Chapter 9: Progression

"I read your blog," Scott prompted without introduction.

"All of it?" John asked. The therapist nodded. John tried to deduce what he was thinking, but it was impossible to tell. He'd never be able to read people like Sherlock could. "I did my homework," John added.

"Yes, I saw that one too. Do you think it was helpful?"

"Yes."

"Excellent. Now, I would like to bring up the fact that this isn't your first rodeo, so to speak."

"You've never had a patient who grieved the same person twice, I'll bet," John huffed.

"Not in such a literal sense, no. I must admit you are unique in that respect. And from what I read, Mr. Sherlock Holmes was quite a unique individual."

"That's an understatement."

"Well, the situation gives me a new angle from which to approach. I'd like you to tell me if you feel differently about the two incidents, and how."

John had thought about this himself on several occasions, so coming up with an answer didn't require a long time. He quickly explained, "Well, the first was a suicide and the second was a murder, there are some blatantly obvious differences just based on that. I think I was more angry at myself the first time because I literally lived with him every day and didn't notice he was on that path. This time I'm not so much angry at myself but at the outside forces that led to his death. But then it's also worse this time because he didn't want to die, when the first time he did. Or at least, he wanted everyone including me to believe that he wanted to."

"I'm not necessarily asking which is worse, just how the two instances are different and how your reactions were different. Did you seek therapy after last time?"

"Yes. I already had a therapist before I met Sherlock to deal with all the Afghanistan stuff, and I went back to her. She didn't help me all that much."

"So what did you do?"

"Drink. I won't hesitate to admit that I was a bit of a mess. A couple times I considered following him off that building… but then I met my wife and she managed to turn me around. And then he came back from the dead and sealed the deal."

"When he came back, did you immediately accept him back into your life?"

"No. Hell, no. I was pissed. He had this whole elaborate plot that he conveniently left me out of, and then he just came waltzing in and ruined my proposal. I actually beat him up, I was so mad. But then there was the incident with the bomb and I had to forgive him. I think I was happy he was back the whole time, but it was masked by a sense of betrayal, you know? He was my best friend, but clearly he didn't hold me in the same regard if he did something like that."

"Did you tell him this?"

"Not really. Not in the immediate aftermath. But I did tell him that I forgave him. And he eventually understood that he was my best friend." John remembered Sherlock's utter incomprehension when he first asked him to be best man. He honestly hadn't thought he was John's best friend. The notion that he drastically underestimated his own importance was nearly as heartbreaking as his demise.

"That's good," Scott said. "But do you think there is anything that was left unsaid between you? A lot of people have thoughts they held on to and regret not sharing now that the opportunity has passed." John wasn't expecting this line of inquiry. It was somewhat similar to Ella's, "the things you wanted to say but never did, say it now," which John hadn't been able to answer until that visit to Sherlock's grave. This time there had been no dramatic speech, no confession of admiration and loyalty. He honestly wasn't sure if there was anything he hadn't said; the two of them had more than their fair share of heart-to-hearts in the course of their dramatic lives.

"I don't think so," John admitted. If Scott had asked him if there was anything he'd yet to say to Mary, then that would be another story. He had plenty of secrets he'd kept from her, but she'd kept some pretty life-altering ones herself, so he didn't feel all that guilty. John then added, "But I know that as life goes on, and my daughter grows up, there are so many things I'm going to want to tell him but won't be able to." Of course John could tell the Sherlock illusion these important things, but he wasn't ready to reveal his existence to Scott.

"Unfortunately, that's true. That's one of the hardest things to come to terms with when it comes to grief, is simply the lack of the person in your life. What are some ways you could cope with that absence?"

I could conjure up a mental image of him so powerful and lifelike that I can literally feel him breathing down my neck when he stands close by. He didn't say it aloud, but the concept still sounded utterly ridiculous. Yet that's exactly what had happened. That very figure stood on the outskirts of John's peripheral vision, as he'd done the previous session. "I don't know," John confessed again. "Isn't that what you're supposed to tell me?"

"Well, yes, but you know yourself better than I ever will."

"I could keep writing the blog," he blurted out. Where the idea came from, he had no clue. But he liked it. "More messages like the one you had me write, as if he can read them."

"I think that's a wonderful idea."

"But I don't think I would publish them."

"No, of course not. Nobody would expect you too. The one before was also to inform the public, any future ones are just for you."

"Yeah, I'd like that."

~0~

Dear Sherlock,

Rosie said her first word today. I think you'd be awfully proud of what she said: 'dull.' Of course, she didn't mean it. She was trying to say 'skull,' but she obviously can't pronounce that. Still, it was rather amusing. And I still can't believe you left a human skull to an infant. But she's rarely apart from it. I'm waiting for the day she gives it a name and a backstory. Most little girls play with dolls, but Rosie is no ordinary little girl. Her genes are certainly an interesting mix, coming from an army doctor and an assassin. And though she only knew you for a few months, she is every bit your goddaughter, already insatiably curious. It probably doesn't help that I've been reading my early blog posts to her as bedtime stories. She loves a Study in Pink.

I look forward to when she's old enough to actually understand it, when she'll learn what her godfather did and brag to her friends about him. Even if you're not here in person, you're all over 221B. The place is practically a Sherlock Holmes museum. Not just the pictures of you we had framed, but your yellow spray-painted smiley face, bullet holes in the wall, and your scarves are all still here. I don't know if I told you, but Mrs. Turner next door made them into a quilt. A quilt I can't sleep without. You would probably find that grossly sentimental. It probably is, but I'd rather be sentimental than sleep-deprived.

This is just the first of what will inevitably be many letters to you. My therapist told me to come up with a method to cope with your absence, and this was the first thing that came to mind. He thought it was a decent idea. I'm not going to publish this message on the blog or anything; in fact, I'll probably delete it when I'm finished. But I can already tell that it's helping. If you were still alive, I'd be coming to visit every so often to catch you up on everything that's happened lately. As it is, I'm still updating you and everything, just not in person. This is better than speaking to your gravestone. I've only been to the cemetery twice, once at your funeral and once with Lestrade, but neither time did I feel your presence there. After the fake suicide, I did feel you there. Maybe that was because you were actually there, hiding behind a bush or whatever. Nowadays, I feel you in Baker Street, though your chair remains empty.

—John

~0~

John didn't write that first letter to Sherlock until four months after he shared the idea with Scott. Many times he wanted to write, but had nothing of consequence to declare. It was one thing to share important events with the deceased; it was another to ramble about nonsense. Scott had ensured John knew this. It would be unhealthy if he spent too much time typing out letters to a man who would never read them.

Those four months passed monotonously. John went to work, tried to hide his disgust for people who griped to him about such inconsequential problems, went home to Rosie, and met with Scott every week. Sherlock's illusion always joined him in therapy, lurking on the other side of the room, though he never ventured with John to work. Too many 'ordinary' people around. Despite the apparition's omnipresence, John still hadn't told either Mary or Scott about him.

Rosie knew, though of course she didn't understand the implications of her father having conversations with empty space. Sherlock almost always materialized when Mary was out of the house. He understood it was easier for John to talk to him without having to hide from his wife. On many occasions, Rosie listened eagerly as her father spoke to somebody she couldn't see while her mother was out on an errand. Thankfully, she was still too young to retain these memories of him.

Both Mary and John were there to see her utter that first word, and both parents' hearts soared with elation. Rosie had been babbling incomprehensibly for a while now, and it was only a matter of time before she started voicing her needs more accurately. When she finally squeaked, "dull," Mary and John met each others' gaze, wishing a certain someone was here to witness it. His reaction would have been priceless.

John once read that the first year after a loss is the hardest, that each subsequent year gets progressively easier. The first three hundred sixty five days are full of firsts: the first Christmas without them, the first time their birthday passes without them around to celebrate it, and, in John's case, the first major crime to make the news that they're not around to solve. However, if last time was anything to go by, that notion that the first year is the worst was absurd. If anything, everything got infinitely harder after the first year.

It was acceptable to be grieving during the first year, and everyone walked on eggshells around John. Once that one-year milestone was reached, everybody got over it. And they expected that John had too. He was supposed to get on with his life now that his mandatory mourning period had passed. But as the second year without Sherlock dawned, he recognized how addicted to their lifestyle—and to Sherlock—he'd become. For a while, there had been hope that he would find a new meaning to life as he grew accustomed to his absence. But he missed Sherlock even more. It had been too long since he'd seen him, and no greater purpose of life revealed itself.

It seemed his ultimate purpose had been to serve as Sherlock's loyal blogger and friend. Now that era was over, his existence was purposeless. If he hadn't met Mary, there was no doubt he'd have succumbed to the desire to join Sherlock on the other side. She gave him a new purpose, not nearly as fulfilling as his previous position, but enough to keep him grounded. This time, he already possessed a secondary purpose as Rosie's father and Mary's husband. But that didn't mean he missed his old life any less. And as the distance between him and the time when Sherlock was alive inevitably increased, the gaping hole in his soul widened.

~0~

The next time he saw Scott, he told him about the first letter: "Rosie said her first word, and I wrote to Sherlock about that."

"I was starting to think you'd never do it, it's been months since you pitched the idea," Scott chuckled.

"Yeah, well, I was waiting for something worth talking about. He hated it when I bored him with meaningless banter."

"I understand, but I'm glad you finally implemented that coping method. Just out of curiosity, what did she say?"

"Dull. Though I assume she was going for skull."

"Really? She must be something special. Most infants go for 'ball' or 'Mama,'" Scott chuckled.

"What can I say? She's her godfather's daughter."

"Yes, well it certainly seems so." John glanced over and watched Sherlock chuckling in the corner. He tried to stifle his reaction, but a smile broke out on his face despite his efforts. Scott took notice. Of course he did. "What are you looking at?" he asked.

John startled, refocusing his gaze on the therapist across from him. "Nothing," he instinctively muttered.

"You definitely looked at something. I've noticed you glance in that direction quite often, certainly more often than any other place in the room."

"Who are you, Sherlock Holmes?" John asked jestingly. Mistake. Speaking his name only made John look reflexively to the corner again.

"I may not be a detective, but my job does require me to observe," Scott remarked. "You just looked that way again."

"I guess I'm just… momentarily breaking eye contact?" John attempted to formulate a plausible excuse.

"There's a difference between looking away and looking to."

John was in trouble. If Scott found out about Sherlock… John was afraid to even consider what might happen. It was technically a persistent hallucination, a symptom of something far more severe than simple grief for a lost loved one. Worst-case scenario: he might get carted off to some facility and forbidden from seeing his wife and daughter until he was stabilized. That was something he wanted to avoid at all costs. John needed a valid excuse, and he needed one now. He surreptitiously glanced back to the same corner, where Sherlock was pointing out the bookshelf next to him. John quickly scanned it and found a copy of a textbook he himself owned. It sat on the shelf directly above the photo of Sherlock in the deerstalker hat.

"It's your bookshelf," John explained. "I recognize one of the volumes, I have one just like it in my living room. I guess I take comfort in the familiarity."

"That makes sense. I was just concerned that maybe that spot was so enticing because of some horrid interior decorating mistake I made." John laughed halfheartedly with Scott before the conversation was steered back on track. "How's work going?" Scott inquired.

"It's work," John began. "Usually pretty dull, but that's how it's supposed to be. If I wanted exciting, I'd work in A&E."

"Do you want exciting?"

"I don't know. I definitely couldn't do A&E with my shoulder being what it is, but I do still like a good adrenaline rush. I'm sure I'll have plenty to get worked up about when Rosie gets older. But for now, I guess I'm content. It's certainly a step above sitting around doing nothing."

"You don't sound very content," Scott remarked.

"It just doesn't compare to my old job. Or my old colleagues," he added wistfully. "But nothing ever will."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing. I was the happiest I've ever been in my life."

"And you can't see yourself ever being happy like that again?"

John earnestly thought on this for a moment before replying, "No."

"That sounds just a tad pessimistic, don't you think?"

"It's not pessimistic, it's realistic," John defended. "I've been in a pretty stable state of contentment for the past few weeks, no climbing or descending."

"In the grand scheme of things, four months is not a lot of time. You can't expect things to change on a noticeable scale in that short a period. But you don't see any possibility for improvement even in the distant future?"

"I'm waiting for the two year mark, when he'll come back and tell me it was all a hoax," John chuffed. Scott glanced up at John, an expression of concern etched on his face. He quickly corrected, "I'm kidding, of course. I know this time was for real."

"But do you think a part of you will still hold out hope until that two year mark passes?"

"I guess so?"

"This is why you can't judge progress on months. It's very possible that you'll plateau until you reach that milestone."

"And once I get there, do things get better or worse?"

"That, John, is entirely up to you."

Happy Holidays! I won't be able to post on Monday like I usually do because I'll be out of town, but I hope everyone has a wonderful end-of-the-year season. The next chapter should be up by Thursday at the latest.