Depression. Week 4-Month 5.
Sarah shook out her umbrella as she entered the bookstore and dropped it in the stand next to the door. The bookstore was warm and quiet and had that smell she so adored-the musty smell of ink and paper and dust. Being in the bookstore reminded her of every other bookstore she'd ever been in, and how they all had that same particular smell and how she'd felt at home in every single one of them. She smiled at the thought and realized it might have been the first time she'd smiled in months.
She headed downstairs to the History section to peruse the titles. She'd been picking up a book for John every week or so, encouraging him to at least do some reading (if he was going to be hanging around the flat all day, she thought, but it went unsaid). He'd start the books, reading the first few pages to appease her, but eventually he'd end up staring off into the distance, and she knew he'd never finish it. Still, with each purchase, she hoped she'd found the book that would finally pique his interest enough to keep reading.
She titled her head, perusing the titles on the spines. Maybe something about the early American colonies? Or the exploration of Canada? She avoided titles about war and battles and conflicts for obvious reasons.
"Sarah." The low hushed voice startled her and she dropped the book she had just pulled from the shelf. The tall man in the long coat-Sherlock bloodyHolmes-stooped to pick it up and put it back on the shelf; Sarah stood motionless, mouth agape.
"No," she said, and took a step back.
"Sarah," he said again. "Let me-"
"No," she replied. "This isn't real. You're not here." She turned toward the bookshelf, squeezing her eyes shut. She'd lived with John's ghost of Sherlock for so long that now shewas beginning to see him.
"'Scuse me," a man said, trying to pass Sherlock in the narrow aisle.
"It appears I am," Sherlock replied to Sarah dryly. She turned to look up at him, her eyes burning with anger.
"You...have to tell him," she seethed. "Do you know, can you even fathomin that enormous selfish brain of yours what he has been through?"
"The Kubler-Ross Five Stages of Grief model probably works here, so, at this point: denial, anger, bargaining, I'm guessing he's up to, what, depression?" His face was unreadable-not a smirk, but neither a hint of sadness belied his feelings.
"You bastard," she hissed. Suddenly, she had to get out of that place; she felt stifled, as if she couldn't breathe. And she needed to yell. She turned and stormed towards the door.
It took all Sarah's willpower not to slam the door shut behind her in his face, and as soon as she was on the pavement, she pivoted around to face him.
"I don't want any explanation. I don't want to know how you survived, who hid you, where you've been, what you've been doing." She paced as the rain dripped off the awning into her hair. "He doesn't leave the couch. He sleeps 18 hours a day, or he doesn't sleep for days on end. I can't get him to eat-even tea is a struggle. He used to yell at me, at the street, at nothing-God, I prefer those days to what he is now. He hardly talks and I couldn't tell you the last time he actually looked me in the eye. I get him books," she pointed at the bookstore, "because I want him to have to have something to lose himself in for just a few minutes. To distract him from thinking about you. And you just show up like you're back from some grand holiday and everything can go back to normal now! Well, it can't!" She narrowed her fiery eyes, leaned toward him, and lowered her voice. "You brokehim, Sherlock. And I was the only one left to pick up the pieces. And I did because I loved him." Her voice broke, and hot tears mixed on her cheeks with the cool rain.
"Loved?" He asked quietly. She sniffled, composing herself.
"It can't go back to the way it used to be," she replied sadly. "I've seen too much of him like this, and I feel...used up." They stood for a moment in the drizzle, regarding each other.
"Sarah, I'm sorry. What I did...I did what I had to do. And it had its consequences. And you suffered because of that, and I'm sorry." She thought his face softened, just slightly, but it might've just been the rain.
"Save it," she snarled. "And tell him. I can't; he won't believe me. So you do it, Sherlock Holmes, because you may be an unfeeling bastard but I know you don't want this on your conscience much longer. You look like hell." She turned and walked away, feeling slightly vindicated.
Bloody hell, she thought with a groan. Forgot my umbrella.
