Wondering


He had to do something with himself. Sitting around in parks, moping along the sidewalk and starting every time a tall man in a dark coat walked around the corner…he was going to go mad, and he wouldn't be any help to anyone if he did that.

So he went back to work.

It was hard, sure. But what else could he do? And honestly, people needed him as much as he needed to be there. The office was short staffed as it was, and there had been a nasty flu-bug going around…It didn't hurt things either that he seemed to be something of a favorite with some of the more difficult patients.

Still, there were nights, when he returned to his little temporary flat—he'd go back to Baker Street eventually, he'd promised Mrs. Hudson. Just not yet—and stared at the ceiling and wondered. He honestly wondered about Sherlock's death. He couldn't convince himself that there was nothing more to the story—that all Sherlock had left behind was a broken body on the pavement. It didn't add up.

He realized, of course, that it was probably the grief talking. Denial stage and all that. But as the days turned into weeks and the weeks to months and the denial didn't fade, he wondered more.

Did he still believe?