6 Months Later
"John, you are going to have to talk to me at some point you know. That's what I'm here for." She looked up at me and smiled. She was trying to help and trying to be nice, but I didn't want the help and I sure as Hell wasn't buying that smile.
"I understand you are trying to help, but I'm talking to someone already. I'm just here, because in order to keep my job, I have to come see you at least once a week." I wasn't trying to sound rude, or snarky, I was just unhappy. I was unhappy with a lot of things, but I didn't want to be here which was making me unhappier. I crossed my hands in my lap and looked down. Damn, now I'm starting to cry. What is this? I'm so emotional.
"Who are you talking to John?" She picked up her pen as if she was going to write something down and then she stopped. "Are you crying?" She seemed puzzled. This was the first sign of emotion I had shown since we started. I had always come in here and put up a front. I tried to be a shell and I tried not to care. But how couldn't I care? My life had changed so drastically, and I wasn't normal and I obviously needed the help. I just refused to ask for it. That's why when Sherlock was around, I was okay. He was my help. I was always busy with him and he just made things better, but then the fall happened and I didn't know what to do.
I wiped the tears away from my eyes, trying to hide my pain. "It's no one. It's nothing. He's a friend. All of them are. We kind of decided since we all lost the same person that meant so much to us, it would be a good idea to meet once a week to just talk about how things were going." This wasn't a lie. I wanted to make up a lie, but this wasn't a lie. I was meeting once a week with someone. Well, not just someone, a handful of someone's. We had all lost Sherlock and it was hard on all of us, that was very apparent. So we decided it would be a good plan to meet at someone's house once every week, for two sometimes three hours. We've been doing is since the fall. I had realized it, but I began to cry harder. I got up from my chair and walked to the window. Outside it was raining. Not a heavy rain, just light enough to make it gloomy. I turned back around and stared at my brown chair. My indent was still present. It reminded me of Sherlock. I was like my chair, and he the indent. Though he wasn't alive, he still left an indent in my life. I sank to the ground and cried harder.
Leah set her pen and clipboard down and came and sat by me. "John, it's okay to cry. Just tell me what's on your mind. Let me help you." She said softly. She handed me a tissue. And there we sat for a few moments, backs against the window, tears streaming down my face. I took a deep breath trying to calm myself but it was no use. Sherlock was in my mind.
"Well, here's the thing. There is just so much in here," I poked at my forehead, "And it's just so hard to explain." I shook, violently. I brought my knees up to my chest and hugged them. What had gotten into me? This wasn't like me at all! Well, it was to an extent.
"Then form words John! Anything, just give me anything. One problem at a time. Or all of them. Just give me something to work with. Please." I had been seeing Leah for almost six months now. My therapist. And I hadn't said barely one word to her. I said "Hello." Then I sat down and stared at her, mostly because I didn't know where to start. Partly because I didn't know what to say. I had seen a therapist before, before I met Sherlock. Then Mycroft told me to fire her, and I did. But now I had to see one, but I got a different one. Mycroft even recommended her.
"Sherlock. Fall. Death. Sadness. Hurt. Love. Pain. I don't know! There aren't many words to form! I don't know what to say or how to feel. I just don't know right now. There is just so many emotions that I'm feeling all at once." I had stood up, pushed myself off the wall and began yelling. I didn't mean to, it's just that sometimes it gets to hard to be quiet about things.
"Good John! Good! Tell me about Sherlock. What..." She then stopped. The timer had gone off and our time was over.
"Well, I guess I'll see you next week then. Goodbye Leah." I grabbed my coat and turned the doorknob, trying to leave as fast as I could.
"John, you've mad wonderful progress. Next week, we'll work with those words. At this rate, if you keep this up, you won't have to see me for much longer. Goodbye and have a good day." I bolted out of there as soon as she said goodbye. I wanted to do nothing more than to go home and not be here. I just wanted to be anywhere but here. My wounds which I had covered with band aid's, that I had slowly been picking at, had now been exposed. All of my open wounds.
The drive home seemed longer than normal. Probably because it felt like life was moving in slow motion. I watched people pass by, so happy and so unaware. I parked in my normal parking spot and walked to the door. The same door that had begun it all. I still lived in our flat. I hadn't changed anything, I hadn't redecorated, I hadn't done anything with the place. I just left it as it was. I trudged up the stairs, said hi to Mrs. Hudson, and went to my arm chair. I picked up my computer, set it down again, and cried. I cried for a few hours, or so it felt like it when there was a soft knock on the door.
"John darling, I hate to interrupt, but Greg is here." I got up and walked to the doorway. Mrs. Hudson then hugged me like a mother would a son. "I know darling, I know. It's good to let it out sometimes. I usually cry in the shower. And when I go to the fridge, so it's okay. Let me make you and Greg some tea."She let go of the embrace and patted me on the back. She then quickly turned to get Greg and make tea. I just leaned against the frame of the door.
"Hello John." Greg Lestrade wasn't a mean man, nor was he gruff. He was just Lestrade.
"Hello Greg, how are you?" We shook hands and I lead him to the chair.
"The same as I was last week." We chuckled. We were both the same as we were last week. And the week before and the week before that. We weren't necessarily one's to share our feelings with each other, unless we were in our group. Yes, Lestrade was in our weekly meeting group. He had been the one to suggest it actually. "Is everyone coming over tonight?"
I looked at my watch, swore under my breath and got up. I walked to the door again. "Mrs. Hudson! Would you mind making a few more cups of tea? Everyone is coming over tonight. I must have forgotten." I yelled down the stairs. I heard a faint 'Yes deary! I can do that.' And then I swiveled to Lestrade. "Damn. I keep forgetting that it's Friday. My appointment with Leah was changed to today, so it's kind of thrown me off." I sat back down.
"How was..." He was cut off by a knock at the door frame.
"Sorry to interrupt, but Hello." Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock's older brother. Also someone to be in our group. So we had the Detective Inspector and the brother. We just needed...
"Hi guys, sorry I'm late. Am I late?" Molly Hooper. And this was everyone.
"Please, um, take a seat. Hello everyone, yes. Hello."
"So how was it today John? The meeting with Leah?" Lestrade picked up again. He had gotten up to great everyone then reclaimed his seat.
"Yes John. How was it?" Molly and Mycroft chimed in.
"It was," and I paused. Do I tell them how things went? Do I not? These were my friends after all, the only friends I had left. "Interesting. Very interesting. I uh, I um, I cried today. The whole session. I did. I made progress." That sounded so weird and so awkward. "She said I won't have to see her much longer if I keep making progress." Still weird and still awkward. And then the tears came. Out of no where. I don't ever cry in front of people, and here I was, crying again. First in front of Leah, the Mrs. Hudson walked in, now these people. They probably thing I'm a coward, or soft. Maybe emotional. I am emotional. That would actually be true. But ever week we met, I had never cried. Ever. None of us did. We just sat and talked about how our week has been. Sometimes Sherlock was brought up, sometimes he wasn't. "I just, I'm sorry. I don't know what has come over me today. I've cried three times now and I believe three times is enough." But that didn't stop me from crying. I stood up and walked to the door frame. I leaned against it, backs turned to them. I whipped around. "No, it's okay for me to cry. I has been six months since Sherlock has died and I can damn well cry about it. Yes I can." I looked up and was shocked. Well, mostly. I wasn't shocked that Molly had started crying. She sometimes calls me crying and asks to just talk, which is nice. I love being there for her. But to see Greg and Mycroft cry, it was eye opening.
Mycroft had lost his brother for Christs sakes and I didn't even know how he was really doing. He had silent tears running down his face. Then there was Lestrade. He had lost a good worker. Well, sort of worker. Sherlock didn't work for him, just with him. He had lost a good man. He was also silently crying. I handed everyone a tissue.
"Listen, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have. I've just been needing to get things off my chest. I hadn't realized I would chose tonight to do so." I sat back in my chair.
"No. It's good. Fine even. I think we've all needed a good cry. Thank you." Lestrade had spoken up. He had cleared his throat and blew his nose.
"I miss him so much!" Molly sobbed. She had loved him. Even when Sherlock and I became a "thing", she still loved him. "I know he was himself and it was hard for him to express some things, it's just that he was a good friend to me regardless." She sobbed again.
Mycroft had gotten up. He smoothed his suit and walked over to the door. "Thank you everyone, but I think I need to just step out and take a breath. I think I might go home actually. I apologize." He then walked out.
"Mycroft!" I yelled. "Wait." I tried to run to him, but he had already made it through the front door.
"I'm sorry John, but I think I'm going to go too." Lestrade shook my hand and was out. I hadn't even realized it had been two hours. I sighed.
"We all handle things differently. Mycroft likes to make himself a rock and harden up. Lestrade does too, but sometimes he cries. I know he does. I've seen him silently cry in his office. And me? Well, I cry all the time. It's almost expected of me since I'm the girl, but that's just how I express my anger and frustration. You though, you use a lot of different techniques, which is good. I just wish I could help everyone and fix everything. I just don't know how. It's been a lovely evening John, and I'm glad you could express what you have been feeling, for the most part. If you need anything, I'm just a phone call away." Molly got up, smiled, and kissed me on the cheek. "Goodnight John. I'll see you next week." And then the house was empty. Save for Mrs. Hudson who was down stairs. I hadn't even realized she had brought up the tea.
I went back to my chair and gingerly sat in it. I think it's time for bed.
I laid there for about an hour before drifting off into sleep. A nightmare again. This one was more vivid and horrific than the previous one's.
I was standing next to Sherlock, watching the whole scene play out. He was on the roof of St. Bart's, and there I was on the ground looking up at him. Now that I was close to him, I could see the tears streaming down his face. I couldn't see them from where I was on the ground, but now I could. He threw his phone on the ground. This was it.
"Sherlock, wait." I reached out to touch him. But I was too late. We were both falling. Both headed for the ground. Then we both hit. And then I was sucked into another dream. It was still Sherlock dying, more or less killing himself, but in different ways. It was him taking the pill with the driver. It was him being shot by the American officer. It was just him dying over and over and over again.
I had started to cry in my sleep. All these tears recently. And the last dream. This once. Sherlock and I had never made love to one another, mostly because Sherlock had asked not to until he was ready. So this dream stung the most.
We were making love in this dream. It was beautiful, but I was still crying in my dream. So we had stopped and Sherlock just held me.
"John, what's wrong?" He whispered softly in my ear. "Let me fix it."
And before I could answer, I was back at the bottom of St. Bard's with dead Sherlock in my hands. 'One more miracle for me Sherlock, please.'
I woke up screaming that. Poor Mrs. Hudson probably thought something was wrong. I rolled out of bed and wiped my tears, again. I walked over to the dresser and opened it. There sat a gun. A small hand gun that was powerful enough to kill someone instantly. But I wasn't going to kill myself, at least not tonight. I grabbed the blade next to it though. I hated feeling all this pain on the inside, so I would occasionally cut to bring the pain on the outside. I was a grown man and knew how to handle my feelings, but sometimes it just wasn't enough.
I lifted up my shirt and found my previous markings. There were eight, neatly aligned on my chest. Eight cuts for every letter in Sherlock's name. I started a row below it for ever letter in his last name. Holmes. So now there were six more neat, wonderful little cuts. The blood trickled down my sick. My little secret. I watched the blood drip for a few moments more and them I rinsed them off and went back to bed. I didn't want to fall asleep though. I was afraid to close my eyes, because unfortunately, I knew what awaited.