John's Blog

Chapter 2: The Session

I probably should've explained in the previous blog post why on Earth I'm doing this. Well, it's been a year since the incident, and I'm no better off than I was at the start. I still have nightmares, I scream and cry in my sleep, I don't acknowledge anyone's presence. So, I decided to see my shrink again. Fat load of good that'll do. She told me I should start up my blog again. Can you believe that? My best friend just died, and she wants me to write about my day? Oh, well. I'll humour her. There was this one other thing she wanted me to do, but I'm scared. I can't. It could make me better; give me closure, or it could break me. She wants me to say the things I never got to say to him. But I'm just not there yet, so you'll all have to be patient.

Now, I've no idea who's reading these. Could be just fans. But then again, Lestrade used to read these. If you are reading this, Greg, just know that I don't blame you. You were loyal, you were kind. You were forced to do your job. I do not blame you, so stop hiding from me. I'm sure that if you came around, I'd be happy to make you a cup of tea. Mrs Hudson might be glad of company that isn't half-dead inside.

It's now nightfall, as I'm typing this, and not much really happened today. I was able to help Mrs Hudson carry in the shopping, which she was so grateful for, she cried. Probably because I'd shown some signs of emotion. Maybe I haven't been simply empty...maybe I don't look dead inside, I look tortured. I am not a religious man, but I feel as though I'm down in hell, and there is nothing else around me but fiery depths and Lucifer's cold, black eyes as he uses thousands of different torture methods on me, and me alone. Descriptive, yes, I know, but my psychiatrist said that I can put as much detail in it as I like, so there you have it.

My tremor's back. The one in my left hand? Yeah, it's back. That, and my limp. The battle ground does that to you. And I'm not talking about Afghanistan

Whenever I'm bored, I try out my detective skills. Sometimes I'll look out the window and analyse people, sometimes I'll look at 221B with a new eye and pull together evidence to see what type of person lives there. My results are always the same. Right-handed man (the tables and knives and pens) with a limp (the different density of the footsteps), takes his tea sugarless (sugar bowl is in the cupboard behind several other items), is grieving over something (tear stains on pillow), most probably a deceased flatmate (majority of items in the flat that clearly don't belong to him are untouched and covered in a layer of dust; sentiment). So, as you can see, my days aren't filled with much. I guess I prefer it that way. Being a huddled mess wrapped in blankets is bad enough without people around to witness it. My hair is unruly, I have stubble upon my cheek, and my eyes are droopy and blood-shot.

Sometimes I wonder what it's like for normal people with their normal lives. Comfortable job, steady pay, loving family...it must be nice not to feel as though every day, your heart shatters into millions of tiny pieces.

I went to my shrink again yesterday. I feel bad...I yelled at her. She seemed somewhat scared. I suppose, with my red eyes and disheveled appearance, I must look off-putting anyway, even without the added aggression. Back to yesterday;

"John?" She'd asked me gently, her voice is always so gentle. It makes me feel fragile.

"Mm?" I'd looked away from the window and down at my hands, which were bunched up into fists.

"You know what you have to do, don't you, John?"

"No, sorry?"

"It's been nearly 2 years, John. You need to clear out his things."

I'd nearly choked in surprise.

"Why?!" I'd asked, incredulous.

"It's unhealthy."

"No, you've no idea what-you don't-how could you even /suggest/...no."

"John, it'll give you closure."

"The last time I tried to get closure from your instructions, I ended up breaking! So don't you dare! You have no right! They're his items! He can deal with them! Not me!"

"John, Sherlock's not alive."

"DOES IT LOOK LIKE I CARE?" I'd roared, standing to my feet, "I WILL NOT MOVE ANY OF HIS THINGS! DON'T BOTHER CONVINCING ME WITH YOUR TALK OF CLOSURE, BECAUSE YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU'RE ON ABOUT. So just do us all a favour, Ella, and go screw yourself." I think I'd grabbed my jacket and stormed out at that point, leaving the poor woman thoroughly shocked and insulted. I didn't care. Why should I? What had she ever done for me? Tell me I'm mental? Tell me things aren't real? I don't need anyone telling me what I already know.