A/N drug use warning, mentions of suicide.
"I hate her with everything in me," he admitted.
Sherlock sat across from his new therapist, the one he got at John's insistence. Sure, John didn't mean for Sherlock to get the same one as him, but it was the only way he would go to therapy.
"Who do you hate?" She asked.
"Mary."
"John's girlfriend Mary?"
"No, the Mother of Christ," he said sarcastically. "Yes, Mary Morstan."
"Why do you hate her?"
"Because she is dense."
"You say everyone is dense."
"Everyone IS."
"Do you hate everyone?"
"Hardly, that would take too much time and effort."
"So what makes her special?"
"John."
"Why John?"
"John can make anyone special."
"Elaborate on that."
"John IS special! You have spoken to him for years; haven't you put that together yet?"
"John and I have a different relationship than you two. We are therapist-and-client, not flat-mates, or best friends, or Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. Tell me just how he is special, in your eyes."
"John is...he is an idiot, intelligence above the average, but he is no genius. Yet he isn't boring. Sure, he has his habits and routines, which should make him unspeakably dull, but somehow it doesn't. He is caring, a fine doctor, but he's also a soldier. He can easily murder, without a qualm against it or a moment of regret either, but he has this brilliant moral compass."
"You used the word brilliant to describe someone other than yourself," she pointed out. He smirked.
"It is possible. Moriarty was brilliant. My brother is brilliant. I am brilliant. It isn't a matter of opinion when you speak on someone's intelligence level. It's a fact, and if you deny a clearly proven fact, you're obviously not as brilliant as you are giving yourself credit for. However, I wasn't speaking of John, I was speaking of a trait he had. It's much easier for one part of a person to be amazing without the rest of said person following suit."
"Is his moral compass the only thing amazing about John?"
"No."
"What else is there?"
"...Nearly everything."
"For someone who is described as long-winded, you are very cryptic."
"Because these are emotions!" Sherlock yelled. "These are not scientifically proven. They're all sentiment, and I am not some highly-emotional buffoon! I'm a detective! I'm not John!"
"Ahh, so you rely on John to be the heart, while you are the brain," she scribbled in her notebook.
"I will burn the heart out of you."
A shiver ran down Sherlock's spine.
"He is my heart." The words were tiny, barely audible, and held more truth than the woman had heard the entire day.
"Do you view John romantically?" she asked softly.
"I don't know," his voice was hoarse from repressed emotion.
"Sherlock, why don't you know?"
"I don't know."
"Try to articulate what you're feeling."
"Cheap leather with little support; my legs are tingling as they go numb. A slight draft from that window. No matter what you do you can't fix it. Worn in soles, silk shirt, starch in pressed pants, warm air…"
"Not what I meant; emotionally, what are you feeling?"
"I'm uncomfortable."
"Why?"
"My thoughts are not as they should be."
"What are your thoughts at the moment?"
"That's just it, isn't it? They aren't organized. They are fraying and disjointed and they pain me!"
"Why pain, Sherlock?"
"Because he's gone," he hung his head.
"John?"
The silence stretched as the detective lost control. He focused on his black pants, taking note of the splash pattern that was cause by the fallen salt-water linked to emotional distress.
"Moriarty had snipers trained on them, all of them, the people I cared about. He said they were waiting to see me fall. If I didn't, they would shoot. I had a pan, had anticipated this, but John didn't know that. He couldn't. If they had any suspicions that I was alive, he would be killed. Unacceptable. So I jumped. And for years, I was gone. I hunted down every threat of that web. I got rid of them, whether that required me bribing, ruining lives, torturing…killing. I never understood John's nightmares and flashbacks until I was on the run constantly, and I had the blood of other men and women on my hands, some as old as seventy-nine, others as young as fifteen. John mentioned going into town once, having to kill this eleven-year-old that tried to kill him…I didn't understand how hard that could be. I do now. And I came back, finally, to find him trying to make something with his life. He was set on marrying Mary. And no matter what I do, he won't change his mind. I'm alone now, in the flat we used to share, and I'm lost. He was my emotional compass. How can I be so selfish, knowing what I know now?"
"You don't sound like the high-functioning sociopath from the blog."
Sherlock let out a chuckle that sounded like it caused more pain than it was worth.
"No, I'm not the man I was three years ago."
"You care…is that such a bad thing?"
"All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage."
"Yes, I believe so."
Sherlock had become more in control, and with a stony expression, he left the therapy session without a look back.
He took a cab to John and Mary's flat. He knocked on the door, knowing it would be Mary who answered. John was at the surgery.
"Sherlock! Come in," she said, surprised, stepping out of his way. She led him to the sitting room where they took seats opposite of her.
"Tea?"
"Please," he nodded, trying to organize his thoughts and why he was there. While Mary was I the kitchen setting the kettle on, he looked around, noticing one of John's jumpers lying on the sofa, he stood up before he could comprehend what was happening and took the material in hand, bringing it up to his nose. John's scent filled his senses.
Without his permission (damned transport) tears fell from the steel eyes for the second time that day. He just buried his face deeper, losing himself in the memories of years past before everything got so complicated.
"Sherlock, how-"
Sherlock yanked his head up, throwing the jumper back where he found it, but it was too late. Mary had seen.
She wasn't a complete idiot. She could put two and two together.
"You love him," she said sadly.
"I'm not here to try to separate you," Sherlock didn't deny the statement. "I'm here to ask something of you."
"I'm listening." She sat down the tray with the teas, handing Sherlock his cup. He took it with a polite, "Thank you."
"I took a chance a few years back. I had to decide if risking our relationship was worse than losing John's life. It wasn't. So I died. And I have been given the opportunity to come back. I won't ruin what he made for himself, Mary. I want him; I want to yank him back to our life at Baker Street with more passion than you know, but I can't, because that life was years ago, and this is now. Baker Street is my life alone, and his is here with his new bride, and I will not force him to give that up, no matter how jealous I may be. But I'm going to ask you, for my sake, yours, and, above all, John's, don't tell him what you saw today. In fact, if you must mention this visit at all, tell him it was for a case, that I rushed off before I got down to the details of it, though, but you're sure I'll be okay. He needs to know I'll be okay."
"But will you be?" she asked, eyes knowing.
"Thank you for the tea," he set the full cup down to take his leave. "Take care of him, Mary. Make him happy."
"Sherlock, why are you doing this?" she asked. She knew, he could tell, but she needed to hear it.
He shut the door quietly and made his way to an old friend.
Sherlock sat quietly after he placed the needle back down, feeling the high shoot through his body. He had missed this so much, and yet…
John. John, John, John…Johnjohnjohnjohnjohn…
It was the only word running through his mind. He was gone, high as a kite, so high he was flying…
"Falling is like flying, just with a more permanent destination."
Falling, he was falling so fast Newton would be impressed. And he hit the ground hard, tasted the copper of blood, but he didn't care, because he had already fallen twice before. This hurt the least, even with the accompanying retching.
"Sherlock!"
Sweet music, but he was gone.
Strong hands on his biceps, trying to pull up, the deepest of pleasures, but he was gone.
The sounds of a frantic call, an ambulance, a "Don't you dare fucking leave me again, you selfish bastard!"
He was too far gone to reply.
When he woke up, he was in the hospital, and John was beside him. Once he saw the opened eyes, he leapt forward, gripping Sherlock's hand tightly.
"When we get you out of here, I'm kicking your ass. I can't believe you put me through that again."
" 'm sorry," the voice came out rough.
"God dammit, Sherlock!" tears were in the ex-soldier's eyes. "I can't keep doing this.
Sherlock felt panic.
"Won't happen again."
"If it does, I will never speak to you again. No more suicides."
"Okay."
"Okay."
"Okay."
John turned his head so Sherlock wouldn't see the upwards twitch of his lips.
"You have to go to therapy because they see this as an attempted suicide."
"Wasn't."
"I know."
"You do?"
"Yeah."
"How?"
"I know you."
"That's hardly sufficient data."
"Isn't it, though?" There was a long pause. "Have you ever been to therapy before?"
"Yesterday, I went to see your therapist…deleted her name."
"Lovely, and this is how it turned out?"
"Visited Mary too."
There was a longer pause here.
"Why?"
"Miss you."
"Well, next time you miss me, just tell me. Don't OD on cocaine."
"Body could've handled it…always did before."
"Yes, when you were a regular user! Now, that dose almost killed you."
" 'm aware."
"You're tired, your speech is slurred, and it was a rough night. Go back to sleep."
"Stay."
"Okay."
"Okay."