John hadn't left the flat for days. Three days, in fact; he had come straight home after the scene at the mortuary. He had gone straight home, sat in his chair, and stared. He was so entirely drained, so utterly numb, so in shock that that was all he was able to do. He couldn't eat, barely slept. When he did doze off, when he so much as closed his eyes, he was haunted. His mind would betray him.
Eyes closed, he'd see lightless blue eyes and pools of blood. He'd hear Sherlock's resigned voice telling him all kinds of lies, a goodbye, and the clatter of a phone. He'd hear his heart pounding, pounding, pounding in his head, pulse beating through every inch of his body.
If he did manage to fall asleep after that, he'd sleep fitfully. It was more of a common occurrence, however, that he'd toss and turn for a while before resigning to get up, fix himself a drink- sometimes tea, sometimes something stronger- and allow his racing mind to continue on in its own destructive way.
As a doctor, he knew that he needed to eat more, sleep more, move around more. H knew that, soon, he would need to go back to work, pick up a hobby- anything to beat the crippling depression that would become a long term problem if he didn't do something to chase it off. John knew that the longer he laid across the couch, the longer he drifted through the cluttered flat, the longer he sat in the kitchen and stared at Sherlock's half-finished experiments, the longer it would take for him to get back on his feet and resume a normal life.
But what was a normal life for Doctor John Watson? What did that now entail?
Only a little over a year ago, his life had been comprised of therapy sessions, hopelessly looking for a flat, and staring at the empty blog he was supposed to be updating but just couldn't find the words for.
Only a little over a year ago, his pitiful, boring life was traded out for a new one- a terrifying, dangerous, exhilarating one with a seemingly heartless -yet genius- madman by the name of Sherlock Holmes.
Only a little over a year ago, this madman simultaneously became his flatmate, his best friend. He became both his sense of security and cause of anxiety and adrenaline rushes. He became his cure to loneliness, cure to his psychosomatic limp.
Only a little over three days ago, he became a murderer, a fake.
Only a little over three days ago, he became a liar.
He became heartbreak.
So what was normal for John now? After living with Sherlock for over a year, the line began to blur. He had grown accustomed to waking up at 3 a.m. to melancholic notes from Sherlock's violin. He had grown used to silence for days on end after they solved a case. He had, in fact, lived for the few days of reprieve. He had lived for the lack of sleep for days while they tried desperately to solve whatever case either fell into their lap from John's blog, or Lestrade threw at them.
John wasn't sure how to go about daily life. At least not yet.
It was only through the urging of both Mrs. Hudson and Harry that John made the first step toward recovery and set up an appointment with his therapist. He felt like it would be a waste of his time and money, going in there to talk about something that he knew he couldn't fully talk about. He didn't see the point in telling her all about what had transpired when all she'd do is tell him the obvious: He's grieving, he's in shock, he's angry.
It all came down to that, in the end.
John was angry. He was angry at Lestrade for buying into the lies. He was angry at himself for not being there to help Sherlock. He was angry at Moriarty for setting Sherlock up, for causing this.
Obviously.
But it seemed like, most of all, he was angry at Sherlock himself. Sherlock had run into a problem that he couldn't fix himself- Moriarty had defeated him, and he took the only way out that was probably available to him in his defeat, his shame, his crushed ego. It was probably the only escape his pure frustration and desperation allowed him to see.
A piece of John, however, wanted to hope that this was all an act. He hopelessly believed that Sherlock would come back from the dead and tell him all the dramatics, his grief, it was all for nothing because here he was, safe and sound and alive. A piece of John hoped fervently for this, and for that, he was angry- angry because Sherlock's brilliance made it seem so plausible.
John was through with sitting around, stewing in his hurt, his rage. With a sigh, he stood up from his chair, took a look around, then grabbed his coat and headed out the door. As pointless as he felt this therapy session would be, he knew it was somehow a step in the right direction. It was his first steps toward at least handling his misery.
For now, that was enough.