How We Unfold (SherlockBBC; Johnlock)

Chapter 1: My Friend

John

The rain beats on the glass pane, casting a flickering bluish light onto the dark carpet at my feet. I focus on the streams of water painting the glass and nervously tap my fingers on the armrest.

"John?"

I regret coming.

"John?"

This was a mistake.

"John!"

I look at my therapist, "I'm sorry?" I say instinctively.

"Where were you just then?" Her kind brown eyes inspect me, her dark skin accents the low light in the room.

I can't stop myself from looking toward the window. It was also raining that day. So long ago. I look back at her quickly, hoping nothing shows on my face.

"Nowhere, I'm-" I take a breath, "I'm here."

"You've missed several appointments, John." Her expression remains open and gentle, "Why did you stop coming?"

Silence. She writes a note on her paper. This time with it tilted toward her so that I won't read it.

"What made you decide to come back today?"

The rain is pounding in my ear. It is too loud. It drowns out her voice.

I clear my throat, "I thought I'd-" I pause, not really sure what I'm trying to say, "- thought this might help."

She nods approvingly, "Is this about Sherlock?"

"Not just..." I couldn't bring myself to say his name. It felt wrong, "him. Things feel worse than- um," I clear my throat again.

"Before?" She pressures.

I tilt my head only slightly, a habitual manner of saying yes without having to say yes.

"You were very lonely when you came back from the war. Very lost." She recalls, "Sherlock filled that void for you. That's why you stopped coming before, isn't it? He took away your need to."

I shift in my seat. I listen to the rain beating the glass. It's trying to break through, shatter the glass into infinite fragments.

"How is work, John?" She tries a new approach.

I shrug, trying to be casual. But it comes off a little too rushed, a little too stiff, "It's alright. I've been-" I swallow, "-working with Lestrade a bit."

"How does it feel? Working on cases without Sherlock?"

"At first I couldn't. Sometimes it's all I can think to do...medicine isn't the same."

"Does this make you feel closer to him?"

Silence.

She tries again, "It's been almost two years, John. This is all part of the healing process. Learning to live without the people we've lost."

"He was my friend." The sound of my voice carries too much honesty, I straighten my posture slightly, pulling on the soldier's composure to hold myself in. My body cannot contain itself. He was my friend. My best friend. And I am alone.

"I'm sorry." I say professionally, detached, and stand to leave. I should not have come, how could I possibly articulate how this feels?

"John." She calls after me, but I do not stop. I simply leave. Out of the door, down the hall, out of the suffocating building. Into the world. I hesitate a moment before calling a cab. I feel the rain pat my head, bleed into my hair, slip down my face. I hail a cab. It's back to living now, back to moving, and breathing, and existing. But I do not exist, I am not here. I do not know where I am.