MerryMiddleton: (9:58 p.m.) No.
Just in case my first text message to Mycroft Holmes wasn't clear enough, I sent another.
Merry Middleton: (9:59 p.m.) Absolutely not.
I glanced over at Sherlock's room, suddenly wanting to make sure he wasn't witnessing this online conversation. From my vantage, I could see his curly head peeking out from beneath the duvet, and he was completely still. I fervently hoped he'd dropped off to sleep.
Just to be sure, I rose silently from my chair and tiptoed over to his doorway. He was, indeed, asleep. A stray tear- thank God, he was producing tears again- was drying on his flushed cheek. His lips were parted in sleep. He was snoring gently; his recent weeping jag had left him congested. The scarf was wrapped around his hand, his fingers still holding it loosely.
I heard the soft "ping" from my laptop and I reluctantly returned to my desk.
MH: (10:01 p.m.) Need I remind you that you are still John Watson's therapist?
MerryMiddleton: (10:02 p.m.) He hasn't had an appointment in over a year. He's been doing very well.
MH: (10:03 p.m.) He isn't doing well at the moment. Understandably so, of course.
I poised my fingers over the keys, but couldn't think of what to type.
MH: (10:05 p.m.) Dr. Middleton, am I correct in assuming you developed a relationship with John Watson during the time he was under your care?
At that moment, I disliked this man even more than usual. I took a deep, cleansing breath before responding.
Merry Middleton: (10:06 p.m.) Answering that question would breech doctor/patient confidentiality, Mr. Holmes. I'm assuming you aren't asking me to break that confidentiality?
MerryMiddleton: (10:06 p.m.) In addition, Mr. Holmes, are you familiar with the term "conflict of interest?"
I didn't wait for a response. Infuriated by his line of questioning, I closed the laptop, effectively shutting him up for a moment.
Whether we admitted it or not, every psychiatrist established some kind of relationship with each of our patients. We earned their trust, we handed them tissues as they wept. We were their voices of reason and their shoulders to cry on.
We wouldn't be human if we didn't care about them in return.
We didn't forget them, either. Just the mention of John's name brought back a rush of case notes:
John Watson, diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder after two tours in Afghanistan. He'd suffered a gunshot wound to his left shoulder, which shattered bone and grazed the subclavian artery. The wound had healed well, but since returning to civilian life, John had suffered from Somatic Symptom Disorder involving pain and numbness in his right leg. He'd also suffered from an intermittent tremor in his hands due to excessive anxiety.
In my mind's eye, I could see my own handwriting scrawled across his file notes: Nightmares. Loneliness. Trust issues.
If I'd been his friend, I would have suggested he take up volunteer work or join an online dating service. As his therapist, I had suggested he start a blog, which would teach him to share himself with others, to consciously think of the good and bad parts of each day and to force him to focus outside his own memories.
He had taken my advice. And his best friend, the same man now sleeping in the next room, had provided him with ample fodder throughout the years.
I felt I was betraying that man who slept so near, completely unaware of what was transpiring, just by having this conversation with his brother.
But was I ignoring John in his darkest hour by ignoring Holmes' messages?
Not surprisingly, there was a message waiting when I opened the laptop again.
MH: (10:08 p.m.) What took you so long?
The bastard. I could almost see his smug face through his text message.
MerryMiddleton: (10:11 p.m.) What happened?
MH: (10:12 p.m.) John Watson is insisting Sherlock is alive.
As if on cue, there was a loud snore from the bedroom next door, and a shuffling as Sherlock muttered in his sleep.
MerryMiddleton: (10:13 p.m.) Why does he think that?
MH: (10:14 p.m.) He visited the morgue today to view the body.
Not the body. Your brother's body, I added silently.
MH: (10:15 p.m.) He was refused entrance, naturally. After this, he seemed quite disoriented. We thought we'd need to take him to the hospital, but that has been avoided.
MH: (10:15 p.m.) For the time being.
MerryMiddleton: (10:16 p.m.) Where is he?
MH: (10:17 p.m.) 221B Baker St.
MerryMiddleton: (10:17 p.m.) He's not alone?
MH: (10:18 p.m.) No.
Thank God for that, I thought. My fingers flew across the keyboard.
MerryMiddleton: (10:18 p.m.) Is he stable?
MH: (10:19 p.m.) For the moment.
MH: (10:20 p.m.) Distraught, naturally. Breaking things. I doubt there are any teacups left intact.
MH: (10:20 p.m.) Unable to stop weeping. Tearing the apartment apart, insisting he's lost something.
MH: (10:21 p.m.) My bet is on his mind.
I clenched my jaw. This man was cold.
MH: (10:19 p.m.) Mrs. Hudson finally talked him into resting in Sherlock's bed. She nearly had to recline with him. It was pathetic.
Anger bubbled inside me as I stared at the laptop screen. I simply couldn't supply a rational response to such nastiness.
But then I didn't need to respond as I heard the disturbance coming from the room next door. A whimper in the back of his throat at first. The throaty moan of someone locked inside a nightmare.
Before I could even tell Mycroft Holmes that I needed to go, that his brother needed me, Sherlock found his voice. The scream erupted from him, high and shrill, and I slammed the laptop shut without typing another word.