John sat in the familiar, comfortable chair of his therapist's office, clutching a mug of coffee and sipping at its contents as though it were some kind of miracle cure. He needed the caffeine very much after another restless night. He had experienced a great many of those over the past months, but this time it was for an altogether new reason. Nothing made sense to him anymore. It had taken him months to even slightly adjust to a world without Sherlock and now here he was back again?
"He's back," John had bluntly informed his therapist, Celine, that morning.
He wasn't altogether surprised at her initial reaction— the way she had tactfully tried to determine whether John had finally gone off the deep end and had started hallucinating. He had managed to explain that Sherlock was not dead, had never been dead, that the whole thing had been another of Sherlock's elaborate games. John was tired of games. He sighed, not sure of what to say next. If he were being perfectly honest with himself he doubted that there was anything she could say to make him feel even remotely better. But he was flat out of options, and he felt that if he didn't talk to someone about it…well, he wasn't sure what he was going to do.
He'd spent months bottling up his emotions in a way that almost put even Sherlock to shame, speaking only briefly and occasionally to Harry, Stamford, Lestrade or Mrs Hudson. Talking to Mrs Hudson was simultaneously comforting and heartbreaking, because it was like looking into a mirror. Most of the time, seeing his broken, empty shell reflected back at him for prolonged periods of time was just too painful, so he had taken to meeting with her only briefly and limiting their conversation to matters that weren't Sherlock. It somehow left him with little to say. He had received several missed calls from her on his mobile after Sherlock had left the previous evening and two text messages to "call her urgently, regarding Sherlock" but he hadn't been able to bring himself to speak to her. He had deduced from her texts and Sherlock's mention of whether John would be 'coming home to Baker Street' that she had been his next port of call. He confirmed that theory this morning when he finally plucked up the courage to call Mrs Hudson back. He could tell before she had even said it— the emotion in her voice reflected John's all too familiar feelings of intense bewilderment but also complete and utter relief and joy.
"How is he back, John? You told me last year that you saw him fall, you saw his dead body," Celine now said carefully, after she had accepted that Sherlock was indeed back.
John shook his head and drew in a deep breath.
"I don't know."
He paused.
"I don't know how he's back. But I also can't rely on what I saw that day. What I thought I saw that day".
He stopped, the words becoming thick in his throat at the memory of the day he had seen Sherlock Holmes fall.
"I know that it's hard for you to talk about that day, John, but it's important that you try. I think you'll find that it helps."
John nodded and took another deep breath, had another gulp of coffee.
"I can't be sure of what I saw. As I've said before, the whole thing is a complete blur."
"Are you able to take me through it again?"
John didn't reply for a moment. It had been eleven months but that day still haunted him like it was yesterday. Though his memory of it was hazy, tainted by shock and disbelief and a million other things, it didn't stop his mind from replaying it every single night whilst he slept. It was far worse than any of the dreams of Afghanistan had ever been.
"I got out of the cab opposite St Bart's, tried calling Sherlock again. Got through this time. Finally. He started talking about how he was a fraud, trying to convince me that when we first met he knew what he knew because he'd researched me."
He stopped again, because the memory of the words still hurt him after all this time. He had asked himself why so many times. Why would Sherlock say such a thing and why why why would he jump from that rooftop? His belief in Sherlock had never wavered even slightly and his belief that the great man, his great man, had killed himself was even less. Another deep, shuddering breath. Get it together, John.
"I told him I didn't believe him, but it didn't make any difference. He said goodbye, then he jumped."
He swallowed hard, focusing on his hands on his knees, the way his fingers gripped the fabric of his trousers tightly.
"And what happened after he jumped?" Celine prompted gently.
"I panicked and ran towards him. Got hit by someone on a bicycle. Fell over and hit my head. Got back up and kept running towards him. Saw his body on the pavement. Saw all the blood. By the time I got there it was too late. I was too late. I tried to take his pulse, but he was gone. I don't remember much after that. They took him away, they pulled me away, wouldn't let me try to help. But it was him. I saw him."
He knew that his account of the event sounded cold and automatic. The truth was that he had been over it so many times in his head and out loud that there was no other way it could sound. He didn't add the part where Mycroft had shown up, done his best to console him through his own very obvious distress. He had never mentioned the part where Mycroft had taken him aside and given him Sherlock's scarf, knowing that John needed something that had been Sherlock's…something more personal than his possessions at 221B. It didn't get much more personal than an item of clothing tainted with his best friend's spilt blood. John both hated and loved Mycroft for it, because he hadn't been able to part with it ever since, hadn't even been able to wash it. He knew the attachment he had formed was unhealthy, and had therefore kept the information from his therapist. But he also knew that he didn't care an ounce so long as it provided him with even just a sliver of comfort. It still had Sherlock's scent attached to it, and John clung to it at night as though it could genuinly bring him back.
John dragged his mind back to the present, where Celine was contemplating him with a thoughtful expression, making a short entry on her notepad. When she looked back up at him, her expression had changed to what John could only assume was curiosity.
"So Sherlock managed to convince his best friend that he was dead. How do you think he managed that?"
John shrugged.
"I haven't the faintest idea, to be honest."
He was slightly annoyed with himself, had been ever since he had asked Sherlock to leave. He had so many questions to ask about what had happened, about how Sherlock was alive, about Moriarty and his men, about Mycroft and everyone else they knew. Had Mycroft known all this time? The thought caused anger to lick at John's insides hungrily. Mycroft had seemed so genuinely grief stricken, so plagued with guilt. But then again, he was a Holmes, and if he knew one thing about the Holmes' it was that they were never to be underestimated. But he hadn't asked Sherlock anything— just his presence in John's life after all these months of angst had been more than enough to process. John wasn't as strong as he once was. He was barely even a whole person anymore. And so, after Sherlock had left John had collapsed into his armchair and hadn't moved again for a long time, his mind reeling and still not quite believing that it hadn't all been another of his dreams (nightmares?) where Sherlock had come back to him, normally only to be taken away again just as quickly. Finally a noise coming from the direction of the coffee table had roused John back into conscious thought and he had vaguely looked around and realised that it was his phone. A text message.
It was good to see you tonight, John. I'll be here whenever you're ready -SH
Sherlock's new number then. The message had been simple, direct, and to the point, like the detective himself so often was. But John had known that 'I'll be here' was an assurance that Sherlock wasn't going away again, at least not anytime soon. And that had been enough for the time being. John had put the phone back down without saving Sherlock's name back into it and had fallen into a restless slumber, too exhausted to move from his armchair.
He relayed a summarised version of this to Celine, getting the impression that the rest of the session was going to be no easier than the first part had been.
"If you decide to see him again do you know what you might want to say? Or what you might need to say?"
John's mind was immediately drawn back to a particularly painful session not long after Sherlock's…fall. As the rain had fallen with reckless abandon outside the window of the neat office, she had asked John what it was that he hadn't said to Sherlock. He hadn't been able to tell her. It was too raw and infinitely too personal and he doubted that he would ever be able to express it within his own mind, let alone to anyone else. But a couple of months later, the topic had come up again.
"John, I feel as though we keep coming back to these things that you never got the chance to say to Sherlock. Do you think we can talk about that?"
John had sighed noncommittally, but had eventually nodded his consent.
"You say that Sherlock was your best friend."
John had nodded again. He had found that his ability to utilise the English language had been suddenly and almost completely stunted during these early counselling sessions. For the most part he forced out strangled phrases, and occasionally full sentences, whilst trying not to cry.
"Was he just your best friend, John? Or was he more than that?"
John had stared at her hard for a moment and had been both frustrated and relieved to find that her expression was very deliberately unreadable, but also completely non-judgemental.
"Are you asking me if I was in love with him?" he had asked after a long silence.
She hadn't answered his question but had given him a look that strongly suggested that this was exactly the question she was asking but didn't want to push him further than he was capable of being pushed. John had sighed heavily, exhaustion threatening to overwhelm him again. Although he had already known the answer, had somewhere inside always known the answer, it had seemed to take him a long time to form any words.
"Yes. Okay, yes. You want to hear me say it, I'll say it. I, John-straight-as-a-plank-Watson, was in love with Sherlock Holmes. Am in love with Sherlock Holmes."
At least he could say his name now without his voice cracking, he had thought. A trivial fact to distract him from the flood of relief he had felt at finally saying the words he had been storing for so long. He hadn't been sure when exactly he'd realised the truth— it had just sort of happened one day and the knowledge had settled upon him with as much certainty as the accuracy of one of Sherlock's deductions, or as the fact that the earth revolves around the sun.
Snapping back to the present, John struggled with how to address her question.
"If you're suggesting that I tell him…" he paused "…how I...feel, then no. He wouldn't understand and it would only drive him further away."
He took another deep, fortifying breath before continuing.
"I can't tell him that. I can never tell him that."
Author's note: Thanks for the lovely reviews, story alerts and faves so far :) They make me happy, and after seeing Reichenbach I am most certainly in need of the happy! Hope that you're all coping okay. Sorry that this story is such a downer- it will get happier, I promise!
The idea regarding Sherlock's scarf was gratuitously stolen from season two of Queer as Folk (US), so credit to whoever came up with that particular piece of heartbreak (I'm looking at you, Russell T Davies).
Would absolutely love to hear your thoughts on this chapter. The next won't be far away.