Once Anne walks in her office room, she doesn't get startled. The blinds are shut and she notices someone sitting on the armchair. She makes her way inside and doesn't say a word, only lights up the room. These kinds of conducts aren't a surprise for her; comes with the territory. Anne closes the door and walks to her desk. A man's baritone voice speaks from the depths of the room's darkness.
"You do rock climbing, confirmed by the callused fingers and an unusual developed musculature. You work late and yet have time for your husband and children since your manicure, make-up and hairdo are simple and careless. You go everywhere by the Tube; the Oyster card just fell from your pocket. Still haven't got used to the British left-lane driving, that's why you do not drive. You have a dog, big one I'd say. St. Bernard, perhaps, giving the fact that you have dry drool inlaid in your coat and dog hair on both your pants and jacket."
"Good morning to you too, Sir." She greets without any startle or fear. She puts down her cup of coffee over the desk and puts her coat on the back of the chair. "May I know what brings you here?" She asks without looking at the person back turning to her, looking through the blinds.
Calmly Anne opens her laptop, takes small sips of coffee and goes through her notes left all over the messy desk. The man comes to sit on the armchair again.
"Anne Lloyd, therapist, age 32; has dealt with many war veterans and heavily mentally diseased patients. Married to an engineer, Mark, if I'm not mistaken. You have three children; three boys, Bentley, Darryl and Cooper; are expecting a fourth child."
Just then, indiscreetly she lays eyes on the man sitting with his leg crossed. She recognized his voice as soon as she heard him; yet, she didn't want to interrupt and let him speak as he wanted.
"Enlighten me, how do you know that a fourth child is on the way?"
"You're taking a decaf and eating fried chicken wings at nine in the morning, strange craving must say. In your hands signs of telangiectasia, caused by increased estrogen level. You're wearing flats and baggy clothes to work. And of course, the most obvious one, you are showing already."
"Very well. You seem to know a lot about me. What can I do for you then?"
"Before telling you anything I must tell you: one poisoned candy and your children may die."
"I'm not susceptible to threats."
"You should be, taking into account your profession."
"Pardon me for not being clear," Anne's eyes meet the man's ones. "I'm not susceptible to your threats. I know you're not a man who would fulfill such threat. If you want to talk, feel free. My job, as you know, is based on a narrow policy; I just listen and whatever it is said in here, stays in here." Anne leans on her desk, continuing. "Besides Mr. Holmes, I understand your need of making threats; you need to be an invisible man."
"You do understand, don't you, Ayelet Khaimov…? Jewish-German, moved 14 years ago to London; changed your looks and identity. You helplessly watched your parents, younger sister and grandmother being murdered by a neo-Nazi group who broke into your home."
"You did your research, I see. Although, your Hebrew and German pronunciations were awfully wrong. It's /I-yeah-let Kha-I-mov/. Of all the places you've could have met me, why here?"
"Convenience." He simply explains.
"Alright," Anne sits on the chair in front of his and immediately Sherlock gets up. "to what to I owe your visit?" He wanders around the room, avoiding saying anything else. "You can say it, you are human after all."
"I… I'm experiencing a-uhm… some sort of… issue, to which I possess no logical explanation."
"And that would be?" Anne's eyes follow him as he walks from side to side in the room. "Mr. Holmes, take a seat. Tell me what you believe to be inexplicable."
"My brain." He speaks, turning on his heels, looking at her. "My brain has not been working properly lately."
"You seemed to make all the right deductions about me just a while ago."
"But it doesn't work like it used to, which was all the time. I'm perfectly fine, there's no damage on my brain. You know what? This is a waste of time. Never needed anyone's help before."
"Could it be result of your fall?"
"Did you not listen to me, woman? I'm perfectly fine!" He yells.
"I did listen," Anne calmly speaks. "and you know as well that that isn't the reason why your brain isn't working normally. You came to visit me. You know it isn't anything physical, it's psychological." Sherlock freezes, staring at her. His mind is discombobulated, pleading to analyses something or someone, but he can't form a logical thought. "Who knows you are not dead?"
Sherlock clenches the chair's wadding before answering. "Molly. I've told her that I'd have to fake my death and she took care of every medical procedure needed. My brother Mycroft and Lestrade. They helped me with all the legal issues. And Mrs. Hudson. I asked her to… to keep an eye on John."
"And why not telling John instead?"
"I couldn't. He'd not keep it to himself." Sherlock affirms, sitting down. "He'd want to contact me, and I couldn't let him... There was still too much danger and loose ends to be taken care of."
"Why did you phone him before jumping down the building?"
Sherlock expression turns even more serious, orchestrating a bad poker face. "I did not phone him."
"It was all over the press. The police recovered your phone; last dialed number was John Watson's, moments before your alleged suicide. Was he nearby when you were about to jump?"
"He was arriving by cab. Was not going to look at the building if I hadn't phoned him and tell him to look."
"Why doing that? Why making your friend watch you smashing against the ground?" Obtaining no answer from him, Anne increases the pressure, knowing exactly what to say. "You want him to hate you; thought it'd be easier on him. You not only wanted to kill yourself, but to kill the heroic image that John has of you."
"I'm not a thing of what John pictures me to be."
"Who are you to say that? Only he knows what he thinks of you-"
"But it's my right to make him see I'm not like that!"
Anne sighs, saying. "To prevent his expectations to grow too high; to not let him hit the ground with the disappointment of the lie."
"John thinks with his heart, expects too much."
"What's blocking your brain from working is anger, guilt and sadness. You follow every of John's steps, you know how wrecked he is and you know you can't address not even a word at him. You feel bad for having lied to him, for being the cause of his grief."
"His recovery will be quick. Hate is a very strong emotion; he'll soon hate me enough to forget me, and so he'll get better."
"Hate?" Anne makes the word echo the room. "We're just a few meters away from the St. Bartholomew's as you know. Once I looked outside the window and saw the all scene, my curiosity was aroused. I walked outside to see what had happened, but whatever it had happened had already ended by that time. Heavy rain was pouring, washing away blood from the pavement and I found a man, soaking wet, standing alone under the falling rain. I didn't cross the street and watched him. He's expressionless, pale, mumbling words, unable to give a single step, trying to gather enough air for the next breath. He's lost, looking around; confused, devastated, scared, shocked. Still think he'll ever hate you?"
Sherlock doesn't express a single word and simply walks to the door, puts his coat collar up and grabs the doorknob. Yet, before leaving, and without looking back at Anne, he asks.
"Could you talk with Ella Thompson? She's a therapist as well. Ask her about one of her patients."
"Alright…" Anne agrees, understanding what he asked her. "I'll have a copy of the file by this afternoon. I'll leave it on my living room; try not to mess up the room please."
Anne approached Ella in that day. She told her she's a therapist as well and that Mycroft Holmes requested a copy of her file on John Watson. Anne left it on the living room as she told Sherlock she would. She had done her own analysis of John's situation, writing it on the file.
Incapability of living life normally; gambling problem becomes more accentuated. Tries to remake his routines, but he isn't successful.
Shows difficulty in relating to others; trust issues.
Can't practice his profession; has been fired twice due to lack of a proper routine.
Still refers that nothing is wrong with him; his psychosomatic limp and the intermittent tremor in his left hand are back.
Refuses to believe on his friend's death; shows emotional instability. Portraits Sherlock Holmes as a hero, someone he admires.
Tell him the truth, Mr. Holmes, was written as Anne's final conclusion.
"Heroes don't exist, and if they did… I wouldn't be one of them…" Sherlock mumbles when closing the file folder.
He grabs his violin and its bow and walks to the window, playing and watching the outside.
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If you are a big fan of Sherlock and have watched the movies with RDJ and Jude Law, wanna come and give a peek on my fanfiction for the movie? It's called "A cup of English tea"