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Diagnosis

"I think I'm going to diagnose you with depression John."

The eyes of my therapist are full of concern, something I don't usually see from her expressionless face, but her worry is met with my cold eyes and a heart that is filled with denial.

"There's nothing wrong with me." I replied bitterly.

My therapist sighed at this, looking back down at her notes, I knew what was coming, and I didn't want to hear it. A list of reasons proving why she was right and I was wrong. It was these things that made me consider if perhaps the whole world was turning against me.

"I'm sorry John, but the symptoms are all there." She said. "You've lost interested and motivation in your hobbies..."

"Well I'm not exactly going to run around solving crimes by myself am I?" I snapped. I was going to make this as hard for her as possible, I don't care if she's just trying to help, I don't want her help.

The reason why I told myself why I'm really here is because I don't have anything else to do. I had missed the last couple of appointments due to a sudden fear to leave the house, but I knew I had to get back outside again and actually do something, if I didn't I would start to rot, and this was the best excuse to leave. And I did know that I needed to talk to someone, although I desperately didn't want to, the small, rational part of me that remained told me that I needed to let out whatever was on my mind, even if it was about a rant of Mycroft kidnapping me. It would also stop my therapist from ringing me up every few hours because she knew I was purposefully missing her appointments. She was the only person who rang the home phone and if I went to one of her appointments perhaps the shrill ringing would stop filling my ears.

Unfortunately, I was not liking this outcome of visiting my therapist.

"One of the symptoms of depression is aches and pains, and you said you were getting unexplained pains in your legs." My therapist continued.

"That was from too much walking, my legs were tired, everyone gets tired legs." I told her, avoiding the fact that I had hardly walked anywhere for them to start aching.

Still this did not falter my therapist. "You've also not been sleeping well."

"So my sleeping patterns have changed a little? Why should that matter?" I snapped.

"You've become irritable and intolerant of others."

"Only when they diagnose me with illnesses I don't have," I snarled, though I knew she was right, my patience with everyone had been running short.

"You've stopped eating..."

Immediately I became suspicious. The last person who questioned about my eating habits was Mycroft, and I knew he had somehow gained knowledge of my therapy sessions, could it happen the other way round as well? "Who told you that?" I demanded.

But my therapist ignored me, which made me even more annoyed, she just continued with her useless list.

"And you've been constantly sad for the past few weeks."

"I'm in mourning!" I almost yelled. "I lost a friend! Can't people just let me be unhappy for a little while?"

My therapist sighed, "I know John, and people mourn in many different ways..."

"Exactly, and it's only been seven weeks!"

"...But you must understand I would not say this unless I was pretty confident with the diagnosis." My therapist sighed suddenly, as if she was about to tell me something that she had never wanted to tell me, but she was desperate to try and win me round to her view. "And I had a feeling that you were experiencing these symptoms before."

She waited patiently for me to react, probably to snap at her again, but I said nothing. I merely glared at her and waited for her to continue.

"When you first started coming to see me," my therapist began, "you had the same listlessness, tired and at times irritable manner that you have now, only they weren't as bad. I was concerned that perhaps you were starting to develop depression, which would have been understandable after all you had gone through, but then your friend Sherlock Holmes turned up and within days your symptoms had started to disappear. In a matter of weeks there was no longer any need for you to see me, you had found a purpose, but..." She paused. Still I didn't respond, so she continued tentatively. "After Sherlock died the symptoms have returned. I suppose I should have expected them to, although..."

For once my therapist seemed lost for words, she wasn't sure what to say that wouldn't upset or anger me. After a short pause she gave me a sad smile. "I'll get you started on some medication that will make you feel better, in the meantime I would recommend going to your doctor, who will probably be able to confirm my diagnosis. Keep visiting me and try and get plenty of sleep, eat well and do lots of exercise, that will help."

There was a short pause, I had a feeling the session was coming to an end, so I stood up and turned to leave. I didn't have anything to say, I didn't want to say anything, and I know my therapist would probably know what I was going to say anyway. That every word she had just said was a complete and utter lie. There is nothing wrong wiyh me.

But then she called back to me:

"If you want my opinion John,"

"Which I don't," I told her bluntly, wishing that she could just let me go. I don't want to be here anymore, I suddenly felt trapped, desperate to escape.

"Sherlock was never good for you from the start, it's because of him that you are like you are now. Keep away from people like him in the future, then things will work out better in the long term."

A therapist should know what is going on inside your head, that's why you employ them, so they can help you find a way out of your problems, because they know how you feel and how you think. But this therapist had no idea what was going through my head, and she had everything totally wrong, especially about Sherlock Holmes.

He was a great man, perhaps the best thing that even happened to me, and I certainly don't have depression.

I left the room and I didn't look back.