It was windy that afternoon, but it wouldn't much matter. He could see exactly where he would land and the pattern his blood would make on the pavement below. He could see John rounding the corner, looking up at him, his cries to stop. But Sherlock would do it. He would jump. He would fall and he would die.
"John."
John Watson jerked awake, twisted in his blankets and sweating. He blinked and looked around the sitting room. He'd taken to sleeping there, forsaking his bedroom. His psychiatrist had theories. Figured that he felt too safe in his bedroom, and feeling safe meant the end of it. Really meant that Sherlock Holmes was gone. John couldn't say, but he wanted to sleep on the sofa. At least for now.
He sat up and pinched the bridge of his nose, screwing his eyes shut. He was sure he'd heard his name. It wasn't the first time, he often herd his name being said. Usually it was conversational and not quite real. Other times it was too real. Far too real. He could hear the exact tenor and baritone pitch of the voice as though it was just across the room, the owner expecting an answer. Sometimes he would even look up, thinking he saw someone watching him. He always experienced a little thrill at these moments; half of his brain thinking nothing had changed, and the other half knowing things had changed, but still hoped for the best. But he was always disappointed. There was no one there. No ghost, no apparition, no spirit and certainly no Sherlock.
His phone jingled. Unlocking it, he saw an alert that he was due for another appointment in an hour. John hated going, but it put Mrs Hudson at ease. It was funny how often he went to see a therapist, not because he thought it was the right thing for him, but to put other's minds at ease. First Harry when he'd come back from Afghanistan. Now his kindly land-lady. John knew they wanted the best for him, and if helping him was helping them cope with their demons, who was he to argue?
Rolling off the couch in his jeans and jumper from yesterday, John winced in pain. His old battle wound had started playing up again. His therapist had theories about that too, but it sounded like a load of bullocks to John. Pain was pain.
"John?"
John's head snapped to attention. He'd definitely heard it that time. "Sh-…" he couldn't say the name. He stayed perfectly still, secretly hoping to hear it again. Only silence.
Fury welled up in John's chest. "Leave me alone!" he shouted to the empty room. "You're not here so just -…"
"John dear?"
John turned to see the very real Mrs Hudson standing in the doorway, he hands clasped loosely in front of her, with a look of concern on her sweet face.
"Mrs Hudson," he tugged at the hem of his jumper. "I'm so sorry, didn't mean to disturb you."
"Quite alright dear." Before he knew she would've asked for him to keep his voice down. "Are you ready to go? Shall I call you a taxi?"
"No. No thank you, I'll er… just get one on the way," he forced a smile. "Bit of fresh air, you know."
"Of course. Speaking of air, I had thought I might open up the windows while you're out," she went to the nearest one and undid the clasp as though to demonstrate what she meant. "Freshen the place up a bit. While I'm at it, why don't I take a pass at your kitchen, then perhaps…" she eyed the skull that still sat on the mantel piece.
"No thank you Mrs Hudson," John knew what she wanted to do. He picked up his coat to avoid her eye. She wanted to start collecting Sherlock's things and boxing them up. He knew Mycroft wanted to sort through his brother's odd collection of belongings, and Mrs Hudson wanted to find John a new flat-mate. She'd been very understanding that John couldn't afford the rent on his own, she'd been lenient, but it'd been four months. John, however, wouldn't let them touch Sherlock's things. "I'll have a go this afternoon." It was a bold-faced lie.
John strode along the street with his hands in his pockets and his head down. He wasn't really looking for a cab, but if he kept walking, he'd be late. Very late. He couldn't decide whether he cared or not.
"John."
Not again. John swung around. No one there. This had to stop, he knew. He hated what hearing his friend's voice did to him, even if it was just in his head. He ground his teeth, he wanted to shout abuse and profanity at Sherlock, only wishing the idiot could hear him. But not here. Not in the middle of the street. He swallowed the powerful urge to yell and hailed the next cab.
"Did you have the dream again?"
John surveyed the woman sitting across from him. She watched him carefully from over her clipboard, blue ballpoint pen in hand.
"You already know the answer," he said. He drummed his fingers on the worn arm of the chair he sat in.
"Tell me about it," her voice was neutral and soft. She thought it helped him to describe it every time.
He stared out the window. Couldn't she see this didn't help him? It only made him feel worse, gave him a terrible squeezing sensation in his chest, like he couldn't take a satisfying breath. He focused for a moment on his reflection in the foggy glass. He'd looked better. Some grey threaded his blonde hair and he had a gaunt look to him. He drew in as much air as he could and turned away from the window.
"It's always the same," he started. "The same as that day. He is standing on the roof of St. Bart's and he's on the phone with me. I ask him not to, but he doesn't listen and he jumps." John never told her that he always dreamed from Sherlock's point of view. "Look um…"
She looked up from her notes, but didn't stop writing. "Yes?"
"I didn't… I don't want to talk about that today. I uh…" he glanced around, still tapping his fingers on the chair. He watched her scribble a few more words, her notes, drawing her eye. When she looked down, he told her, "I keep hearing his voice."
She paused her notes and glanced at him. "Hearing his voice? Saying what?"
"My name, just my name. Like he always used too."
"And how do you feel when that happens?"
"I hate it!" he spat vehemently. "It's driving me mad. It's like, every time I try to close the door on him, he wedges his foot in. I can't…" he didn't know where he was going.
She jotted something down and laid her clipboard on her knees, leaning towards him. "John, do think perhaps you enjoy hearing -"
"Enjoy?" he asked incredulously. He tried to look away from her and word in her notes caught his eye. Obsessed. "I am not bloody well obsessed."
"John…"
"I think we're done," he stood and pulled his coat back on.
"You've still got 45 minutes left."
"Not today," he slammed the door behind him.
A/N: I know I promised a sequel to Mildly Illogical but this came out of my fingers today. I'd also explain my hiatus, but it probably wouldn't make much difference. Anyway, if you haven't seen BBC's Sherlock you probably won't enjoy this. Or maybe you will, I dunno. None of it belongs to me, characters are based off the work of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the re-imagining is BBC's.
