Chapter Four: The Therapist

Time had, at first, moved achingly slow. John drifted through each day, each second dragging on painfully. Eventually, though, the pain became a dull, slow, and steady ache.

Some days started to pass him quickly, some he only noticed as slight whispers to his empty mind, others as a screeching crash in between both his ears. In total, nothing of significance had happened; it was just the expected day-to-day struggles that brought him down.

John was amidst the raging sea of a war on the legitimacy of Sherlock Holmes. Had he ever ventured back into 221B after his departure all those months before, John was sure he could find flyers, graffiti, thrown eggs, toilet paper, and vulgar language decorating the exterior. He would enter the flat and find a few bricks, some broken windows, and a flustered landlady who would curse the hooligans that were destroying the property. At least, this is how John imagined 221B. In his mind, aside from the minor chaos of the vandalism, every aspect of his home remained as it always has been.

As if being stuck in this violent tempest of the 'Sherlock War' (as tabloids call it) wasn't enough, John felt as if he had cinder blocks tied to his ankles. He was sinking deeper and deeper into the icy, churning water. He hardly had any friends to help him, with the exception of Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. There was only so much company he wanted from an older woman though, and Lestrade was always very busy trying to solve new cases.

Since Lestrade's boss discovered Sherlock had taken part in over thirty cases, he had been nearly fired and now has been put under the gun. Lestrade could never crack the difficult serial criminals as quickly as Sherlock; he was floundering without the consulting detective's advice. Not only was Lestrade spending all hours of the day working on his cases, but he had begun to doubt Sherlock, too. John wasn't sure whether it's Sally and Anderson's constant company that fertilized the seed, that they themselves had planted the night of Sherlock's arrest, or if it was general disbelief.

There was no comfort to be found, even in Molly Hooper. To see her face, John had to practically chase her down and grab her by the arm. Still, she never looked directly in his eyes. Molly was always around somehow, asking others how John had been, what he'd been up to as of late, but never asking him directly unless John confronted her first. The whole situation baffled him completely. John hoped with all his heart that Molly wasn't blaming herself for Sherlock's death, or even blaming him.

John had blamed himself – at first. He went to his former therapist immediately after finding all of Lestrade's team digging through his flat; it wasn't even a conscious decision to go back there. It was like resuming an old routine, picking up right where he left off eighteen months before moving in at Baker Street. He resumed his normal position, one leg crossed over the other, back against the too-comfy cream colored chair, one hand gripping his cane to give him a sense of sturdy support. The therapists' office was still the same. Large windows along the back wall, waxed wood floors, a carefully constructed interior to give the patient a feeling of comfort and relaxation. As the months of therapy went by, John felt more and more that it was not a relaxing feeling but a gauzy cover to his true emotions.

When his therapist first asked him to openly say that Sherlock was dead, John choked on the words. Forming the dreaded sentence in his mind was heartbreaking enough, but as the sentence moved up his throat it swelled and clung there until he forced himself to say it. This was denial, having a hard time admitting his death, she told John. She promised to help him through the denial.

Over the weeks, the therapist began to dig deeper into him, asking more questions that he had difficulty answering. At last, she asked whether or not John believes Sherlock was an actual detective.

"It's consulting detective… and I know he was real." He said honestly. She stared at him with her empty, black eyes, and asked him to reconsider his position on the situation. John slumped backwards into the chair he was growing to despise and stared back at her, bewildered.

"Are you… You're not… You aren't serious, are you?" He asked her. She stared back coldly, not even blinking in reply. "Right… yeah… ok, well I'll be off then. You're absurd." He thrust himself to a standing position with the help of his weathered cane and rushed from the room. John could feel the anger starting to boil inside of him. It was thick and bubbling, red and rising behind his eyes. Leaving the therapists office, he kicked a chair out of absolute frustration.

About a week later, the therapist called to apologize, asking him to try another session. Generously, he agreed.

This time around, the therapist focused mainly on his leg. She was overly cautious when choosing the directions of the sessions as more weeks passed, and his psychological pain began to be a saftey net for both parties. John was in between a rock and a hard place; he knew that his therapist did not believe in Sherlock, but he needed her support and help.

John had isolated himself from nearly everyone he would have once gone to for help. Some involuntarily, as in Molly and Mycroft, but the rest voluntarily. He admitted to himself that if Mycroft hadn't fallen from the face of the earth, John would seldom talk to him anyways. It was Mycroft who had given Moriarty Sherlock's life story, selling his brother away because Moriarty had too much knowledge of the inner workings of the government, and a specific computer code. But then again, John had to acknowledge that Mycroft's the only living relative of Sherlock's, which had somehow made his disappearance much more suspicious. John could do nothing but hope that Mycroft was still alive, somewhere.

After six months of relative calmness, the therapist brought the controversy of Sherlock Holmes back to light. John was in no mood to hear her opinion. For six months, they had worked around the topic while helping him recover. There were no discrepancies or arguments.

"So John… I think it's about time we bring a forgotten subject back. When we first started meeting again, you and I had a disagreement. I think your judgment has been clouded by your grieving of Sherlock, as we both know you two were very close. But, I'm trying to convince you to be open to the possibility that maybe the rumors are true. The evidence backs up the case completely, and it's perfectly ok for you not to want to see that. But at this point, we're going to start trying to move forward faster." She said mildly.

John became agitated. "Honestly… you can't believe everything that's in the papers. You said it yourself, they're rumors. Rumors, most of the time, aren't true. If you had lived with someone like Sherlock and worked with him as I did, you wouldn't have a doubt in your mind that he is true. No one could fake his brains and talent. No one."

The therapist looked stonily back at John; her eyes seemed to be an empty, black and bottomless pit. John always noticed how similar they were to black holes. She answered him, "I actually have a patient who had worked with Sherlock on many cases for a few years, fell in love with him even. She was in a similar position as you – she wouldn't accept the truth. He hurt her though, he publically humiliated her multiple times until she couldn't take it and began to hate him. Not too long after, he killed himself out of shame because of his fake –"

"DO NOT SPEAK OF SHERLOCK THAT WAY!" John roared, jumping to his feet with the ease and agility of having no leg injuries. "DON'T YOU DARE. HE WAS MY FRIEND, AND HE WAS A GREAT MAN. HE-WAS-NOT-A-FRAUD."

The therapist looked coolly at him in return, a smirk of satisfaction threatened to break loose from her twitching lip. "Sit down, John. Do you know Sally Donovan?" His jaw fell in astonishment and John let himself slump back into the chair. "I thought so. Well dear Sally was so torn over Sherlock's death that she came here to me, and I've helped her out quite a bit. And apparently, I've helped you as well… leg not bugging you right now? Good. We will continue as scheduled. I think that will be all, Dr. Watson. Thank you and goodbye."

John was so astonished that he could only nod in agreement. In a daze, he exited the office and returned to his dingy, cramped flat that he had been living in for six months now. He was not sure whether the therapist had actually meant that Sherlock was a fraud or had said it based on reaction. He spent the rest of the night trying to process the new information that the therapist had told him about Sally. Somewhere, nagging at the back of his mind, John knew that therapists could not disclose any information on other patients to anyone. He knew, deep in the back corner of his thoughts that no respectable, professional therapist would tell him about Sally.

Later that night, the not-so-honest therapist went out with some close friends, including Miss Sally Donovan. They were going out for some good, quality bonding, some armed with their trusty spray cans and hammers, some with bricks, and others with eggs and toilet paper. Sally always hung in the back on these outings; she was the only one who did not carry any tools of this trade. Sally was uncomfortable to be out with the group to begin with and never participated in the activities. She turned a blind eye as she heard windows shatter on her old love's street, she walked away as eggs splattered against doors and toilet paper was tossed in the air like confetti. But most importantly, she left completely when the others went to his grave. They had no dignity, they were the most radical of any of those opposing his legitimacy, and they would decorate the grave to their liking. First, the hammers worked to ruin the black stone, and then the spray cans decorated it with vulgar slang and language. It was a war, between the believers and non-believers, and the non-believers were playing dirty.

John continued to see his therapist for two more months, as each session went by, Sherlock's controversy was brought up more and more frequently. Finally, eight months after beginning, his therapist snapped at him.

"How can you completely ignore that this man was a good for nothing fake? He just wanted fame and attention! You need to get this through your head at some point, John. Do you understand? This man was vulgar and had probably murdered Richard Brooks, Sally told me herself. Right before he killed himself like the coward he was, he killed the man who ruined his identity! He is fake."

"Sherlock Holmes is REAL. There is NO SUCH THING AS RICHARD BROOKS. YOU CANNOT TELL ME OTHERWISE, YOU DON'T KNOW SHERLOCK. YOU DIDN'T SEE HIM, LIVE WITH HIM, WATCH HIM SOLVE CASES. THERE IS NO – and I mean NO – POSSIBLE WAY HE COULD BE A FRAUD."

"You need to calm yourself, Doctor. I'm afraid you're suffering a bit of insanity."

John presently rose and walked out, limp-less, using his cane to tip a vase on his way out. The therapist screamed after him.

"SHERLOCK IS DEAD. HE WAS HARDLY LIVING, ONLY ACTING. HE IS DEAD AND GONE – SIX FEET UNDER, WHERE HE SHOULD BE. HE IS REPELLING."

Mycroft stared at his bare feet. His ankles were bound to the wooden chair he was restricted to. One toe was missing, and the bottoms of his feet were severely burned and infected. His left eye had been swollen shut for days now; he could only hope it would start to heal soon. Mycroft's tongue was soaked with his blood, but before his teeth started getting pulled it had laid dry and shriveled in his mouth. He had managed to avoid this fate for many months, floating from quiet location to quiet location around the world, leaving no trace. It was not until a week ago that he had been caught and kidnapped. As Mycroft drifted out of consciousness, his torturers' face emerged from the shadows.

"Don't faint now… we still have some things to discuss, Mycroft." Moriarty hissed in Mycroft's ear. This threat was not enough to keep the elder Holmes brother from slumping forward against his restraints as he slipped from consciousness.