i. gray skies
John Watson was sitting behind his desk, staring glumly out the window. It was a Thursday evening, and he was waiting for his last patient of the day to show up: a man named Sherlock Holmes. He had been a regular for the past two months, and despite all the time he’d spent in John’s office, he still remained a mystery to him. As a therapist, John was rather skilled at analyzing behavior, but it was completely different with Mr. Holmes; he was too skilled at keeping his emotions clandestine.
It agitated John, not being able to understand this man, but he figured that he would, sooner or later. He’d make sure of it. Many of Sherlock’s previous therapists had given up on him; he’d make sure that he never did. He’d persevere.
If he didn’t, all the awards and recognition he got would have been for absolutely nothing; it would have been for someone who was too lazy to do their job. He was nothing like that. His main purpose in life was to help people – or at least that’s what he liked to think. John would stop at nothing to make sure that everyone he tried to help had gotten better in some manner. And that was what he planned to do with Sherlock, no matter how long it took.
“Doctor Watson?” someone called from outside his door. “Mr. Holmes is here to see you.”
These were the words that he’d nervously been waiting for all day. Each visit with Sherlock brought with it a new sense of anxiety and curiosity – two emotions that should never be mixed together, at least, not for John. With him, those two were a lethal combination.
Letting out a breath, he called out, “Send him in.”
Immediately following his words, the door swung open, revealing a tall, dark-haired man, adorned in a trench coat that carried with it a mysterious aura. Sherlock walked in with brisk steps, making his way to the seat across from John in no time. As he took a seat, he heaved a sigh, something John interpreted as a sign of boredom.
Not even a minute in, and Sherlock was already bored. Where was the logic in that?
“So, Sherlock, how have you been doing this past week?” John asked. He always liked to start off this question before going into the deeper stuff, because the answers could either be personal or not – for those who still didn’t feel comfortable sharing their problems with him.
“You can stop asking me those pointless questions; they won’t get you anywhere,” he got in response. “Just give up on me. Everyone does.”
There was a hint of sadness in Sherlock’s voice, and John made sure to take note of that. “Why do you say that? I’m not giving up on you. I understand that your other therapists may have, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that I will.”
“Are you sure about that?” There was a bitter tone to his voice as he let out a sadistic chuckle. “No one cares about me, Watson. You should understand that.”
John wasn’t sure what to feel at this point; joy that Sherlock had finally opened up to him – somewhat – or sadness that this was what he had kept hidden for so long.
“Your brother—,” John started, before he was cut off.
“He doesn’t care, don’t you see? But whatever, it doesn’t matter anyway. It’s not like I need anybody.”
However, as he said this, John could sense some longing hidden deep inside Sherlock’s heart, and he wanted nothing more than to make him feel better again.
It was strange, actually, to see Sherlock like this, as opposed to how secretive he had been during his first appointment, and he couldn’t help but wonder what had changed since then.
