"How often do you go out?"
"By go out, do you mean on a date?"
"No."
His therapist set the pen and paper down and crossed her legs. "I mean in general. How often do you leave the flat?"
John began to chuckle and looked down, her question amused him.
"All the time."
"Not counting Speedy's Cafe."
He kept the smile on his face, resisting his urge to let it fade and cleared his throat. "I go to the cemetery," he choked out.
He felt as if he was providing evidence to the jury. They didn't appear too convinced.
"What about on a walk? Or out for a movie?"
John let his attention slip to the trees outside the room. Eye contact with his therapist made him uncomfortable, it made him feel like a victim of some horrific crime.
"John," she demanded.
John sighed. "No, alright, I haven't gone out."
"Not on a date?"
"No."
What does a date even feel like?
John actually had arranged a "date" of sorts, to meet with Molly Hooper, six days after the fall. Back when things were really bad, back when any day his thoughts could have been the death of him. Molly had coined the name "the fall", after mentioning it in a short phone conversation, their last conversation. She didn't return his calls for a long time. When he wouldn't stop calling, she finally answered.
"John, I'm really busy."
"Molly, Jesus Christ, where have you been? I wanted…I wanted to talk to you about something-"
"If it's about the fall, I'm not interested." She spoke with a worried air in her voice, like she was going to say something that might get her arrested.
"Molly, I just thought that maybe-"
"I'd rather not…if you don't mind. I have to go. Good-"
He hung up before she could say 'Bye, John'.
He was pretty sure he couldn't handle another one of those.
When he had gotten his job at the hospital, their schedules were at different times, he had asked about her. He hadn't seen her once, and over time it made him increasingly upset. How hard had she taken all of it? She was foolish for developing feelings for a man who can't return them, but he just couldn't help feeling bad for her.
Back in his therapist's room, he sighed and spoke sarcastically.
"Do you think I'm not getting enough fresh air, you think that's my problem?"
"Things might go a little better if you try and clear your head by getting out. Away from a daily routine."
John didn't say anything back, so she carried on.
"Take a walk and think about it-"
"I've thought about it enough," he shouted. She looked from him down at her watch in the silence that followed.
"Our time is up."
{{( )}}
Rain had just ceased, so the air smelled fresh. John brought his umbrella on the walk just in case it began again. He walked down the streets of bustling London with cabs passing flying by and people babbling on their cell phones.
A lot of fresh air my ass. She just thinks that if I stay cooped up in that flat that I'll commit suicide. I have a bloody job, I eat out… I know damn well that I'm fine! I have things to do, I have nice walks on my way to and from work, I go to the graveyard, I'm fine…
John became exhausted by his overwhelming thoughts of false reassurance and sat down on a bench overlooking a puzzling intersection.
I was doing so well. So well.
John had expected this during the week leading up to it; to have a dangerously high risk of bad memories, and especially bad thoughts. His conscious dared him to do things he would have never considered before. The morning had gone pretty well, despite spending it with his therapist.
And now I'm on this stupid walk getting some "fresh air". Why do I even bother.
Then the rain began again. John put his umbrella.
What am I doing out here? I'm only multiplying the damages.
You wouldn't have noticed if I left the flat, and I would have been angry that you didn't notice.
The thoughts were always directed to Sherlock.
I would have gotten over it. I always did.
"One more day," he said to himself. "That's it."
John started to people watch and look for smiling faces, happy children and loving mothers. Knowing that others led a better life that him brought peace to his mind. Momentarily, but whatever he could grasp hold of was nice enough.
He found a couple to follow, who were walking hand in hand down the street across from him. They crossed their street and entered a restaurant, kitty corner from John's bench. He watched the couple inside the window get ready to be seated in a booth until someone in front of it became relevant in John's view. He examined the man, watched for the way he walked, saw his hands in his pockets. He hesitated to check those long neglected boxes on the list in his head.
"…Hold on…"
John got up from the bench and began to walk across the street with a crowd of people. He was looking at a man with a familiar trench coat, with an umbrella covering his chest and face. He held it there almost as if purposely to block his face from others. He was just standing in front of the restaurant, doing nothing but looking around. John stared at him, now just across the street. John tried to get a look at the man's suit and shoes, but it was hard with a group of people forming to cross the road leading to this suspicious man's area. John joined the new crowd and refused to let himself take his eyes off of the man.
It isn't…is it? It can't be. How could it be?
The man just stood there and occasionally shifted on his feet.
The mental checklist had been dusted off and now filled.
"Come on," John sighed to himself, impatiently waiting for the crowd to cross. They began to move and John walked quickly with them. Halfway across the street, the man moved a few feet away from where John was.
John rushed onto the sidewalk. Instinct kicked in.
"Sherlock!"
The umbrella that the man was holding wavered from his face just for a moment and John saw his hair. The black curls were dry from the umbrella's protection. John pushed through the people in desperation and "Sherlock" ran down the street in a sprint. John began to pursue him.
John ran after whom he believed to be Sherlock down two streets until the man turned a corner and disappeared from John's view. John had to stop running to catch his breath, he hadn't been in the field for two years, as of the next day. He coughed and gasped for air as he looked up and saw no man with an umbrella covering his face, no man with a trench coat and black curly hair. He had the presence of loneliness on his face as he stared where he last saw who he thought to be Sherlock. John forgot to put his umbrella back up above his head as he rummaged for breath. The words swelled up inside his throat and came out rough, with the air of tears and sweet desperation.
"…Sherlock?"