Fallen State

Good People

It was October. A year to the day. John Watson sat before his therapist not saying a word and chewing the inside of his cheek. She waited patiently, studying him. If she were to analyse this correctly she'd wager that he was here not to talk, but to get away from the flat. Silence was the loudest scream in many ways. She shifted forwards.

"I know it's difficult." John made a huffing noise in response. "Is there anything you believe you should have done this year? Anything you would change?"

John considered this for a long moment. He'd change a lot of things. Coming here, for one, because it wasn't doing anything to help him. He should have gone to his sister's but then she'd question him and it was too much to bear going through it all. One year. It didn't seem that long at all. Felt like only a month had passed when he thought about it. He should have visited the grave more, maybe spent more time with Mrs Hudson.

"I would... eat a lot less Chinese. Clean the flat more. Maybe get a dog, or a cat. I like cats."

Clearly this hadn't been what the therapist had intended but it was an answer all the same. "Anything you're proud of?"

It took John two seconds this time. "I got a job." He paused. "Yeah that's what I'm proud of. I'm damn good at it too."

"New friends?"

"Yes. Yep."

"How do you find working with your patients?"

John considered this a moment. He could have said boring, because that's what most of the job was like. He didn't want patients he wanted clients, though he didn't think they were too dissimilar. Both had a case they needed solving but with his patients, it was vastly health related and simple to resolve.

Instead he said, "Soothing. I like that I'm still able to help people."

This pleased his therapist and she nodded. "Getting satisfaction out of one area of your life is good, John. It helps you focus and helps you deal with other things you may feel difficult at times. We'll meet again next week."

John returned to the apartment which was no longer home. It was more his residence, the place he could sleep. For that reason it was more like a free hotel without the maids and room service. Mrs Hudson had taken to giving him space but he wasn't quite sure it was space that he wanted.

Because it was so spacious he thought that maybe he should really get a cat. Sherlock had never wanted pets, didn't see the point in them. John had never argued because he realised that the place wasn't a very habitable or normal one that a pet would deserve, but the temptation was there now. As he threw his keys on the table he was mulling over this option, when he was surprised to see a letter addressed to him.

He got the odd bill, mis-addressed because Mycroft was still taking care of things finance wise. It was the least he could do in the circumstances he'd said. John knew that he felt as guilty as sin itself but he didn't want to admit that he was somewhat responsible.

Since it wasn't from Mycroft, John released his grip on the envelope then tore it open.

You sounded annoyed.

""!

One sheet of paper, nothing else on it but those three words, signed in a code of punctuation John didn't understand. He turned it over to study it, see if there were any clues but of course there were none. When had he sounded annoyed? Probably most of the time, he'd become rather snappish lately.

Shrugging he threw the letter back on the table. Bless Mrs Hudson for her internal postal runs. Looked like she'd cleaned up a little too, allowing John to settle in for the night without too much trouble and forgetting the little note burning a hole in his table.