John told her everything; his psychiatrist. It really wasn't anything he had meant to do, but she provoked him. She had asked him what happened, why he was there after a year of absence. He was frustrated by this, questioning her competence, her intellect. The fact that she couldn't figure it out after the news had been playing nothing else these past three days made him question everything about her.
"You know why I'm here." He said, a hint of contempt, of exasperation and maybe panic at having to give her a recap.
She still insisted on hearing it- every bloody, sordid detail.
Tell her? Say it out loud, even though she already knew? Oh, this was sadism, he was sure of it. Tell her? How could he possibly get the words out? How could he possibly say it out loud when he could barely think it? How could he say it out loud when he knew that saying it aloud made it that much more real?
But their stare-down couldn't last forever, and with resignation, John took a breath. His heart was pounding, his throat constricting.
"I'm here because-" He couldn't do this. He couldn't do this. He couldn't do this. "…my best friend, Sherlock Holmes… is dead." He could barely get the words out, it hurt that much to say them. But he forced them out, and instantly regretted it- suddenly, the reality of it all sunk in a little bit more. Suddenly, his insistence that Sherlock would one day come back seemed as far-fetched to him as it had seemed to everyone else he told it to. With a shake of his head, he realized this was permanent, and running from it wasn't doing him any favors.
The truth had hit him right in the chest, knocked the breath, the life, the hope out of him. He could feel the tears he refused to shed start pricking at his eyes. His throat was still constricted. In a flurry of emotions as well as anxiety over what was plummeting onto him, John started talking. He didn't know if it would help or hurt in the long run, but he couldn't stop himself. He began telling her the story, all the way from the beginning, and couldn't force himself to shut up.
The words, painful as they were, needed to come out. So he let them.
"There's stuff that you wanted to say but didn't say it."
He had finally ceased talking, had told the entire bloody story, and just stared at his therapist as she stared right back at him.
"Yeah," he whispered.
"Say it now," She urged gently.
Talking had helped him, he'd admit that to himself. The way the words tumbled out was, in fact, cathartic. But all of the things he withheld were for Sherlock and Sherlock only.
"No. I'm sorry. I can't." His voice was cracking again. He didn't want to keep doing this. He didn't want to keep fighting the tears and loneliness and utter terror at the reality of what was happening. He needed to bury it. Bury it along with Sherlock and his mysteries and selfishness. Bury it along with what had lost, what had been taken from him.
He found himself back at 221 B Baker Street. He couldn't think of the flat as home anymore. Without Sherlock, it wasn't a home- it was just a dark, dingy flat that could have serious potential if it weren't for the mess, the smell of dead things rotting in the fridge, of chemicals from spilled experiments. It could be a lovely flat if it weren't for the stupid bloody smiley face on the wall or the bullet holes surrounding it.
For him, that's what used to make it a home.
It wasn't the same endearing, charming wreck of a flat without Sherlock stalking manically through the rooms, wreaking some sort of havoc, his dressing gown sweeping behind him.
John missed him more than he thought he could ever miss anyone; more than he cared to admit. And being in that flat did not help his mental state. Every time he sat in his chair, he'd turn to the couch and expect to see Sherlock lounging in it, stretched across the whole, his lanky limbs hanging off. He'd walk by Sherlock's bedroom door and knock once, twice, three times and wait for the sound of his irritated voice telling him to sod off, he's busy.
John just couldn't live there anymore. Not for the time being, anyway. He gathered up a few of his things- just the current necessities- and packed them all up. A hotel room for a while would do just fine. At least until he could either bring himself to go back, or find a new flat.
But who would ever want him as a flatmate?
The bitter irony of the thought tugged at the corners of his lips as well as his heartstrings.
Yes, he definitely needed to change up his setting for a week or two, if every thought would be like this.
With a heavy heart, he picked up his bag, stepped through the doorway, and walked away, shutting the door to 221 B Baker Street behind him.