Beta reader: SapphireElric
The violin.
It's been five months and six days. I still count them… I hope I will stop soon.
XXX
"Is there anything specific you want to talk about?" The woman across from him was wearing a sand coloured dress suit, shoes black, high-heeled. Her nails painted in blood red colour.
"No." He shook his head. Both of them didn't say anything for a while after that.
That just gave him an opportunity to think more about her nail colour. It didn't match with anything else she wore. Her handbag was black, leather as well, matching her shoes and jewels. Why would she paint her nails red if she usually was so careful to match everything till the last detail?
"Is there something on your mind lately?" She asked again, leaning forward in her seat. The man just shook his head.
He remembered the roses on her desk, remembered wondering who would send her flowers. How did he know they were a present-there was a little card in them. Barely visible, but he still had caught it.
"If there is nothing on your mind, then how come you're looking so thoughtful?" She now cocked her head to one side a little, studying his face.
"I-I'm… nothing." What could he say? That he was trying to deduce whether she's going on a date this evening or not?
"No, there is obviously something bothering you, John. You can tell me." Her voice was calm and reassuring and weirdly deep for a woman. Like always. It must come with her job; after all she had to know how to calm people down. She was a therapist.
"I was just thinking… Are you having a date tonight?" John asked, but couldn't force himself to look at her face.
There was a silence for a while. John could imagine how startled and confused she looked.
"I… How did you know?" Ella Thompson finally asked and that was when John looked up at her.
"Your nails are painted red." He said, in a matter of fact voice. Like even an idiot would understand the connection between her nails being red and her date tonight.
She raised her eyebrows. John's explanation wasn't enough for her.
"You usually match your outfit, even makeup. But today you don't have anything red on you except nails. They are… well… manicured. You're busy so I guess you didn't do them. So you paid someone to do them, but they don't match your outfit." John mumbled, not quiet sure how to explain.
"So I thought they were done for another outfit… An important outfit. And the flowers on your desk, they are kind of out of place, there have never been flowers on your desk before. And the little note…" The doctor finally trailed off, understanding only now that he did the one thing that he didn't want to do.
His therapist stared at him for a while, her back stiff and pressed to the back of the chair. She stared at him and soon John couldn't take it anymore and lowered his gaze.
"You… deduced that?" Ella said slowly, being extra careful and clear saying the word 'deduced'.
John nodded.
"I think we have talked about this, John. You… You have to let him go. It's been so long already." Her voice turned from confused to sad and compassionate.
"I already did that. I let him go. I got rid of all his stuff." John tried to defend himself pitifully. There was no use in doing that. The woman across from him always saw right through him.
"I'm not talking only about his stuff at your flat, John. This," She waved her hand at him, "This, what you just did. You are still holding on to him, by doing this." John nodded, but didn't quite agree.
How could he explain that he just did this? That yes, Sherlock may be the reason behind this, but it was something he just did. Sherlock forced him to be observant. Now it was too late to do anything about it. But he couldn't imagine his therapist would understand.
"Have you tried to write anything? In your blog?" She asked, her deep voice ringing in John's head.
Had he tried? Actually no, but he knew that he wouldn't be able to.
"No," He admitted looking down at his hands.
"Maybe you should try to do that again. You know, write out all your negative emotions and start from a blank page."
Negative emotions? He missed Sherlock, was that anything negative? John thought it was positive; at least it proved that Sherlock had a friend.
They talked a bit more. Or at least she talked. John answered with yes or no, or grunts. Sometimes he nodded his head or shook it. He wasn't one to really talk about his emotions. Maybe because of the war… he didn't know. He didn't actually know why he even came here. It just felt natural-he met Sherlock and stopped this. Now that Sherlock's gone…
Soon he was standing outside on the street, thinking of what he should do next. He didn't have to work today and he didn't feel like doing anything that asked too much of his energy. Lately he'd been feeling really tired. Even when he would just wake up from hours of good night sleep; he couldn't keep his eyes open and wanted to sleep some more.
That was usually the excuse he used when someone wanted to spend the night at the pub with him or wished to visit. He was either tired or busy. One a big fat lie, the other so much true that it scared John from time to time.
He had thought about the signs of depression. Feeling tired was one of them. But he didn't let himself to dwell on it too much.
For a few minutes he just walked around without any destination. The doctor considered going to the market just so he would have something to do, but dismissed the thought almost immediately. Being in a grocery store, full of people, no. That wasn't for today.
He turned to head home, sighing, when a black, shiny car pulled up next to him. The windows were tinted and John couldn't see who was inside, but knew the car. Mycroft.
The door to his side opened and with annoyed look John got inside, closing the door maybe a bit too harshly. He was met with the said man in his usual suit and tie. The car started to drive almost instantly.
"What now?" John asked not so nicely.
"I have some news regarding Sherlock's last will," The older Holmes answered not looking in his direction.
When John thought about it, he came to conclusion that since Sherlock died he had seen Mycroft only once. That one day, few days after the funeral, when he came and announced that his brother had had a testament, and not so small amount of money in his bank account, and according to his last will it all goes to him-John Hamish Watson.
News like that confused John. He couldn't think of any one reasonable explanation why would Sherlock leave all his money to him. He wasn't a person who cared about others. And the fact that his friend had a last will… was all foreign to him.
He recalled how even Mycroft had looked confused and didn't quite understand his brother's motives, but accepted them. They had talked shortly. The older Holmes, the only Holmes brother now, promising he would deal with all the problems and obstacles so he could get the money, and then left.
It had happened right before so many things that John had simply forgotten about it. Until now.
"And?" John asked impatient. He had never really liked being alone with Mycroft and after what he did to Sherlock… John was just angry. At the said detective, his brother, Moriarty, himself. Everyone.
"There," Mycroft answered handing him an envelope. "It's all dealt with; the money is in the account and you have full access to it now. Have a great time spending it."
John took the white envelope tucking it into his jacket's inner pocket. He didn't look inside it. He could care less if he got Sherlock's money or not.
Casting his eyes at the other man in the car, he noted how Mycroft was still looking outside the window at the passing world. It seemed like he just physically couldn't look at him.
The first thought that came to John's head was 'just like Molly', but thinking about it a bit, the doctor denied it. While Molly didn't look at him, because, of what John assumed, was shame or disappointment; Mycroft didn't look at him because of grief. He looked so sad.
If John hadn't had the pleasure to meet the man before Sherlock died, he wouldn't call his expression anything definite. But comparing his usual face and this face… it would be clear even to a blind man.
"I gave all Sherlock's stuff to Molly. Just so you know in case, you know… you want anything." John offered. He didn't want to pity the other man, but thought it would be fair if he knew.
Instead of an answer John received a nod.
Soon John felt the car stop and knew they were at his place. Casting one last look in the other's direction he climbed out not saying another word. And what could he say. They weren't friends and like with a lot of people recently, John discovered, that without Sherlock there was no reason for them to meet anymore.
The car came to life the moment he was on the pavement and drove off. Looking after it John put his hand in the jacket's pocket feeling the thick envelope there. He was tempted to know what was in it, but the moment he found out about the money, he swore to himself that he would never use it.
Sighing, he went back in 221b Baker Street.
His limbs felt heavy and his back ached a little and he decided to go to bed. A little sleep wouldn't hurt anyone.
XXX
John never brought flowers when he visited Sherlock. It felt too girly and besides, the dead man underground would never appreciate them. Not that he would appreciate them if he was still alive. So flowers in a situation like this felt silly.
It wasn't often that he came here at all. Sometimes when Mrs Hudson asked him to come along he would come, but other than that, he tried not to. He still tried to listen to his therapist and distant himself from all Sherlock as much as possible. But sometimes it was too hard.
Just like it had proven to be, when he got an unexpected visit by Rosemary Breton.
A young girl who studied history and English in college. Brunette, with surprisingly dark eyes and little freckles on her cheeks and nose. She was the reason John was now standing by Sherlock's grave. The black stone with the white name on it staring right back at him, making him feel out of place.
It all happened just yesterday. He had returned from his tiring day with his therapist and Mycroft and had just wanted to get some sleep which he successfully gained, but not as much as he had wished. He was brought out of it by a very excited young woman-Rosemary.
She had come in hopes to see exactly him and even if at first John was wary, because of his experience with journalists and paparazzi, he couldn't ignore the devastated look on her face. Eyes so deep with sadness, blue circles around them and face twisted in a grimace that reminded him of all those faces he had seen in Afghanistan.
The girl looked like she was in pain.
How it turned out, she had come to ask his help. She had heard about all the things Sherlock had done and even if he was now dead she remembered about the 'Doctor who lived with him and helped him solve the cases'. Her words.
After hearing her story John really wanted to help her, but something was holding him back. Maybe his therapist's words 'You have to let him go. It's been so long already.', maybe the fact that he knew he wouldn't be able to solve this without his friend.
In the end he was forced to ask the crying girl to leave, wishing her luck in finding her brother. But she just kept on pleading and promising him anything he wanted, anything. It hurt John to see her act this way.
All yesterday's events made it hard for him to sleep and he managed to get some rest only at the early hours of morning when the sun was starting to raise. And even then it wasn't much.
So here he was. By his best friend's grave. Memories of five months ago when he stood in this exact place pleading Sherlock to be alive, still fresh in his mind. Even after all this time-these five months and seven days-nothing really had changed. Somehow it all came down to the time he so desperately wanted to turn back.
Even if he said, quietly at nights, that five months was a long time to just man up and get over it, he still couldn't. For some reason…
John was a doctor. He knew how fragile a human's life could be. How easily someone could take it away with the right weapon-a gun, knife or even a baseball bat. Anything actually. It was so easy… but still. It hurt so much.
It had never hurt this much. Even when he saw his friends fall in that damn Afghanistan, it hadn't hurt so much; he had never felt this way.
Maybe it was that way because of what Sherlock said right before he jumped. It still haunted John. Did he want to make John angry with him, because he shouldn't have tried so hard. Killing himself was a good enough reason to be mad…
John sighed, looking up at the skies. They were grey, it would rain soon… or so he hoped. He wished to see rain and feel soothed and relaxed again…
He took a breath and held it in. When he started to feel dizzy he let it out and just like that time five months ago he brushed his hand over his eyes, hardened his face, turned around and walked away. Promising again that he will never come here.