"Have you ever been to therapy before, Mr Holmes?"

"... Not in awhile."

Sherlock pressed his lips together into a thin line, crossing his legs at his ankles. The chair was uncomfortable. It made his back hurt, turned his behind numb. He didn't move from his stock-still position. Didn't dare to. Barely dared to breathe, even.

This was not his forte.

Ever.

"What brought you to our office today?"

"You know why."

"I know of your time away-"

"Then you know all you need to know."

"It's been a month since your return to England. From what I see here, your problems have been reoccurring since before you even left Europe. So, I'm asking you: why now?"

Sherlock wanted to glare at the therapist that he had been assigned - he had forgotten her name and he did not plan on relearning it - but he didn't take his eyes away from the dreadfully dull painting that was hanging on the wall behind the therapist's left shoulder. He couldn't. No matter how stoic a person may be, eyes were always the most expressive of features. Eyes could give a multitude of information away without even trying. So. Sherlock wasn't looking.

"... It's interfering with my work," he said succinctly.

"And you're a private investigator."

"Consulting detective."

"Yes. You consult with New Scotland Yard on cases. What have you been experiencing that's inhibiting your work process?"

Outwardly, he was perfectly calm, disgruntled, even, but in control. Inwardly, the borderline personal questions made him squirm. What was inhibiting his work process?

"Emotions."

"Emotions?"

Sherlock startled, his eyes bouncing away from the portrait and onto the therapist's dark hazel ones. He hadn't known he'd spoken out loud.

"What is it about emotions, Mr Holmes? Which emotions?"

Sherlock licked his lips, looking back at the portrait. "... I can't sleep," he said slowly, instead. He curled his fingers into a fist.

"Why is that?"

"If I knew, I wouldn't be here." Sherlock inhaled. "... I fall asleep and wake up. If you want an actual reason why, I have... nightmares." The word felt choked in his own throat. He could barely force it out past his lips. His ears felt hot.

He didn't talk about things like this.

God, he wanted out of here. So, why wasn't he moving?

"About your time in Eastern Europe?"

"... Yes."

"Do you care to elaborate?"

"No."

"That's fine." His therapist made a note, leaving Sherlock burning to know what exactly she was writing down about him. "Do you have these nightmares every night, Mr Holmes?"

"Not every night," Sherlock relented carefully, "but... often."

"How many nights a week would you say your sleep is interrupted by these nightmares?"

"Three or four?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "My sleeping schedule isn't exactly on par with the average idiot's to begin with, so it varies depending on my work."

"When you wake up from these nightmares, do the effects linger?"

Sherlock frowned. "What do you mean, linger? I can't get back to sleep the rest of the night, if that's what you mean."

"No," his therapist said, leaning forward. "For example, do you feel the urge to flee upon waking? Or perhaps fight as though the attacker is there?"

"No. I'm in the present, I know the difference. It's just the usual stuff."

"What's usual for you?"

"Usual as in... the usual. Average after-effects of dreams. Heart pounding, sweating, nausea, uneasiness." Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Shouldn't you know how dreams affect people, you're the therapist."

"Anxiety?"

"No." Sherlock could feel the inquisitive gaze on him without looking up. He knew the question that was being asked, but the answers felt shortcoming. "... Resignation, maybe," he said shortly.

"Resignation." Another note. "Why is that?"

"Because I was there for a specific reason." Sherlock paused. "Oh. This is how therapy works, isn't it? You start out with a seemingly small question and dig further into it until I admit things that my subconscious is keeping hidden from my conscious mind."

And there was a small smile from his therapist. "I'm just trying to get an understanding of what you've been through, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock looked away from the painting. "... That's not possible."

His therapist had the strangest shade of hazel eyes that he'd ever seen. Too dark for hazel, too light for brown. He couldn't pinpoint it, exactly. It was another fly in the ointment.

"And I wouldn't want you to understand, anyway."

He couldn't shake the tune that was forming in his head as he strode up the walkway towards John's flat. It was something he was composing, or trying to, something soft and light that spun around in Sherlock's mind as he picked out notes and rests and refrains and bridges.

"Oh, Sherlock."

Sherlock glanced up as the front door opened just before he was about to fiddle for his key. "Oh, hey, Mary. Going out?"

"Yeah, gotta run to Cathy's." She smiled faintly, rummaging through her purse.

Sherlock glanced over her shoulder. "Is John in? I thought I'd stop by, I've been-"

"No, he went in to work."

He looked back at Mary. "He's off today."

"He got called in, he's picking up the shifts."

"Oh." Sherlock held in the sigh. "Who's watching Lily? I could babysit if you need someone to-"

"No," Mary interrupted quickly.

Sherlock stopped.

"I mean," Mary glanced up, smiling again. It was more frank this time, and less friendly. "She's fine, I've got Luce babysitting, don't worry about it."

"It wouldn't be a problem," Sherlock said slowly. Something wasn't right here. He wasn't sure what, but Mary's body language...

"Really, Sherlock, it's fine. Go home."

"What's-"

"Sherlock!" Mary gave up on searching for whatever she was rummaging for in her purse. "Just go home. John's at work and Lily's taken care of, there's no reason for you to be here."

The words stopped him cold. He wasn't used to Mary acting this way. He was used to some people acting this way towards him, certain people that he didn't like and didn't associate with, but Mary was... Mary. She was John's wife. She was... good.

"What's gotten your knickers in a twist?" he asked before he realised he was speaking.

"You know how many times John's gone home late since you got back, Sherlock? How many times he's told me you two've been shot at? It might not mean much to you because you don't have anyone but John has a family now and he needs to be here with us, not off getting shot at with you when he's got a six month old daughter at home!"

Sherlock felt his entire body go rigid.

Mary froze, too, after she stopped shouting. "Sherlock, I didn't-"

Sherlock shook his head, his curls bouncing at his ears. "Yes, you did."

"I'm sorry, it's been a day, I didn't mean-"

"The funny thing about words are that you can say them, but never take them back," Sherlock replied, pulling his scarf tighter around his neck. "And you're right. Of course you are. You and John have a life together now since I left. I upset the balance. I'm dangerous, and you can't allow your family to be in that line of danger." He smirked. "You would do anything to protect your family. I remember."

"Sherlock-"

"Don't worry about it, Mary." He turned away. "I'm not an idiot."

He didn't give her a chance to respond. Or, if she did, he wasn't listening. He wasn't listening, he wasn't feeling. This wasn't happening; except it was.

It was good thing that he remembered what office his therapist was in. It was a good thing that her eyes were that strange colour that he couldn't pinpoint. He would be seeing a lot more of them, he had a feeling.

Sherlock blew out a breath, folding himself into the back of a cab.

Why were his hands shaking?

He needed a cigarette.

"Where are you goin'?"

Sherlock shook his head to chase away the reverie, looking towards the cabbie who was giving him a disgruntled look in the rear-view mirror. "Uh... Baker Street. Two-two-one Baker Street," he muttered.

His stomach was in knots. Was this... rejection, or something? Was this... what was this? He clenched and unclenched his fingers, pressed them against his lips. He wasn't going to throw up in the back of a cab. He wasn't going to sleep without sleeping pills for ages. He wasn't... sure what was happening to him.

"I swear, if I get one more weirdo today..." the cabbie muttered, pulling into the street.

Sherlock smiled wryly. "Yeah." He turned his eyes to the window, not seeing anything past the grime-speckled glass. "Welcome to my life."

A/Ns: Some housekeeping: 1) My original prompt was basically 'Mary doing anything to protect her family' (along with other points that I cannot explain for plot reasons right now), even if it meant cutting Sherlock out. Keep in mind Mary shot Sherlock before; she will do anything for her family, and she's stressed out with a new baby now making her snap easier. Other explanations are forthcoming. 2) Sherlock in therapy is something that I adore, always have, it's interesting to work with. Personally, I think, if he knew that his mental processing was interfering with his Work, he would willingly go. Keep in mind that this therapist is 'Mycroft provided', so she knows exactly why Sherlock went to Eastern Europe. 3) My chapters have gotten shorter. I thought it was just last chapter, but it's a couple. They do get longer again, but bear with me!

As always, thank you immensely! Hoping you're still liking this, and as always, I look forward to your thoughts!