I went to my therapist twice. Once very soon after the incident at Bart's- that was an unproductive session. I sat and tried not to cry much and she asked me a question every several minutes that I hardly ever answered.
The second time was a few weeks after. She was pressing me, asking me for specifics, what I saw, what I did, how it felt. I got angry after a while. I lashed out at her, yelled at her for nearly half an hour. She might have seen it as progress. I'll probably never know. I left as soon as I ran out of things to say.
I went back to 221B Baker Street a few days after that happened. It was the first time since Bart's. Mrs. Hudson enticed me over. She made tea for me, left it in the flat so I could sit for a minute. The sitting room was filled with boxes of things. She'd labeled some of them, as best she could. Science. I assume those were the contents of our kitchen, the various beakers and vials and contraptions that always covered the little table. Clothes. I tried not to think about that one. Books. Well, that one was a no-brainer.
Others were unlabeled. I wasn't sure whether she couldn't figure out what to call them or she had just given up on doing any more labeling. I didn't look to find out. My legs felt shaky, so I made my way to one of the armchairs and sat down.
Being back at the flat was too familiar and too unnatural at once. I wanted to go up to my bedroom and curl up and close my eyes and never open them again, but I didn't think I could make it up the stairs. I wasn't even sure if I could stand up from the armchair.
I sat there for hours, just staring at the walls and trying to keep my mind blank. There were too many memories. They were crushing me. I felt constantly as if Sherlock were just behind me: experimenting on human hair in the kitchen, maybe, or sitting at the desk in front of my laptop. I never looked around to check the feeling.
At some point Mrs. Hudson came up to check on me. She looked quite concerned to see me there, sitting in the armchair, still and silent.
"Are you alright?" she asked, and I nodded, because my lips felt too heavy to lift.
She took the cold tea from in front of me when she left.
Mrs. Hudson came back probably an hour later and gently told me that I should be going. It wasn't that she didn't want me there, it was that she was truly concerned about me, sitting there in that chair alone staring at the walls. I did go. I stood, surprised that it was still possible, and I thanked her, because I, unlike Sherlock, still did understand and feel bound by societal norms.
I didn't go back to my flat. I went to a pub, the little dark one just a few blocks away from Baker Street. I'd only been in there once, and I hadn't drunk anything. I don't make a habit of drinking much in general, except for a glass of wine sometimes in the evening. Sherlock probably had this deduced about me before I even moved in- after all, the reason I don't over-drink is that I grew up with Harry. I covered for her since she first staggered home drunk at fourteen- I was ten at the time- and I watched her increasingly frequent bouts of drunkenness as I grew up.
I ordered a beer-a 6.5%, their strongest- and stared at the football match on the telly in the corner. When I'd finished the first bear, I ordered another. I was beginning to feel relaxed, loose. The familiar ache in my chest was strong, but not as unpleasant, a warm, weighty thing, an almost agreeable torture. I started the second beer. I'll stop here, I thought, two beers is enough. I thought of Harry and took a large gulp. Holding her up, one of her arms draped over my shoulders, her weight slumped against me.
"I'm not drunk, John," she'd say, as if I'd asked, and giggle. Sometimes she'd pass out, there, as I dragged her past our parents bedroom, up the stairs, into her room. I'd get her onto her bed somehow, though she was taller and heavier than I was. In the morning I'd go downstairs to my parents and breakfast and assure them that Harry was fine, just sleeping in.
I'd been the one who took care of drunken Harry all through my adolescence and god, did I resent her for it. I almost laughed aloud, strangely amused by the irony of sitting drinking in a pub and pondering on how much I'd begrudged Harry the same thing. I took a swallow of the beer in front of me, then rested my head on one hand and sighed. What am I doing here? I thought. I should go. My beer was almost finished anyhow.
"John?" Shit. I looked up to see Greg Lestrade, looking trim in work clothes. Is it that late already?
The last time I had actually spoken with Lestrade, Sherlock had been standing a few feet away. The ache in my chest swelled painfully, and the alcohol loosened my tongue.
"Christ," I said quietly.
He came and sat beside me, chuckling slightly.
"Hello to you too," he said, smiling. I rubbed a hand across my eyes.
"Sorry, Greg. Hello." That was terribly rude of me. I found I didn't much care.
"What are you drinking?" he asked. I tilted my beer onto one edge of its base and stared at it as if it could tell me.
"Er. That one." I said after a second, pointing at the list on the blackboard. Lestrade ordered the same, sipped off the two centimeter layer of foam at the top. He was frowning at me.
"John, are you alright?" he asked.
I picked up my beer and drained it. Do you really want me to answer that? He wasn't saying anything, so I had to assume it wasn't rhetorical. What the hell. I motioned the bartender for another beer, then turned to Lestrade.
"How do you mean, alright?" I asked flatly. He made a face.
"I guess I mean, how are you holding up?" he said after a minute.
I took a swig of the new beer the bartender had just set down in front of me. How am I holding up? I didn't know the answer to that one myself.
"I'm alive." I said after a moment's thought.
Lestrade snorted.
"Well, shit," he said drily. "That bad?"
I didn't respond. My alcohol tolerance is fairly low, and I'd had enough by now to free me from feeling any obligation to be polite or conversational.
Lestrade was watching me ponderingly.
"John," he said after a pause, "do you think Sherlock- what I mean to say is-" He stopped. He wasn't looking at me, but instead gazing at his beer. I stiffened, suddenly alert, waiting on edge for the end of that question.
"Do I think Sherlock what?" My voice was cutting, more so than I'd been trying to make it. I had a feeling about what was coming next. My tolerance level for doubts about Sherlock's authenticity was very, very low. Lestrade was looking at me with alarm, clearly noting my sudden hostility.
"Well," he started carefully, "that last little while, there were all those rumors flying about. I wondered if you really think that Sherlock-"
I was on my feet, pulse thundering in my veins. My jaw was clenched, my fists balled at my sides. Lestrade stood too, holding up his hands.
"Hey," he said appeasingly. "John. Take it easy." I didn't budge. "John," Lestrade said, as if he were talking to a small, upset child. Or maybe a small, upset child holding a gun. "I don't believe Sherlock was a fraud. Is that what's worrying you?"
Worrying? Are you sure that's the right verb here? I don't feel very worried. As a matter of fact, I think I'd like to punch you in the face. I hit the Chief Superintendent and got away with it. What do you think they'd do to me if I flattened the Detective Inspector?
Then the rest of what he'd said sank in, and I relaxed simply out of surprise.
"Oh," I said, bewildered. "Then what were you saying?"
He bit his lip, frowning. "It's just that, well, jumping off a building?" He looked quickly at me, as if making sure he hadn't over-stepped, before continuing. "I mean, it doesn't really seem like a very Sherlock thing to do."
Too many emotions were racing through me for me to answer right away. Relief, that Lestrade believed that Sherlock wasn't a fake, guilt, for thinking he did and preparing to punch him. I was disoriented by the alcohol rushing through my veins and struck by the question and the memories it brought.
I sat back down heavily on the barstool. My heart was thudding painfully in my chest. I'd been doing my best to avoid this topic even in my own thoughts. I cleared my throat awkwardly, stared at my beer, remembered what it was there for and took a sip.
"Ehm," I started, trying to control my voice, "no, it didn't seem very like Sherlock." My voice broke slightly on the last word.
What does it matter? I wanted to scream. What does anything matter? He's dead, I was there, I saw it happen. I took his pulse, I saw his face, I saw the blood. Sherlock Holmes is dead. Oh, god. I picked up my beer in a hand that trembled violently and drank until I had to stop to breathe.
After that all my control was gone.
"I'll have another!" I called to the bartender. By the time my 4th beer arrived, my head was resting on the bar. I stared up at Lestrade blankly. Painful memories were pouring through my head. I felt like a child- there was no check, no restraint on my thoughts and emotions. I picked up my head to receive the fresh beer, took a gulp.
"This stuff's great," I said, smacking my lips. Lestrade was watching me carefully, face full of concern.
"John, are you feeling alright?" he asked.
I turned to face him, not lifting my head from where I'd rested it, cheek crushed into my palm.
"I haven't been this pissed since university." My tongue felt swollen and sluggish. I started laughing- was I laughing? Maybe crying. Oh, Jesus, was I crying? I'm a maudlin drunk. Who'd have guessed? Probably Sherlock. Shit.
More beer.