Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock!

People usually struggled to get Sherlock to sleep, but that first night was like torture to his mind. It was his favourite thing about himself, his brain, however he could not deal with it that one night. Sherlock lay in bed for a few minutes before trying to get his brain to shut off, forcing his eyes shut and trying to think of anything but John. How could he have died like that and left Sherlock alone?
After a few hours of being completely restless, Sherlock drifted off into a deep sleep.

"I miss you Sherlock."
Sherlock was surrounded in darkness. Where was the voice coming from?
"John?" he called out. "Where are you?"
"I wish I could read your mind," John's voice said. "Well, I mean, I'm not too sure I would like to know how that crazy mind of yours works, but just at this very moment."
"Stop avoiding my question, John!" Sherlock shouted, spinning around and looking for his friend anywhere that he could. But there was no place to look for the man.
"Mycroft cares, you know?" John explained, sadness in his voice although he was trying to make it sound happy. "I can't believe we thought he was so heartless at times. I shouldn't say that really, he's probably monitoring my conversation right now."
Sherlock still searched. He probably would have smiled, even a little bit, at the comment if it wasn't said at a time he couldn't detect the location of the voice's owner.
"I miss you, John."

Sherlock's eyes opened very slowly. He shut them again as soon as he had opened them, wanting to go back.
"Sherlock, you need to wake up now."
Sherlock snapped his head up and stared at Mrs Hudson. She looked a bit unnerved at his sudden movement and crazed face.
"What's wrong dear?"
"Why does everybody sound like John?" he asked, to himself more than her.
"I'm calling Mycroft," Mrs Hudson said, rushing out of the room.
"Don't!" Sherlock yelled, shooting out of the bed and racing after the woman.
He saw Mycroft sat on the couch. Why didn't he realise Mrs Hudson was tricking him? Stupid.
"Sherlock, I'm sending you to a very good therapist," Mycroft explained to his brother as he took his seat.
"I don't think you are, brother." Sherlock snarled back.
"Stop denying that you are upset, you're hearing his voice. It's not right, it's not normal Sherlock."
"I'm not normal," Sherlock shouted. "Sociopath, remember?"
"I do not think you are," Mycroft replied calmly. "John agreed with me."
Sherlock felt his heart sink. John.
Mycroft watched his brother's expression change ever so slightly at the mention of the name, and knew he definitely needed to do something soon before things went back to how he used to be.
"Did he?" Sherlock asked.
"I wouldn't lie about that."
The room was consumed by silence for a few minutes; Sherlock sat staring blankly at a wall and Mycroft watching his brother.
"I still don't want to see a therapist."
"I'm afraid you don't have much of a choice, Sherlock." Mycroft sighed.
"And how do you plan on getting me there if I just refuse?"
"Don't test me."
"Or what?"
"John would want you to get help." Mycroft said in his eerily calm voice again.
Sherlock stared at him for a few seconds. What if the therapist made John's voice go away? He didn't think he wanted that.
"I'll take that as a yes, I will send a car for you in two hours." Mycroft stated, not giving Sherlock a chance to oppose him, and left the flat quickly.
Sherlock groaned and flopped onto the couch again. He didn't want to go speak to somebody about his feelings. It was not going to make him feel any better and he knew that.

After two hours, Sherlock was on his way to see the therapist. He decided to go without causing any fuss, because he knew he could probably get some entertainment out of the trip.
The waiting room was dull. He saw two other people sat far away from each other. One clearly had OCD, and was ordering the magazines on the table by alphabetical order and making sure they were in a perfectly straight pile. The other person had Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. He looked very tired, so obviously his sleeping pattern had been disturbed. He was also looking between the woman ordering the magazines and the ceiling constantly, clearly irritated by her behaviour, and when Sherlock's name was called the man jumped in panic at the sudden noise in the deathly silent room. Sherlock snapped out of his little daydream. He hadn't noticed that he was so focussed on watching the man. He reminded him of John.
"Sherlock Holmes?" a man read from a list, looking between the three patients. "Are you here?"
"Yes, yes, give me a chance." Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood up, following the direction he was given and finding himself in another dull room.
"Ah, Sherlock, right?" the doctor asked. She stretched her hand across in introduction. "I am Doctor Wilson."
"Hmm, yes." Sherlock replied, refusing the handshake and sitting down at the desk.
"Okay well, let's not waste time."
"That would be best. You have your family to see as soon as you finish my appointment."
The doctor raised an eyebrow. "How did you know that?"
"You've got a picture of your family on your desk, which shows you're here quite a lot and you miss them during your working hours. There is a young girl, your daughter, stood very close to you on this picture so you have a close bond. Picture can't be too old, so she is still a child, and today is a Tuesday so she will be coming home from school in an hour."
The doctor stared at him for a few seconds before moving on, ignoring all of his comment. "So, your brother says you're hearing voices. Do you want to tell me about that?"
"No."
"I'm just here to help, Sherlock."
"I don't need it."
"Yes you do, you have a serious problem here," the doctor sighed. "Who does the voice belong to?"
"Nobody."
"Okay then. How long have you heard it for?"
Sherlock laughed a little bit. "You are really not prepared for me as a patient, Dr Wilson. You've only been a therapist for a year. I am afraid that I'm a little more complicated than you're used to."
"Why's that?"
"I can spill out your life story by just looking at your for a few seconds. This appointment is meant to be one hour long, but you won't even make it to ten minutes once you realise how much I could tell about you from your office desk."
The doctor looked interested, and smiled slightly. "Go on then."
Sherlock shrugged. This could be fun.
"You had a past with depression, anxiety and obsessive compulsive disorder when you were a teenager. You're still trying to cope with them, in fact. Oh, you're panicking now. Am I scaring you? Sorry, don't mean to. Your desk is very neat, everything has a place here and your eyes keep flickering to this little picture of a dog," Sherlock adjusted the frame slightly so it was facing her more. "There you go, back to order."
The doctor looked overwhelmed.
"Brilliant."
Sherlock's eyes became more alert suddenly.
"What's wrong Sherlock?" She asked, suddenly looking more concerned.
"John."
"All right, who is John?" her voice became more calm and Sherlock couldn't prevent the words that flowed out of his mouth.
"You said 'brilliant' and it was John's voice, not yours. I can hear him in people's words. They don't sound like themselves, I don't hear both voices, I just hear John. He is my friend."
"And where is John now?"
"Dead."
"How did he die, Sherlock?"
Sherlock leaned into his hands which rested on his knees. "He was in an explosion and it's all my fault that he was out near it. He would be fine if I hadn't put that severed head in the fridge."
The doctor's mouth opened and closed before Sherlock looked back up at her. She didn't even want to know why there was a head in his fridge...
"It's not your fault, Sherlock." She explained. "You weren't the one that caused the explosion, right?"
"Right."
"So it's not your fault."

A/N: Thank you so much for the feedback I've received so far! I'm very grateful. More reviews will be much appreciated as they help me to improve my writing!