John had been here before.
Well, not literally. The actual Scotland Yard therapy building was certainly new, all bright lights and cheap carpet, but he'd been in the same situation before, new therapist - about to embark on an emotional journey fraught with painful confessions and internal struggling. He hated having to divulge his inner most thoughts and feelings to an almost stranger - but he'd done it after Afghanistan, and he'd done it after Sherlock's 'death'. He arrived a good fifteen minutes before their session and wandered aimlessly around the lobby, dotted with allegedly self-esteem boosting posters boasting slogans such as
"Sometimes I pretend to be normal, then it gets boring, so I go back to being me!" and "Why be like everyone else when you were born to STAND OUT." There were leaflets in tidy little boxes with advise on sexual harassment in the work place ("Saying no: Everybody has that right.") and how to handle a working relationship becoming a personal relationship ( rather humorously titled "So you're sleeping with your boss..."). John shook his head and shoved his hands in his pockets.
The receptionist behind the desk was making tiny little noises, ones that most people wouldn't notice: popping her gum, typing on a keyboard, they were beginning to grate on John's last good nerve. He was anxious. Therapy wasn't fun at the best of times, but this was Sherlock they were talking about - Sherlock didn't do feelings or emotions, much less discussing them, and the pair were frought with them as of late. He could not imagine Sherlock doing well in this situation. Speaking of, he was late. Well... not late, just not early. John kept checking his watch habitually, ten minutes to go - no sign of the detective. He absently perused the leaflets once more. Five minutes to go - Sherlock might not even show up. Maybe he'd worked out a way to get back on cases without Lestrade's approval?
Sherlock arrived with only moments to spare, which, despite his initial worries, John was ultimately thankful for as it saved the awkward pre-counselling conversation. He did not look happy, he looked disgruntled and annoyed, muttering incoherently about Mycroft's work hours and nosy house maids with no respect for science. John nodded in vague agreement before a door to the left of the reception area opened and a young man of around twenty one called out
"Watson and Holmes?" John limped towards the room, leaning heavily against his old cane and Sherlock followed, had John actually looked at him he would have seen the danger brewing. Sherlock's face looked like thunder, and he was already scouring the therapist's face, stance, structure and clothing, deducing his most intimate details. Young and slightly round faced, with thick glasses and a woollen jumper he looked simulataneously like a toddler and a grandparent.
"Please sit!" The man chirped energetically, long brown hair bobbing as he bounced about. "I'm Hunter." Sherlock clicked his teeth, apparently finding the name ridiculous, another negative factor towards him - the negatives were quickly mounting in Sherlock's brain as he worked out the tiny snippets of information. "I'll be working with you once a week for the foreseeable future." His tone was eager and friendly, overly so. John laid his cane to one side and sat at one end of a long sofa, opposite Hunter's own chair. Sherlock remained standing, quite defiantly. "Well, I've been sent your notes Mister Watson and..."
"Doctor Watson." Sherlock corrected.
"Ah... yes, Doctor Watson." Hunter amended, smiling broadly. "A fellow medical professional, I see!"
"I'd hardly call psychotherapy a medical profession." Sherlock sniffed. "And I'd hardly call you a professional, you've only been out of school for five months." Obvious - the certificate on the wall had his graduation date on it.
"Ah... yes well, I am qualified to..."
"To pluck our heads as they say." Sherlock intoned sounding bored. John sighed heavily and Sherlock shut himself up, for once, sensing John wanted him to be quiet for a moment.
"Well, it's my job to talk you through some of your issues, DI Lestrade sent over a lengthy email detailing the problem and I have to say you made the right choice in coming here! I'll soon get you two back to being besties." He grinned, crossing his fingers as though attempting to symbolise their friendship. Sherlock groaned at his chirpy, youthful terminology. "So, gentlemen, what can I do to happify you?"
"I refuse to be lectured by someone who uses the word 'happify'." Sherlock said, his moment of holding his tongue passed. Hunter looked mildly affronted.
"It's a word..." He started.
"As are the aberrations 'lol' and 'headmistressy', just because a word is in the Oxford English Dictionary does not give it weight or credence in a conversation."
"Sherlock..." John started exasperatedly, but Sherlock was in full flow.
"It's not your job to 'happify' us any more than it is my job to put up with this shambolic attempt at co-operation. You want to talk, Hunter?" Sherlock asked, pale eyes narrowing as he let loose his venom. "Let's talk about the fact that you only became a therapist due to your own issues, haven't quite figured it out yet- daddy never hugged you? Mummy didn't say 'I love you' often enough? Obviously one or the other as you abandoned your birth surname and reverted to the surname of the parent you were overly attached to." Sherlock nodded towards the different certificates on the wall, indicating Hunter's last name as a youth (his A level award) had been Carter and changed to Harrison some time after he turned 18. Either his parents were married and he'd opted to choose his mother's maiden name in aversion to his father, or his parents were unmarried and he'd reverted to his father's surname to spite his mother.
"This 'career' you've chosen is for your own benefit, so you can try to make sense of your own pathetic childhood, of your chronic inability to hold down a girlfriend and your rather unhealthy amount of pets. I count six dogs at the very least." Sherlock observed cuttingly, barely glancing at the dog hair on Hunter's trousers and jumper. At a guess Sherlock would say it was the father that had been in the wrong, his jumper was obviously hand-knitted with love- but it could be from a grandparent so he didn't vocalise the thought. No sense airing half-formed deductions.
"Mr Holmes, we're not here to discuss my problems..." He started, trying to sound firm, but John could see Hunter's bottom lip quivering in shock and shame, not used to patients as assertively acerbic as Sherlock.
"Oh do yourself a favour, Hunter, stop trying to fix everybody else's lives and go sort out your own, or better yet stop inflicting your own issues onto other people." With a flurry of energy that seemed befitting of someone so young, Hunter leapt to his feet and fled the room, tears running down his face.
John lowered his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose forcefully as Sherlock exhaled, barely having taken a breath as he'd torn the therapist apart.
"Well that was certainly, therapeutic." He said sarcastically.
"Okay." John said softly, sounding completely and utterly defeated. "I'll call Lestrade and tell him I won't be your... assistant or whatever any more, see if he'll take you on alone..."
"Alone?" Sherlock questioned, confused.
"Yeah. Sherlock, this was our chance to fix things. Probably our last chance. And, well... it's pretty obvious you don't care enough to try, so..." John clambered to his feet with difficulty, his leg giving him hell as he prepared to say it. He looked towards the window as he spoke next, still avoiding Sherlock's eye.
"I guess this is goodbye..." He said flatly. Sherlock, out of John's line of vision, froze. No, that had not been what he was going for. Surely John had found the insufferable therapist just as idiotic and the entire concept of counselling as much of a time-waste as Sherlock had? Sherlock genuinely thought he'd been doing them both a favour.
"This... is important to you?" Sherlock asked uncertainly.
"Look, forget it. It doesn't matter. It was a long shot anyway. We tried." John said, shaking his head. Sherlock sighed. The things he did in the name of friendship.
"He's not coming back, is he?"
"Who, Hunter? No... not a chance in hell." John absently played with the handle on his cane, he wanted to leave now, to just go home and sort it all out in his head. That he would never again be friends with Sherlock Holmes was a very painful thought but John had not cried since his death and the bastard certainly didn't deserve his tears now.
"Do you suppose that if I grovelled, they would assign us someone else?" Sherlock's tone was airy and John couldn't help but chuckle darkly.
"Sherlock, you've never grovelled a day in your life." He muttered.
"There is, as they say, a first time for everything." Sherlock swept from the room, leaving John more than a little bewildered. He could hear snippets of the conversation outside the room, Sherlock flirting with the receptionist in an attempt to get his way, buttering her up so they'd be referred to someone else.
When he came back into the room he looked slightly mollified, brushing off his long coat as though there was something disgusting on it.
"Ten am tomorrow, we've been reassigned." He said distastefully, chatting up women was part and parcel of his job but the twenty-something girl behind the desk had been overly familiar, simpering softly about the version of the situation Sherlock had explained to her.
"Right... and you'll behave yourself this time?" John asked.
"Yes." He agreed instantly. "John, I've proven that I'm willing to attempt this mundane pseudo-science for the sake of our friendship." He said firmly, John nodded. "I've shown that I do 'care enough to try'." He was using John's own words against him, cluing John in to what was coming next. He braced himself for the inevitable question.
When John did not pre-empt him, Sherlock continued. "So, now you know I'm amenable to third-party assistance, that I am capable of putting aside my own beliefs, my own pride, to keep you happy..." John had not been 'happy' in a long time, the word was not appropriate and that much was obvious from the frown on John's face. Sherlock trailed off, momentarily thrown, before bolstering himself, straightening his back and attempting to catch John's eye. John artfully avoided his gaze.
"Can I come home?" Sherlock asked. John had known it was coming but it didn't make it hurt any less. His response was immediate.
"No." He shook his head. "It's not enough to say you'll try, Sherlock. You have to actually work at it. You're going to have to attend these sessions and actually talk to me, okay?" John instructed, moving past Sherlock towards the exit. Sherlock pulled him back, gripping his arm a little too tightly.
"And then I can come home?" He implored, pushing a little harder. John struggled to free his arm, flinching away from the first physical contact they'd had since Sherlock's dramatic return.
"We'll see. Maybe." He said, walking away to avoid Sherlock's insistence.
John was only human, there was only so many times he could say no before his willpower would fade but he had to stick to this. It was for their own good. If he let Sherlock come back now, things would never be repaired between them. John knew that if he gave Sherlock that power to just walk back into his life as though nothing had changed, nothing would change - and he could not go through all that again. Still, he felt sick to his stomach as he limped home, knowing all that awaited him when he got to 221b was deafening silence.
A/n: benedictcumberbatchruinedme has been a little under the weather these past few days, I sincerely hope this cheers her up a little bit. Or breaks her heart. I dunno. I might be Moffat... Reviews are lovely thank you :)