"When you step off a ledge, you don't fall right away."
Sherlock was lying back on my sofa, his feet propped up, his fingers tented beneath his chin.
He'd been talking for well over an hour. It was our first therapy session in the flat, and while he had avoided talking about "my bloody feelings," as he succinctly put it, he was willing to talk about the fall itself.
"Before that moment, you still think you can step away," he said. "Until then, you might be able to back down. But then that moment passes, and you can't change your mind and step back.
"Then you hang in the air for a second. After that, it's like a jumping on a trampoline, but instead of shooting up to the sky you're shooting down to the ground. And the ground comes up to meet you. Like a lover's kiss."
He shuddered, the memory causing his hands to tremble as he reached for his teacup. He noticed the tremor at the same time I did, and I was about to ask him about it when he announced, "I'm bored. Can we stop talking now?"
I nodded. "Of course."
He set down the cup and stood up, as if he had somewhere to go. When he realized he didn't, he sat back down.
I had been waiting for the boredom to build inside him. Judging from the cloudy look on his face, it had arrived with a vengeance.
"If you're interested, there's movies on your laptop," I offered. "And there's books, and the internet, of course… Sudoku games…"
"The internet password?" He loathed asking me for it, and I loathed withholding it.
I gave him today's password- Mycroft had said he would change it daily to ensure his brother "behaved"- and without another word, Sherlock disappeared into his room. I thought he might need time alone after our session, but he wandered back into the office, plopping dramatically onto the sofa, his laptop in hand.
"Sudoku," he muttered.
"Hush," I smiled.
The next few hours passed peacefully. I worked on a backlog of paperwork and he surfed the 'net without a sound, save for the "clicks" of his mousepad. When he tired of that, he wandered into his bedroom. A moment later, I heard the television turn on and heard the familiar music that signaled the beginning of the evening news.
I went back to my paperwork but after a moment, I realized the television journalist was talking about Sherlock.
"The funeral for former super sleuth Sherlock Holmes is set for tomorrow morning. Police don't believe there will be many mourners in attendance, but they are prepared for the possibility of an angry crowd gathering. Holmes was a hero in crime-fighting circles until he confessed he was a fraud just before his death…"
I wasn't sure this was a good idea. I got to my feet and lingered in the doorway of his bedroom. He didn't notice; his eyes were focused only on the television screen. His body language was radiating distress; he had pulled his knees up under his chin and wrapped his arms around them, holding himself in a tight ball. He was rocking slightly back and forth.
"Is this upsetting you?" I asked. "Perhaps we should turn it off."
He shook his head, not trusting himself to speak.
The television journalist continued. "Despite the fact most critics believe Sherlock Holmes was a fraud, some devoted fans have turned out for a candlelight vigil at the former detective's flat…"
"Former consulting detective," he mumbled.
Across the screen flashed footage of 221 B Baker Street, where fans had created a small shrine of flowers and teddy bears and handwritten notes. The devoted few
stood on the sidewalk, holding candles. One was wearing a knock-off of Sherlock's ridiculous hat.
Sherlock's expression softened, seeing this.
I was about to remind him that he was still loved when the video switched to footage of John, trying to walk past the shrine to get into the flat. Mrs. Hudson was at his side, and I wondered if this had been filmed as they were returning from our therapy appointment. John was red-eyed and pale as he turned to face the camera.
"This is all I have to say," John began, his voice trembling. "In the past few days I've realized Sherlock Holmes was a fraud and a liar.
"And anyone who commits suicide instead of facing the truth is just… a coward."
Sherlock made a small sound- a whimper, perhaps. He picked up the remote control and stopped the newscast, rewinding it and watching the previous ten seconds.
He listened to John's words again. And again. And again.
Every viewing broke his heart-and mine- a little more.
Finally, I reached over and took the remote from his hand, pressing the "pause" button. "Stop," I whispered.
My voice broke his trance; he looked up at me, his eyes wide and brimming.
"Someone is making him say these things," I said. "You know he didn't mean a word of it."
"How do you know?" he mumbled. "It's what I told him."
"Because he would never believe such nonsense. I know John," I said. "And more importantly, you know John."
His eyes wandered back to the screen, which was frozen on John's tear-strained face.
Sherlock pressed his forehead to his knees and sobbed.