Chapter 4: The woman with no colors in her eyes

After having had lunch at a nice little restaurant close to the therapist's office Sherlock started to get increasingly nervous. What would the doctor ask? What should he tell her? Was he allowed to tell anything? Mycroft recognized the change in his brother's mood.

"Sherlock, don't worry about the appointment. Talk, don't talk, do what feels right, you can tell your therapist whatever you want and feel comfortable with. A therapist is there only for you, not for me or anyone else. She will not tell me anything you tell her except if you ask her to do so. I won't ask either. It's for you so you can talk to someone not so close about the whole mess. Someone you don't have any obligations to. You can do it as you want, the way you choose will be the right one." Sherlock had listened carefully to his brother and understood that if he didn't want to talk it would be okay. But he also remembered John's words to him: that talking to a therapist could help and he should at least give it a go.

When Sherlock was called away from the waiting area he left his brother behind. The first thing that popped to his mind when he entered the therapist's office was that he hadn't been alone until this moment. But the thoughts were blown away as he laid his eyes on his therapist. She was old, not ancient, but her hair was white. What really caught his eye where her eyes, they were like her hair without color. A milky light grey you could see but no brown, blue or green. The woman's eyes were looking in his direction without seeing him and her head followed him as he walked over to her desk.

"Hello Sherlock, nice to meet you, I'm Dr. Michelson and I hope I will be able to help you." She looked at him without seeing and it was a bit scary.

"Hello." Sherlock wanted to say more but he wasn't sure he could or he didn't know what to say. He studied her eyes. Normally he would deduce everything possible about a person he first met but he was caught off guard and couldn't do the thing he had learned to keep him alive, that had helped him survive for so many years.

"Oh I see, you are a bit worried about my eyes. I'm blind but don't pity me. I can see more than some who have their eyesight. I was born blind and I wouldn't want it any other way. If you want I can wear sunglasses to hide the eyes, do you want me to?" Shocked by that offer Sherlock shook his head to signal a no. Until he saw a smile appear on her face. It came to him that she couldn't see his answer.

"No, you don't need to hide them." Sherlock answered quickly.

"Good decision, because this place here is not a place where to hide things. Had your answer been different I would have had to send you away. This room is a place where the truth can be spoken without fearing consequences, without being afraid. Where everyone can say what he wants, talk about feelings, fear, hate, anger, love, loss and all the things society tells us to hide which leads us to being eaten up by some of them. What you tell me or choose not to tell me will stay with me. No one needs to know about it. We can spend our time together in any way you prefer. If we talk, we talk. If we stay silent we stay silent. You can ask me what you want and also stop me from asking things. Are you okay with these conditions for our sessions?" Sherlock thought about it. She was offering him an ear to listen, a non-judgmental voice of advice and a place to talk about his secrets while keeping them safe. But also a place where to voice them and not get crushed under their weight.

"I think I am." She nodded to answer him.

"You can sit if you want. Over there is tea if you like." Sherlock walked over to get a cup of tea so that he had something to do. He would sit here an hour with this strange woman that was offering him a safe haven for his thoughts. He looked over to her desk and saw no cup. Should he offer her one? Was it okay to do so or would he offend her by implying she wasn't able to do it herself? What was the right thing to do now?

"Sherlock, stop worrying about whatever you are thinking right now. I am blind, it will not change and I don't expect you to behave based on any ridiculous standards society conventions dictate." She was looking at him again. He wasn't sure how she did what she did but it was amazing.

Sherlock turned completely to her "Would you like a cup of tea?" And after asking and hearing her words he felt better in some way. Every time he found himself in an unknown situation he talked himself into a panic by not knowing the right way to handle the situation at hand. With Moriarty it had meant punishment and pain. Two things Sherlock tried to avoid.

"Yes, please. That would be nice of you. With one sugar please." Sherlock prepared their teas and brought the cups over to her desk. Placing one in front of her and taking his to his seat.

"Sherlock, I will ask you a question, you don't need to answer it. How do you take your tea and did you do it the same way all your life?" The question confused Sherlock. Why would a therapist be interested in how he drank his tea? He thought they would ask about his 'traumatic past' or things like that.

"Two sugars and I have drunk it this way since the first tea I was given at John's place. John is the friend who saved me and he…" Suddenly Sherlock stopped. She had tricked him into talking about what had happened by formulating a simple question about his tea-drinking habits. She was good.

"So your friend gave you a cup of tea with two sugars. How did you take your tea before that?" She didn't nag about the break.

"I didn't really drink tea before that. No one around me was interested in tea and I would have never asked for it." It was true: Moriarty hadn't been a tea drinker, he had preferred coffee or any alcoholic drink he could get in the evening when his daily work was done; most times it had been red wine… She had done it again. Why did he answer all her questions?

"Your tea is getting cold. Drink it. It tastes better warm." This was one of the things John had told him too. So he drank his tea with his blind therapist in silence. After the cups where emptied and the minutes slowly passed Sherlock began to look at her with more attention. He couldn't read much out of her. She was single, had a dog, maybe one of those trained to help blind people… Sherlock didn't get any further with his thoughts.

"Do you want to tell me what you see? Your brother told me you can read many things when you see people. You can also ask me any question you like about me." She offered, so he could use the opportunity to check the accuracy of his deductions.

"You are single and you have a dog. I will deduce more but first I want to ask what the name of your dog is?" It wasn't essential information Sherlock needed to survive, it was just the name of an animal but he wanted to have something normal to talk about.

"His name is Chestnut, if you like you can also say hello to him. I always have him with me." To Sherlock's surprise a light brown dog appeared from behind the desk. He must have been hiding behind it the whole time. Sleeping or resting or whatever dogs do while their owner are at one place.

Chestnut came over to Sherlock, sniffing the air with interest. Dr. Michelson must have given him some signal to allow him to walk around the room. The dog came closer to Sherlock who didn't feel like touching an animal at all. As the dog was nearly in touching range of Sherlock's arms and legs he pulled his limbs close to his body.

"Chestnut, stop." The dog listened immediately and stayed where he was. "Are you alright, Sherlock, did Chestnut do something wrong?" Sherlock eyed the dog that was now lying down on the carpet.

"No, it's not his fault. I'm sure he is a lovely pet. But I don't want him close to me. It will only get him hurt." Sherlock's voice got sad by thinking about all the animals he had killed to survive and then he felt his stomach rebel and not in a good way. He jumped up, ran out of the room and into the bathroom. He got there just in time to empty his lunch into the toilet. The retching stopped after the third wave of vomit splashed into the bowel.

When Sherlock got up on shaking legs, Dr. Michelson was standing behind him, holding a glass of water for him to drink. He took it without saying anything. He had expected his brother to be here and ask him what happened but it was only the two of them. Sherlock gave the glass back to her without wondering how she knew exactly where he was holding it and washed his face by the sink. The next thing she offered him was a towel. He felt better after that but he didn't want to go back to the room with the dog. So Sherlock did the only thing that felt right, he sank to the floor, landing against the wall, pulling his legs to his chest and hiding his face and the upcoming tears in his knees.

Sherlock wasn't even sure why he cried or why he let her stay with him. It was okay to cry while she was here. She couldn't see his tears, she couldn't judge him and he could pretend she wouldn't notice. After his tears had stopped, he didn't move. Just waited.

"Would you like me to get your brother? I can send him here so you have some time to calm down?" Sherlock shook his head no longer pretending that she couldn't feel(?) it, she continued. "Do you want to stay here for a while? You can if you want to. We can also talk about what just happened if you think it will help? Or would you rather have me leave too and have some time alone?" Since she had asked all these questions at once Sherlock was forced to answer her with words.

"…He made me hurt them. Whenever he wanted me to be more like him, he would bring me an animal to kill…He made me hurt them and then kill them. If I didn't do what he wanted, I would be the one to die. It felt so wrong every time he made me do it. But I did it anyway. I killed those poor dogs and the people and..." The tears started again. "I hurt them all and no one was ever angry with me, I didn't get punished for doing those horrible things. I hurt them and it nobody cared. It's not right." Dr. Michelson sat down next to Sherlock and pulled him onto her lap, here he could cry for a while without feeling abandoned. Because what could one tell him? 'It wasn't your fault.' 'You were forced to do it.' What would that help? So she let him cry until there were no more tears.

In their first session together they had already found many topics to work on for the next times. Sherlock would come every day to her, a number of sessions she thought was justified after the first one. That 'he' Sherlock was talking at all really said a lot about the child.