How on earth had Sherlock dealt with the pain?
Why on earth had he?
John couldn't even begin to fathom.
It was all a great mystery he couldn't solve, and the detective refused to solve it for him.
So much for consulting.
John sighed heavily, staring out the window in the hospital hallway. There wasn't all that much to see beyond the glass, just grey sky and grey street—but then, he wasn't really focussing on any of that anyway.
He had left Sherlock's room a while ago, on the pretence of fetching a cup of coffee. Truly, though, he had just needed to get away for a bit, to think and to try to figure out what the hell he was supposed to do next.
He could take this anymore.
He couldn't stand to watch his best friend kill himself over and over, in so many different ways.
Maybe…
Maybe it would have been easier if the last time had been real. If the pavement really had been the end. At least then there would be only one sort of pain.
No.
John shook his head firmly, trying to shake the thought out of his mind.
He didn't want that.
Hell no.
Sherlock Holmes deserved to live, even if he didn't think so or even want to, even if he made life for John a hell at times.
It wouldn't have been easier, anyway. There would have been no one there to pull him back from that edge, to save him yet again and to tell him that it was okay.
That, at least, was a reassuring habit of Sherlock's. To say that everything would be alright, even if it wasn't, and to give the impression of unbreakable confidence in the face of problems John was sure must be much more daunting than he let on. That helped.
It made things seem more doable.
More possible.
Less scary.
But all that fell apart when a problem really was too much. When Sherlock broke, that's when things became terrifying. It meant there was no certainty left in the world, anywhere. No more safety.
If Sherlock fucking Holmes didn't know what to do, who the hell would?
Damn it all…
It had only been about three months since John's last visit with his therapist. He had stopped going again after Sherlock came back, thinking naively that everything would just get easier again. But it didn't. It had gotten worse.
Now, as he gazed out the window quietly, staring his reflection in the eyes and reflecting on how all this made him feel… he was starting to think that maybe he ought not to have stopped going.
Perhaps this would actually be a pretty good time, all things considered. He could really do with getting a few things off his chest. And it wasn't as if his therapist didn't already know every single detail of his struggles with Sherlock, even from back before the fall.
Since he'd thought his friend was dead and gone he'd felt as if he could finally open up and spill all those secrets he'd been carrying for him, without worrying about Sherlock caring if someone knew.
So there was really no harm in going back to her now.
Sherlock needed to be resting now, anyway, so that gave John some time to kill. He could slip out and be back by the time the detective woke up, and he'd never know the difference.
It just better help.
As soon as John walked back into the hospital room Sherlock cast him a quick glance and then lay back on the pillows indifferently.
"Did you ask her about me? Or was this visit just about you?"
John blinked. "I don't... know what you're talking about."
The attempt at deceit was feeble, and he knew it. But he still tried.
"Oh, come on..." Sherlock rolled his eyes theatrically. "Don't even bother. I know you visited your therapist, obviously, so can we get on with it already?"
"How can you—"
"Your right trouser leg is creased. You always rub your right knee when you talk to her, I assume because of an old habit you formed when you had a psychosomatic limp. Plus, you smell like her office. Simple. Now my question."
"I…" John stood there, suddenly feeling very exposed and very aware of every little movement he was making. "It was… mostly about me."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and continued giving him 'the look.'
"Me… in relation to you. …Okay. Yeah. You were involved in the conversation. I talked about all this. A little bit."
The detective lay back and shut his eyes, either feigning lack of interest or genuinely resting—John wasn't sure. "Is that 'a little bit' as in 'a lot,' or 'a little bit' as in 'the entire conversation?'"
"…Somewhere in the middle, probably."
"Hmm…"
John almost found himself fidgeting, unsure whether to take Sherlock's quietness for displeasure or… something else.
Who knew?
You never can tell with consulting detectives.