Disclaimer: Sherlock BBC is not mine.

"You look sad, John."

John shifts suddenly, and Thompson is careful not to move any faster than absolutely necessary. She has an abandoned tomcat at home (found quite on accident, mind you - she is absolutely not on her way to being an old cat lady. Absolutely not), and he moves almost exactly like John does when uncomfortable. The resemblance is uncanny.

"Look, can we not talk about this?" The answer comes out short and stiff like polish and gun grease and sweat and dust; Thompson can almost read the perfect cutout soldier in his stance.

"He doesn't realize."

"Why don't you tell him?"

"He believes I'm dead. Do you listen to dead men? Don't answer that."

"He's not dead, John." Thompson almost puts a hand out to bring him back from Iraq or Afghanistan or wherever he is, but she's never been as brave as Sherlock (or cares for him as much), so she doesn't.

John doesn't seem to notice her hesitation. "Yeah, well, there's not much of a difference between dead and gone, so."

"He must know you aren't dead."

"Of course not, do keep up. The problem lies in the simple misconception: he thinks he prefers me dead."

"Does he?"

"No."

"You've been mourning him all this time," Thompson put in, gently. "aren't you the least bit glad he's alive?"

"I would be, if he was." John casts about the room for something to look at that won't interrogate him, but he might not as well have bothered. He was a million miles and three feet away, and Thompson couldn't reach him if she tried. "But he's not. I mean, yeah, he's walking around and all, but he's not really alive."

"What do you mean?"

"Christ, I - I watched him fall off a building. I buried him!" John stops, and his voice jumps or does something odd that Thompson can't quite put her finger on. "I buried him. That's kind of a final way of ending things, yeah?"

"He's in shock. That's all it can be."

"Sherlock -"

"He'll come around."

"Sherlock," Thompson lets the name slip off her tongue like butter on burning sidewalk, but doesn't miss the way John hunches over himself at the mere mention of the man who had left him (sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me). "doesn't think so."

"Well, he can shove that up his arse." John says roughly, and runs a hand down his tired eyes. Thompson can't help but note that he looks years older than when she first met him - and that was directly after he'd gotten shot and found out all his years of training in the medical field had gone to waste.

"John, he came to talk to me. I think he truly regrets what he did." Inasmuch as Sherlock Holmes could regret something, but Thompson doesn't think its a good idea to voice that part.

John shakes his head slowly, first to one side, then the other. "It doesn't matter. We're done."

"You two were truly something else." Thompson can't help a pang of regret, although she had always disapproved of Sherlock as a 'bad influence on a ordinary transition to civilian life'. "Is it so easy to end a...friendship like that?"

"I didn't think so either, two years ago." John says it simply, like words recited. "But I was wrong."

"What makes you so sure?"

"He's John Watson."

"I'm seeing another person. A woman." John is very quick in admitting it, and Thompson can almost feel the reluctance rolling off of him in waves. He might not love this woman, but it's obvious he sees enough in her to prefer her over Sherlock. "Her name is Mary Morstan."

"What is she like?"

"Sweet." John pauses for a second before continuing in a rush. "She's...nice. And homey," stable, Thompson thinks, but doesn't say a word. "I could really...I could really see having a nice family with her, you know. Have some kids, get a dog, maybe even kick the adrenaline rush-thing. I get the feeling with her, that we could do it together."

Together. That was the pivotal word here. They would have children together. Build a home together. Trust in each other and live for each other - together.

Die together.

"I would have died for him."

"Yes, but even you can't resurrect what's dead, Sherlock Holmes."

"Nothing's dead."

"Well, there's his belief in you for one."

"I can't trust him anymore." John rubs his eyes, not because they're tired, Thompson suspects, but because he doesn't want to see anymore.

"I did it for him!"

"That doesn't change the fact that you killed yourself in front of him."

red blood on pavement those brilliant eyes so blue so blue they were never more blue than when they were dead - dead - dead and gone - he would never smile never laugh never deduce never never never ever again

someone something died that day and if it wasn't sherlock then it had to be john

"You have to trust each other. I can't do that if he's going to off himself every time we're in danger and he doesn't have five back-up plans stacked in that idiot head."

There is a silence which lasts almost a minute because Thompson doesn't know what to say (he's right but she so doesn't want this to end in tragedy), and she finally checks her watch after an awkward 43 seconds.

"He might not take you back."

"He has to."

"For what reason?"

"I am in love with John Watson. And I am certain John loves me back."

"This is my last session with you, John, and we've got five minutes left. Is there anything else you've had in mind, anything at all you want to tell me? I promise I won't get offended." The last line was absolutely necessary. She knew what John thought of their therapy get-togethers.

John rose, and gathered his cane. "If you see Sherlock Holmes again, tell him to bugger off. It was good seeing you, Ella."

The polite British gentleman reared its head before John could make a hasty exit, giving Thompson enough time for a quick: "Not even a goodbye, then?"

John pauses for just under a second, knuckles white on stainless steel. "Sorry, but I've enough of goodbyes."

"...did you love him, John Watson?"

There's a quick intake of breath, and John straightens into combat mode, the classic ready-for-anything pose that Thompson had gotten used to not seeing. "Yeah, I did."

"And now?"

"That - that doesn't matter. I have Mary now." Stability, trust, normality. The three things to run to when passion and love fails you.

"You betrayed him because you couldn't trust him. He loved and trusted you, but you couldn't even let him make a decision about his own life. You tricked him."

"He would have chosen wrong."

"That was his choice to make."

"He will take me back."

"That is also his choice to make."

"And if he chooses wrong?"

Thompson puts her clipboard down on the glass table and stands, popping an aspirin as she did so.

And if he chooses wrong?