2012: Monday, June 11

15:28

"Good Afternoon! Ella Thompson's office, this is Charlene, how may I help you?"

"Hi, um, yes." I coughed awkwardly into the receiver and gave a sideways glance to Harry, who was standing next to me with her arms crossed over her chest. "Yes, good afternoon. This is John Watson, and I uh-"

"John! It's been a while- would you like to set up an appointment?" I vaguely remembered Emma's secretary, but for the fact she was a pretty young blonde who was much too happy for her own good. It looked like things hadn't changed a bit in the 18 months since I had last talked with her.

"Yes, well, that is why I am calling. I'd like an appointment with Dr. Thompson."

"It's a good thing we still have all your paperwork filed. Isn't that lucky? Let me see… We have a 12:30 on Thursday. How does that sound?"

"Thank-you, Charlene, that sounds fine. That's fine. Well, I guess I'll see you then?" I wasn't exactly looking forward to the appointment, and only wanted to hang-up the phone and stop thinking about it.

"Actually," Charlene said through the line, "today's my last day. There will be someone new when you come in."

"Yes, well, that's fine. That's fine. Good day, then."

"Good day, John!"

I hung up the phone with a sigh and slipped it back into my pocket, looking pointedly at Harry. "See? I did it."

Harry snickered and flipped some of her cropped hair out of her face. "Now all you have to do is show up."

I grimaced and stood up, leaning on my cane and looking her in the eye. "I am a grown man, Harry, I don't need you watching over me."

"Obviously you do," she said, grinning. "Would you have made that phone call if I hadn't been?"

Not dignifying her with response, I made my way to the kitchen and opened the fridge, half expecting to find a severed head, or maybe a bag of small intestines. I was instead met with a half gallon of milk, a full carton of eggs, and various assorted items that usually belonged in a fridge. I shut the door without getting anything, my appetite suddenly gone. I glanced over and saw Harry pretending not to be watching me from the sitting room. I knew she was worried about me, as I had hardly eaten in the past two weeks- but every time I thought about food, I ceased to be hungry. Not wanting her to worry too much though, I made toast and grabbed a jar of jam, layering the strawberry flavoured jelly thinly across the bread. I walked back to my room, making a point of eating it.

Back in the confines of my bland room, I melted into the chair at my desk, dropping the half-eaten slice of toast in the garbage bin. I drummed my fingers on the solid wooden desk and looked cautiously at my laptop, not sure if I wanted to open it to hundreds of e-mails and blog comments. I wasn't sure if I was ready to expose myself to that. I hadn't opened that laptop once since the fall.

I shook my head and laughed at myself. Look at me, John Watson, medical doctor and Afghan veteran, afraid of pixels.

How pathetic.

Regardless, I couldn't bring myself to do it. I knew I wasn't ready, and I wasn't going to push it. Besides- I had an appointment with my therapist later that week. Wouldn't want to have itoo/i much to talk about with her.

Look at me, John Watson, medical doctor and Afghan veteran, afraid of myself.

How cliché.

2012: Thursday, June 14

12:04

My last patient had taken a bit longer than expected that day, and as I looked at the digital cock on the wall, I prayed I wouldn't be late for my appointment.

"Tell Sarah," I said to the secretary, "that I should be back within two hours, okay?"

With that, I hobbled out of the office into the readily awaiting cab. At least I had thought ahead and called one. Luckily, Dr. Thompsons office was only 20 minutes away, so if traffic was in my favour…

And apparently it was. In just 18 minutes, I found myself outside the office building, standing in the rain as I paid the cabbie. He was off and, just like that, I was walking into the reception area, wringing the water out of my jumper.

I had been a while since I had been there. The shining wooden floorboards and worn polyester sofas seemed so foreign and unfamiliar. I flashed back to the weekly appointments I had had over a year and a half ago, and was surprised by the fact that nothing had really changed. The old oil painting of an ocean was still hanging above the reception desk. The magazine table was still covered with the same prescriptions, if more recent issues. The faint scent of pine oil still clung faintly to the air, giving the atmosphere a cozy, homely, feel. The only thing that was different this time around was… me.

I walked up to the reception desk and leant my weight on my cane. The new secretary was looking down at her computer screen, her reddish brown curls covering her face. She obviously had not noticed I was there, so I cleared my throat loudly. "Hello," I said, as she turned, "my name is-" the secretary's face lit up when she saw me. The freckles that spotted her cheeks crinkled as she smiled, a smile that went straight to her deep hazel eyes. Something seemed oddly familiar about her, I just couldn't quite place my finger on it.

"John!" she said, gleefully, "John Watson! What a coincedence- I had told myself it wasn't you but here you are, right in front of me!" Her high, sweet voice was what finally did it for me. I now knew iexactly/i why she looked so familiar.

She had been my fiancé, 8 years ago.

"Oh my god…" I whispered under my breath as she smiled at me, "Elizabeth? Elizabeth Marie LaForesso?"

She laughed again and stood up, coming around from behind the desk to give me a hug. I just stood there stunned. I had never expected to see her again, and there we were, "It's so good to see you after all these years, John. Last I heard you were off fighting a war. But that must have been a while ago, huh?"

"Yeah," I said shakily, "It's been… God, almost eight years since we have seen each other."

She paused to think for a minute. "Yes, I suppose it has…" She quickly made her way back around the desk and looked back down at her computer. "I'd love to talk with you, John, but not right now. Coffee, sometime?"

I nodded my head stiffly, and leaned more heavily on my cane. "Yes, coffee. That sounds nice. I'd like that." I wasn't sure if I meant what I was saying- our break-up had been an uncomfortable one. I had never been good, though, at turning people down. It always made me feel bad, like maybe I could have bettered these people's lives in some way, but I missed my chance.

But then again, it was me.

"Here," Elizabeth said, drawing me out of my thoughts and handing me one of Dr. Thompsons business cards with some pen scrawled on the back. "That's my number. Text me sometime, if you want to meet up. I'm free Saturday."

"Sounds good." I plastered a smile on my face as Dr. Thompson stepped out of her office.

"John?"

I nodded goodbye to Elizabeth and shoved the card into my pocket. Avoiding my therapists gaze, I supported myself on my cane as I walked into her office. I knew what she was thinking. I'd rather she didn't.

Comfortably sitting in a chair across from her, I forced a smile. "Good afternoon, Ella. It's been a while, hasn't it?"

"Yes," she said curtly, raising an eyebrow, "I'd say about 18 months. How have you been?" I could hear the questions and underlying meanings beneath her words, but chose to ignore them. If she wanted to get something out of me, she would have to ask straightforwardly. I had always hated hidden meanings in things.

"I've been good. I seem to have misplaced my favourite striped jumper, though."

"Ah," she said, making note of something in her pad. "What a pity." It seemed to be, 'avoiding questions.' i'Heh,'/i I thought to myself, i'I can't exactly avoid a question you haven't asked, now can I?'/i

"Let's see," I rubbed my chin, "apparently, I am having coffee with my ex-fiancé on Saturday. That's quite a turn-up. I didn't expect to show up for my appointment and find Elizabeth, of all people, as your new secretary." I saw Dr. Thompsons pupils dilate, and smiled inwardly to myself. My goal at this point was to talk as little about certain things as possible. Of course, the conversation was going to be inevitable. Harry would make me keep coming back until at least some things got better- her motherly trait always managed to piss me off in some form or another- so stalling really was futile. Then again, I was often described as stubborn.

"Is that so? I didn't know- I mean, uh." It took a minute for her to get situated. I was satisfied that, even just for a second, I was able to pull Dr. Thompson out of her professional indifference. It was a game, one I was intent on winning. And right now I was in the lead. "So," she continued, now fully composed, "are you excited about this meeting."

"I wouldn't say I was upset." She wrote something else in her notepad, but I couldn't make it out that time around.

"Well, I hope you enjoy yourself," she said, "you'll have to tell me how it goes."

"Of course! I'd be much obliged." I smiled sarcastically at her, knowing I was only making her write more fervently in that annoying pad of hers. I was only hurting myself, but I was having so much fun doing it.

Thompsons smile stayed professional as she swept a few loose strands of hair from her face. "So, how's the leg?"

I grimaced, and reflexively tightened my left hand into a fist. "Not so good," I said, trying to fabricate the good humour I had had before, "it started bothering me again a couple weeks ago, around the same time I lost my jumper." iGood job, John. Bring the conversation back around to something irrelevant./i

The irritating therapist, however, had yet to fall for my feebly attempts at avoiding the inevitable discussion. "Yes," she said, "it really is a pity about the jumper. But what happened? Why did your limp come back?"

That stupid, annoying, egotistical smile was plastered on her face. Oh, she was so proud of herself. I could see where this conversation was going. Circles.

"Ella…" I suggested, slowly, "Let's talk about something else."

Her eye's widened in surprise. I cursed myself, as I had apparently let some sort of emotion seep through my disguise. What was it that Irene Addler had said? A disguise is always a self-portrait? Regardless, it was hardly relevant. Irene Addler was dead, Moriarty was de-

A low cough from the woman across from me drew my gaze. "Yes, well, what would you like to talk about, John?"

I drummed the fingers of my right hand against the armrest as my left fist clenched and unclenched. Honestly, I didn't want to talk about anything- not with her, not with anyone. I had always been a rather quiet man, but recently talking just seemed a burden.

The room lapsed into silence as Dr. Thompson stared expectantly at me. After about a minute, she sighed dramatically and flipped a page in her notebook, readying her pen on the paper. "Fine," she said, the aggravation evident in her voice, "where are you staying now?"

"With my sister." My answer came immediately, due to the reflex of answering the same question so many times in the past two weeks. Thompson seemed fairly surprised by this, as was expected. She knew of my relationship with Harry.

"Harriet?" She asked, writing something down. "You moved into Harriet's flat? How has that been?"

I sighed- she had always insisted on calling Harry Harriet. Damn conservatives. I figured, though, since I was paying for this hour, I might as well talk. It seemed harmless enough. "Yes, fine. It's been fine. She's great. She's the one who persuaded me to come today."

"What a surprise! I'm glad you two are getting on well." I paused for a second and stared at her. I wasn't sure if it was just my imagination playing tricks on me, but despite that fabricated tone, the professional demeanor, and the unnaturally happy smile… Something seemed genuine. Right there in her eyes and at the corner of her lips, tucked away between the crinkles in her chin and her jawline, I saw the hint of sincerity.

"Yes…" I stared out the window, inspecting the sky. It was so grey- an average. A normal, rainy, dull, day in London. The kind of day I never gave a second thought to before, the kind that would sometimes put him on edge.

And the slight patter of rain on the glass? Yeah, that put me on edge too. "Yes, I suppose it is a good thing, isn't it?"