After we had discussed what was going to happen, we talked to John. John thought it was a good idea that I have a place to myself, or at least my own room for that matter. He also wanted his own room back. He didn't say it out loud, definitely subtext, but I understood completely. So I gathered the clothes from the dresser and moved out of 221b and into a new place. The Holmes residence. The same Holmes residence that Mycroft inherited when his parents died. The house was rather large for just one person everyone had said, so Mycroft insisted on me moving in with him. I had my own room and my own bathroom. I also had my own bed. I enjoyed it. I had a place to call my own, for the most part. I was living under Mycroft's roof, but I had my own space. That was two weeks ago.

I had been here for two weeks. And I still found everything rather new, almost exciting. Mycroft had shown me everything in the house from the library to the den, from the kitchen to sitting area, and everything in-between. He said if I needed anything to ask. Anything to make my stay more comfortable, but they he apologized because I wasn't just staying, I was going to be permanently living there. But nonetheless, he still said if I needed anything, to just ask.

I assumed he would stop watching me life a hawk after a day or two, and he did. But he still watched me. Not in a creepy way, just a "I'm making sure you're alright" kind of way. Which was reassuring and comforting. I had someone caring for me. But I didn't know if I could trust him. The same thing happened between Greg and I. I moved in, then again we were in love, but I moved in and he would watch me and pretend to care and then all the bad things happened. I knew I could trust Mycroft, but I wasn't going to trust that easily again.

I did take John's advice though. He had told me to see someone to talk about what had happened. And I did find someone, but I ended up not liking her, so I stopped going to see her. And I looked for someone else, but counselor's and psychiatrists just weren't my thing. I didn't like talking to people I didn't know. I felt like I was burdening them with my problems and I didn't want them to tel me I was crazy or anything. That's also part of the reason why I left my first counselor. She suggested I had Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. She said that it fit, but I didn't want to hear it. It made sense though. She said I had all the signs and symptoms, but I still didn't want to believe it. She was right though. I was having flashbacks of what had happened. When I slept I had dreams about it. When I took a shower I could remember it. I was reliving it. Sometimes it would last only minutes. Other times it would last days at a time. I also didn't want to talk about what had happened. Ever. That's what I hated about seeing someone. They wanted you to talk about it. It was kind of the point of going, but I had no intention on saying anything about it. I felt gross thinking about it, so I tried so hard not to, but I always did. It was inevitable. She had mentioned the other signs and symptoms. And they were, almost, all true.

"I believe you have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Ms. Hooper. You show almost all the signs and symptoms. And before you stop listening and start blocking me out, just listen for two more minutes. Feeling emotionally numb? Avoiding activities you once enjoyed? Hopelessness about the future? Memory problems? Trouble concentrating? Difficulty maintaining close relationships? Sound familiar?" And I started to shake my head, but she kept going. "How about being irritable or angry? Do you feel overwhelmed with guilt or shame? And self-destructive behavior? Don't lie to me about that. I can see the cuts on your wrist. Are you having trouble sleeping? Are you easily startled or frightened? What about hearing or seeing things that aren't there? They are all true and I can see it in your eyes." By that time I had started to cry. "I can help you, you know. It's my job to help you. I want to help you. You just need to let me."

I stood up. "No thank you." And I walked out. Too bad she was right though. For the most part. I wasn't feeling emotionally numb, please. I was crying sometimes, I was happy at times, I was still emotionally intact, for now. I was, unfortunately avoiding the things I used to like, like cooking and being in the morgue. I didn't necessarily feel hopeless about the future, I just didn't know where it was going and if I would be alive in the future. And I didn't have memory problems, though I wish I did. I remembered almost everything perfectly, like Sherlock did, which made things a living hell sometimes. Concentrating was a huge problem though. I couldn't stay doing one thing from more than a half hour, which is a really short period of time for me. I used to be able to doing things for hours on end, and now my mind was racing too much for me to think straight. I wasn't having problems with close relationships, mostly because I could trust John and Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson, and I guess I could trust Sherlock too, but we didn't really talk, so it's not like I had to trust him with a lot of things. I was irritable and angry, just not all of the time. I mean, who wouldn't be angry after all that happened to them? I wasn't physically angry so I never got violent, I was just really angry sometimes. I did feel guilty and ashamed though. I felt like all of it was my fault, like I could have prevented it. Mycroft was really good about calming me down when I go worked up about that. I wasn't self-destructive either like she said I was. Yes, I had cuts on my wrist, but I had them all over my body. They were from Greg and they were healing. Yes, I did cut myself a few times, but it did nothing for me. It didn't make me feel any better, so I stopped. And I was obviously having a hard time sleeping. It was getting better though. I think. And being easily startled or frightened is an understatement. Every time the phone rang or the clock chimed or a door shut I jumped and panicked a little. I wasn't hallucinating though, for the most part. Sometimes when I walked past mirrors, I swore I could see Greg standing behind me with the same look he had on his face the night it happened. And sometimes, I thought I could hear him whispering to me. But it wasn't real. No, it wasn't.

Other than that, I was fine. I was settling in, and things were good. I was able to get up and move around the house without having a full on panic attack, which was good. I hadn't had on since I had moved to the Holmes estate. I was just living which was good. John also came to visit sometimes. It was nice seeing him. It was nice having some friends. Big Brother John. I was funny to think about. But he felt like a big brother. I loved these people. These were my people. And they were alive.

I had nice, alive people.

And I was fine with that.