" 'No stars in the sky,' he thought, still bemused by
his dream. 'They are on earth instead.' " ~ Les Miserables by Victor Hugo (Jean Valjean Speaking)
As John approached Ella's office 15 days later, he mentally prepared himself. He had to try to cooperate. Nothing drastic would be asked of him, so he would act as instructed. Those were the only orders John gave himself. Since his last appointment, he hadn't done much. It wasn't like he had a job or anything, and Mrs. Hudson (God bless her) had kept at least some food in the fridge, simply adding the expense to his rent. This meant his pension was barely enough, but it would do. He didn't need much food, anyways. Since Sherlock had jumped, John had lost his appetite, but he wasn't starving himself or anything. He just didn't need to eat as much as he used to. Maybe he was starting to adopt some of Sherlock's old habits. That's lovely, he thought, super healthy.
"Hello, John," Ella grinned as John entered her office. He had long since stopped giving fake smiles to attempt to convince her that he was alright. It wasn't worth it anymore. "Did you do anything interesting this week?" It sounded casual, but John knew she really meant 'Have you done anything with your life other than let it waste away?' Because no, he really hadn't.
John shook his head. "Not really. Just been trying to get some sleep."
"Really? You haven't left your flat in over two weeks? Does that not seem a bit unhealthy to you, John?" She pressed. He had left the flat, though. Just to walk every now and then, chase off some of the more persistent press that still hung around, or just to stand outside, to not be trapped inside for another day.
"I went to the park a few days ago," John sighed, rubbing his eyes with his forefinger and thumb. "I was just going to sit on one of the benches, read a book, what normal people would do. It wasn't long before I left, though. It was just distracting." John's hand dropped to his knee, yet his eyes remained downcast.
Ella pressed on, taking advantage of the rare lead. "In what way was it distracting?"
"There was just a lot of people, all walking in their groups, talking relentlessly, crowding up the walkways. Damn it, people have gotten a hell of a lot louder. Everywhere I go, people's conversations just intrude, and they're so tedious. "John shook his head in frustration, realizing how he had so easily strayed from the topic."It's just me, I know. What is it now, am I hyperaware? Social anxiety? Paranoia? Maybe a combination?"
"No, John," Ella replied, voice painfully close to monotonous. It was her calming tone that always seemed to anger John further. It was just a reminder that he needed to be treated like a child, in her eyes. "This is just resurfacing stress. Did these thoughts begin to become overwhelming?" Hell yes they had, but it was mild in comparison to other episodes of anxiety John had dealt with. It wasn't even worth mentioning, really.
He tapped at his knee, trying to maintain a stable outer appearance. "No. I'm fine, just frustrated is all. People have been tiptoeing around me for weeks, and it can just be hard to take at times. It's just easier on my own. I did leave, though, but only because I wasn't doing much. Just dealing with the atmosphere. A bit counterproductive, I thought."
Ella made a quick note, and John pretended not to notice, as the custom had become. "And where did you go?"
This was where John faltered, but he had to cooperate. He had to figure it out. "I wanted to visit Sherlock, so I went to his grave."
John could see the spot in his mind as he sat on the bench in the park, gripping at his book much harder than necessary, trying not to scream at each passing son of a bitch. He hadn't been there alone, he couldn't trust himself, but he had to. Nearly falling with the speed at which he stood, John grabbed his cane and began to hobble towards the nearby cemetery, the one that held his best friend. Cemetery. What an awful word. It was too cold and reminded him of some bad horror film, but what else could he say? Why did he even care? It wasn't long before he was stumbling towards the back corner with the large tree, the one Mrs. Hudson thought would be so nice and that she said reminded her of some old book. Irrelevant.
John momentarily forgot himself and tripped, only catching himself as he dropped to his knees. There was no need to stand, though. He was alone, and on his knees was closer to the one person he wanted to be there. Sherlock was physically there, but he was so out of place. It was all wrong. John ran a hand through his hair, yanking at the greying blonde strands. He should feel at peace in the still atmosphere, but he couldn't. It was like he was expected to figure out the puzzle, how Sherlock was actually still alive and solving cases, how he would someday just show up at Scotland Yard, but there was no mystery. Just a body. For a sick moment, John remembered Donovan saying that someday they would all be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes would be the one that put it there. He hadn't believed her but damn it she was right. She was always right. Except it was just John in that moment, and he could no longer find the strength to stand.
Ella looked so calm. It's hateful, isn't it? No, God no. "John, you need to be able to share your mourning experience with me. It is my job, you know. If you're embarrassed by having cried or become angry, I assure you that it is all completely natural and-"
"I didn't." Ella fell silent as John spoke. "You know how you asked what I had left unsaid? Well, I told myself I should tell Sherlock all of those things, but I couldn't. So I left. I went home, and I was asleep by 6:00 that night." By 7:00 he had woken up hyperventilating and sobbing, the image of Sherlock's mutilated face still fresh on the insides of his eyelids, but Ella already knew about the nightmares. He couldn't bring himself to go into detail.
"John, you need to find a way to let those unsaid things go. Writing has always seemed to help you, and you don't even have topost it. Just r=write out one thing ou should have told him, and you can print it to leave at the grave or you can just delete it. Either way, keeping your feelings bottled up will only allow them to explode out. Have you experienced that kind of loss of control before?" Try every time I've screamed at Mrs. Hudson or have broken something after throwing it against the wall or taken a swing at someone with a camera, John thought.
"Only just after I got back to London," He lied, disregarding what he had originally told himself about being cooperative. "Nothing recently. This is nothing like coming back from Afghanistan."
"In what ways?"
"Every way."
"John, elaborate."
He paused. The nightmares and panic attacks had started up again as well as the limp. He didn't have any friends anymore, that was for sure. Lestrade and Molly had tried to keep in contact, but that was shortly after the fall. He couldn't stand to talk to them. If he went much longer without a job, he would end up in a crap flat again with little more than his laptop and a gun. He didn't really need a computer anymore since he had given up on the blog and all that had been in the news for so long was SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS. SHERLOCK HOLMES IS AS MUCH A FREAK AS HE IS A LIAR. WHO IS THERE FOR THE PUBLIC TO TRUST? So much idiocy. That only left the gun. Not much of a life to look forward to.
Since Sherlock's death, Lestrade and Mycroft had collectively been able to prove that Sherlock Holmes was, indeed, innocent. Moriarty was real. However, no one would believe it. Kitty Riley and her army of press had done their damage and perpetuated it. John wasn't the naïve one. He was right. He had to be right. Sherlock would call him an imbecile for doubting his own mind, but everyone was always so stupid. So ignorant. At least they were to Sherlock. It was in the same way that any drawing would be insufficient in the eyes of an artist. He was just so much better. John knew he shouldn't idolize Sherlock, but he had always been a human playing God. He had just dragged John along in the wake, bringing him into the games and pantomime of the world, and damn it John still missed him. He still missed London's battlefield, the complexity of criminal masterminds' plans, Sherlock's insistence that the reality in which he lived was the only one in which he wouldn't go insane with boredom.
"John?" Ella's voice suddenly broke through the barrier of his own thoughts, ripping his mind back into reality. With his mind suddenly silenced, John noticed an unbearable silence that had sunk in around him. When had that happened? It was coming in from all around, broken not even by the ticking of a clock or the tap of afoot. It was still and unbroken, a perfect and still moment in time. It was terrifying. There was no longer a distraction, a place to get lost. He was back to where he had been- alone, scared mostly of his own mind but also of circumstance.
John was suddenly aware of his own posture in the bath of stillness. He was slumped, no longer holding his tight army stance. He had hunched over, hands clutching at the tops of his knees. It was no secret that Captain John H. Watson was gone, now. Instead, John was again the invalidated soldier, the PTSD sufferer, the veteran with the fake limp he never could shake off, and the man who was terrified of events that had become only memories. That was the worst part. How can one let go of a phobia when it is one's self? Of the place he had been left, of having to accept what was real, what was fake... Through detachment? That was more commonly known as going fucking insane.
"John, I need you to elaborate. In what way this different from returning from Afghanistan?" He now had to walk through the damn battlefield on a daily basis and he had to live within it. And no one else could see the war. Before his comrades had been with him, and even in London, Scotland Yard had been the side of the angels and Moriarty headed the side of the demons, but now the lines had blurred and dissipated. Even Sherlock, who had seen everything, couldn't see this. No one else could understand the terrorist of his memory.
When John did speak, it was in an oddly small vice. Almost that of a child. It wavered and cracked, but John was far beyond giving a shit. It wasn't like Ella didn't know he was a screwed up person, no longer even a man. It what was is this different? "It is so much worse." That was the moment in which John knew he had finally been broken. The war was no longer just inside of him.
This was a bit late, but hopefully it was alright. And a bit longer. Let me know what you think; all criticism is very welcome.
EDIT: After rereading this, I felt that it needed to be altered and expanded on, so I did just that.
~CG
