Disclaimer:
Cute police officer: ma'am do you own Sherlock?
Me: *leans forward and attempts in a flirty voice* what are you gonna do if I say yes? *winks with two eyes on accident*
Cute police officer: I would have to arrest you ma'am
Me: *attempts Irene Adler expression* and then what would happen?
Cute police officer: you would serve years in prison for false information and copyright infringement
Me: no, I do not own Sherlock.
5 Stages of Improbability
by: Evelynhunters
"John? John? Can you hear me?"
John refocuses his gaze at Dr. Thompson in front of him and nods briskly.
Uninterested, or at least pretending to be, he glances out the rain pattered window again. The clouds are gloomy and his leg itches in a way it hasn't for months. Thunder echoes ominously outside against the constant tempo of the raindrops.
"Why today?" She asks with a firm stare and a tilted head. Curious, she leans back into the chair, a picture of calmness if he's ever seen one.
"Do you want to hear me say it?" It's a rhetorical question, John knows, but he can't help answering. His voice has the edge of sarcasm to it, a defense mechanism. The rain outside is calm for the meanwhile, the soft pitter-patter resonates into the quiet, empty room.
"Eighteen month since our last appointment," she clarifies with the gentle voice of one talking to a child.
John raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "You read the papers," He says too quickly and tries to take a deep breath. You know, he thinks, you know and you want me to say it.
"Sometimes," she nods her agreement.
"Hm," he makes a noncommittal in the back of his throat, "and you watch Telly." He stares at her, daring her almost. She doesn't respond, allowing his to continue with his tirade. The wind outside howls, picking up speed as it goes.
"You know why I'm here," he says almost angrily in a dejected tone, "I'm here because S-" he almost chokes on his tongue. An image of a body flash before his eyes. He can't say it. He waved his hands to her in a 'you know' gesture.
She straightens up in her chair, leaning closer to him. "What happened, John?"
Taking in a few shallow breathes before opening them, he closes his eyes and then opens them, glaring his most hatred filled stare at her. She's determined that he answers the question, he can read it in her face. He tightens his jaw, and closes his eyes again.
"Sher-," he starts the sentence with the intent to finish it but he can't, and the air escapes out of his mouth in an almost whistle. Even though he doesn't even say the name, he ends up biting his lip to make sure he doesn't cry or have a breakdown at his therapist's office. He shuts his eyes and the images replay in his mind and he doesn't want to say them out loud because this isn't a dream and what he says here makes it real. He can't say it he can't say it he can't-
"You have to get it out," she says with eyes filled wth pity and he has to look away.
"My best friend," he mumbles before taking a pause because he can't bring himself to say the name, "Sherlock Holmes-" he chokes out in a whisper before his throat closes up.
"-is dead." He finishes emptily, feeling the sting in his eyes and desperately not wanting to cry in front of his therapist. He looks up to see her still staring at him, silently telling him it's fine if he wants to end the session early.
He leaves.
He takes the tube back, because walking has proved too much of an inconvenience when it's raining and he doesn't take cabs anymore because of-
Right.
The ride is loud. There's chatter and sniffles and children screaming and that one person who seems like they're on the edge of falling asleep even though it's three in the afternoon and he's thankful because the noise distracts him from the ones in his head.
The cane sits against his leg, only moving against it when the train swerves. Useless the thing has been since his limp was gone. Until now, he suppose.
Two stops before Baker Street, John sees a copy of the papers on the floor, trampled by people with wet foot prints as evidence of its bruises. Even though it's tattered beyond recognition John can see the colors of the picture that was there on the front page, and if he squints and tilts his eyes he knows the picture would be of a dead detective wearing an 'ear hat' that he despised. (Sherlock pouted when that photo was taken and almost threatened to have a tantrum when John posted it on his blog.) The headlines, he recalls, would be 'Famous Fake Detective Kills Himself' or 'Fraud driven to suicide' and it would contain details about how Sherlock Holmes had faked all his cases and deductions.
He's read that article hundreds of times, researched about Richard Brook's existence thousands of time, and gone over the proof even more. The proof was real, all real, so real it was irrefutable to a tee and that he, John Watson, had even doubted Sherlock Holmes.
However, there was no faking the crazed gaze John sometimes caught in Sherlock's eyes. There was no denying the little spats of insults with quick delivered deductions. There was no refusing the natural way he calculated while meeting someone. Sherlock Holmes was not a fraud. Of that John Watson was a hundred percent sure of.
The doors opened with a thump and John, after balancing on his cane for a few seconds, hobbles out the door. Watching people make way for him, either for his limp or recognizing him from the papers, he makes it pass the busy hallways and takes the escalator. The person in front of him is wearing a rain coat, and the water droplets drip from the edge of the hood to the steps. The sky outside, despite it being the afternoon, was dark and gloomy. The rain didn't seem to be slowing down, and John regrets not bringing an umbrella.
Damn.
He walks into the street rather steadily and succeeds in not slipping, which with the limp and the rain is a win in his book. Squished through the crowd of people all desperate to get out of the rain, he uses his free hand to grab his keys in his pocket.
He manages to open the door and shakes a few rain drops out of his hair before entering. Wiping his feet on the mat before taking his shoes off, he checks for Mrs. Hudson. He doesn't really know these days, she might be at the shop, gossiping with the neighbors, or rondevuing with the baker.
Logically, he knows that Mrs. Hudson is also in mourning, but it doesn't feel as intense as his. He can't go back to work without breaking down, he can't talk to Lestrade before feeling like he might punch him, and he can't accept Anderson's apologies. He's not recovering like she is. Hell, he's not recovering like any of them! Lestrade's thrown himself in his work, Mycroft has stayed the heartless bastard he's always been, and Molly Hooper visits Mrs. Hudson every week to make sure she's alright.
And the main reason why he, John Watson, is healing slower than every one of them is because they didn't see him die.
They don't get the nightmares of Sherlock jumping on repeat. They don't see his dead body every time they blink. They aren't constantly reminding themselves, this is what Sherlock looks like, because all they can see when they think of Sherlock is not the brilliant genius or the rude arsehole but a dead and bloody body on the sidewalk. They don't get the constant sleepless nights where they get scared of the dark. They don't hear whispers of last words when they're alone. They don't live with the knowledge that Sherlock Holmes was calm and ready when he jumped. They don't get that.
And at that train of thought, he curses at himself. He curse at Sherlock, for being a god damn bastard who made his best friend watch him die!
He doesn't realize he's said it out loud until his fist had punched the wall and his voice echoed around him in the empty flat.
"You bastard! You god damn no good fucking BASTARD!" He yells again throwing the cane off to the side. It ricochets off the wall to the cabinet. He storms into the living room, looking for things to throw. He grabs the pillows from the couch and knocks off all the papers on the desks.
He releases indistinguishable words while destroying the room. He pushes over the god damn chair and screams, because this is what he's kept inside for so LONG and he's finally letting it go. He wipes all the experiments in the kitchen table off in one swipe and the sick satisfaction he has grows at hearing the glass beakers shatter. He picks up the objects on the mantel and throws them at the wall one by one before he gets to the skull.
The god damn skull with a thin layer of dust around the from lack of use. The god damn skull that Sherlock always talked to because he's a pompous ass and 'doesn't need human interaction'.
He throws it at the smiley face on the wall.
He pushes over drawers and cabinets, the other chair, the tables, everything in his sight because everything reminded him of Sherlock and he can't stand that arsehole right now. That, that, machine. How can someone live without feelings, emotions, even the least bit of remorse? How can someone live like that? How can someone make their best friend watch them die? How can someone live with themselves knowing that they did that?
(Sherlock's dead, John, a voice that sounds a lot like his therapist reminds him.)
With a last guttural inhumane scream he crashes on the floor, his face in his hands as he finally breaks down, surrounded by chaos of his own creation.
AN/ Hello all of you wonderful wonderful people!
Thank you for the one who reviewed! *winks* you get cookies. *whispers thanks to thilbo4ever*
Anywho...I am in need of ideas of how this should go. Should I add Mary? Should I make Mycroft cry? Should I make the doctor swoop in and mistake John for Rose Tyler? Who knows?
Comment your opinion! And maybe favorite and follow along the way *nudge nudge*.
Poor John, again. Sorry John.