.
Some newspapers (tabloids) had attempted to implicate John somehow, or to paint Sherlock's death as a scene worthy of Twilight. The press had camped outside the hospital, then Baker Street when John went back the next day, eager for new stories. Within a week, however, the press began to lose interest. Other high profile stories came, and the name Sherlock Holmes became little more then a blip in people's memories.
John had tried to continue living in Baker Street... but couldn't. Memories, sharp as knives, seemed to pierce him. He would avoid going back to Baker Street for as long as he could after work, instead spending nights in a bar, drinking too much, or 'catching up on his work' at the doctor's surgery. He would return back only to sleep, wash, change... but even that caused pain. Eventually, two months ago, he had left Baker Street and moved into a two bedroom flat a few miles away instead.
He still talked to Mrs Hudson, and went to visit her once or twice a week after work. Greg Lestrade had kept him company some nights at the bar. And Molly...
It was Molly he was going to see now. Of his friends, she was the one who had been the most comfort, because, he knew, she had cared about Sherlock very deeply. In the week after, she had snuck round the back to come and see him. She didn't try and probe his feelings, didn't try and make him talk about it. She was fine with him just sitting and watching her work, if that was all he was fit for. He was extremely grateful to her for it.
He knew tonight, she was working late shift. When he arrived and knocked, she came with a smile on her face and let him in. He thought there might be a flicker of... something in her expression as she glanced him over, but she quickly hid that.
However, as she checked samples through her microscope, she asked hesitantly.
"Is there something wrong, John?" When John didn't answer, she looked round at him. "I wouldn't ask, it's just... you look really tired, ill even." There was an apologetic tone to her voice.
John hesitated, unsure if he wanted to talk. But he knew Molly had only asked because she was genuinely concerned about him. Finally, he spoke.
"I went to my therapist again. I've been seeing... well, I thought I saw Sherlock."
Molly nearly dropped the tissue sample she had in her hand. John thought it might be because he'd used Sherlock's name for the first time in months.
"You saw him?" Her voice was startled.
"Well, I thought I did. I know he's not alive." John hastened to add, trying to sound robustly sane. "I know it wasn't really him. I think... because of the anniversary coming up, maybe my imagination is going into overdrive or something. It was really vivid."
Molly looked stunned for a moment. Then her face softened, and she reached out, squeezed his hand on the counter lightly. John thought she looked sad in that moment. It could even be pity.
"It would be amazing if it had really been him, wouldn't it?"
John nodded. His eyes found the counter top again, because it was much, much easier to say these words when he couldn't see her reaction.
"After the funeral... when you and Mrs Hudson and Greg had gone off... I stayed just to, you know, say goodbye. Stupid really but... I asked for one more miracle. For him not to be dead. He pulled off a pretty huge miracle by fixing me up without even trying."
His voice, which up until then had been pretty steady, broke. He'd not talked about any of this before, and saw, from Molly's face, that this had shocked, even upset her. Then, she got up and gave him a hug. After a moment, he wrapped an arm around her in return. She smelt of something flowery, sweet. It was purely platonic, a hug of pure friendship; and he helped him far more then the therapy session had.
After a few seconds, they let go, and Molly planted a light kiss on his cheek.
"Thanks." John said quietly, a slightly gruff tone to his voice.
"No problem." Molly responded with a smile. After a moment, she said. "Um... i'm going to get something to eat from the vending machines. The cafeteria won't be open this late, and I think... we both need a junk food moment. Do you... want anything?"
"No no, let me. Those tissue samples obviously need your attention." John got up from his stool, getting his wallet out of his jacket pocket as he did so. "It's still on the next floor, right?"
"Right. A bag of cheese and onion crisps, a Bounty and a can of Sprite please." Molly took the money out of her lab coat pocket and handed it over to him.
She waited until John had left the room and closed the door behind him, before grabbing her phone from her pocket and pressing the speed dial button. She was going to kill Sherlock Holmes.
XoXoX
Why did Molly Hooper have this many channels on her TV? She only watched three television programmes regularly, and those were on only two channels! Such a waste.
Sherlock flicked through the channels, pausing for a second on each one. Now and then, a muttered "Boring..." came from him if something particularly tiresome came into view. The sound of his phone ringing, however, stopped him. He glanced towards it.
There were only two people who knew he was, in fact, alive. Molly, who's flat he was living in for the moment, and (with his own reluctance) his brother. His brother had called him twice in the past six months, so Sherlock highly doubted it was him. Molly was supposed to be working until 10pm... if she was calling during her working hours, it would mean something was amiss.
He picked up the phone and saw that it was, indeed, Molly.
"I believe we reached the conclusion that we would only speak outside working hours, Molly. Has this changed for any particular reason?"
"Sherlock Holmes, I could just about kill you right now."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Molly's tone of voice was angry, but she was restraining herself from shouting outright. So, she was angry enough to call him in the middle of work, but didn't want to be overheard talking to him. He had a feeling he knew what was happening, but played along. Hoping he was mistaken.
"You've already killed me once in the last six months, Molly. Why would you do so again?"
"I'll give you a clue. John. Watson. Ring any bells? Nice man, about 5' 6'', your best friend?"
Sherlock deliberately kept his voice calm.
"Yes, i'm aware of my friend's details Molly, why are you-"
"I'll tell you why. Because you've been keeping an eye on him, haven't you? You've been watching him." She obviously took Sherlock's silence to mean yes, because she continued. "I don't need you to say yes or no. Because he saw you."
"Saw me..." Sherlock's voice was faint, his eyes closed. Molly, however, wasn't looking for responses. She went on.
"He went to see his therapist about it. He thinks he might have imagined it, hallucinated it, because of it nearly being six months. Sherlock, how can you just-"
"You know why I haven't gone back, Molly." Sherlock interrupted her. His voice was low, but firm.
"But surely, there's no need anymore? It's been six months, surely the assassins or whatever will be gone by now? And Moriarty's dead Sherlock."
"Not yet. Soon, but not yet."
There was silence on the other end of the phone. He could visualise the look on Molly's face. The way her lips thinned when she was angry at him but unable to think of something to say, the widening of her eyes, all of it. He'd seen that expression often in the last few months. They had had this argument quite frequently.
"He looks ill, Sherlock." She finally said, more quietly. "He's not sleeping, I can tell. He's suffering, and i'm worried that he might break. There's only so much a person can take, and John-"
"Is a strong person. He'll be fine." Part of him knew he was convincing himself as much as her. And yet the thought was there, at the back of his mind. Even the strongest person can break with enough pressure...
He heard a sort sigh. Then Molly, after a few second's hesitation, spoke. He could sense that every word was chosen with deliberate care.
"... do you know what he said to me tonight? He told me at the day of the funeral, he stayed behind to... to say goodbye. And that he asked you, that day, for one more thing. To be alive."
She had struck a blow. Sherlock felt winded for a moment, unable to speak. He had been there, he had seen John stood alone before the gravestone, but he'd had no idea what John had said.
"I just thought i'd tell you that. So... grant his request. Soon."
"Soon." He confirmed quietly. She didn't seem to believe him. He heard her give a soft sigh.
"I'd better go. He's gone to get us both some food, he'll be back in a minute."
And she hung up. Leaving Sherlock sat there. He wasn't seeing what was on the television anymore. His mind was a long way away... and he was trying, without success, to not imagine John saying the words he must have said before that gravestone.
Don't be dead... don't be dead...