Contact High → Sherlock Holmes (BBC) [on hold]

{ thirty-two }

John's therapist stares at him. Her pen drums on her notepad as she scribbles down notes at random intervals. Outside, thunder rumbles. "Why today?" she asks, her voice carefully clinical. John tilts his head to the side, flinching at her words. "You want to hear me say it?" John asks softly. His therapist jots down another note and his temper flares.

"It's been eighteen months since out last appointment," she sighs.

John has buried his emotions with the rage that glows in his chest like the embers of a dying fire. In his head, he sees Carmen, clutching a body to her. There's blood on her face and knees and her scream is heavy in the air. John tries to block the memory out, to compartmentalize it with all the other things he never thinks about. The war. The men he treated that hadn't lasted the night. He tucked the memory away there, but it never stayed. It came rushing back into his mind every time he closed his eyes.

"You read the papers?" John asked, instead of telling everything else to the therapist.

"Sometimes," the therapist nods.

"You watch telly?" John asked. There was silence and he nodded understandingly, "Then you know why I'm here."

When she doesn't say anything, he continues. "I'm here because--," the words die in his throat and he feels bile rise. The urge to be sick floods through him and he pauses a moment to collect himself. He closes his eyes to urge the dizziness away. Bad move. The memory is back in deliciously bright technicolor. The cherry red blood. Carmen's tears, bubblegum pink as they run down her spattered face. And worst of all... Sherlock's eyes; neon blue as the sky they were staring up at.

John wrenches his eyes open, looking out the window at the rain pouring over the countryside. Either the windows are blurry with rain or John has tears in his eyes. He'd be surprised if it was the latter, he figured he'd be cried dry by now. His therapist sits forward in her chair, ever prim and proper, crossing her hands across her knees, "John. What happened?"

The silence in the room pulses against John's ears. He takes a deep breath, in through his nose and out through his mouth. "Sher--," he cuts off, the sick feeling spreading through his body again. The therapist gives him the pitying smile he hates so much, "You need to get it out."

"My best friend, Sherlock Holmes, is dead."

<>

Three months earlier John, Carmen, and Sherlock stood in the lobby of a beautiful ballroom. A man droned in the corner about the painting Sherlock had recovered. Carmen's arm was linked through his and she smiled proudly up at him as they revealed the intact painting to the crowd of snobbish art collectors. There's a smattering of polite applause.

The man with the stuffy voice walked over with a small gift. It's red with a black bow. "A small token of our gratitude," he sniffs. Somehow, he even makes gift-giving haughty. Sherlock glances at it from the corner of his eyes, not even making a move to take it. Carmen took the small gift from the man and smiles, "Thank you, sir. It is much appreciated."

She elbowed Sherlock in the ribs and he frowns before taking the gift from her hands. He gave it a small shake, "Diamond cuff-links. All my shirts have buttons." Carmen grits out a couple of words around her plastered on smile, "Thank you."

Sherlock purses his lips and takes a deep breath, turning to the stuffy man and forcing a smile. "Thank you," he mutters. The stuffy man, now satisfied, moves on. Sherlock moves to leave but Carmen catches his arm and pulls him back to her side, "Not quite." She smiles at the dozens of reporters itching to take their pictures.

She raises an eyebrow at Sherlock, "Well, smile at least."

Sherlock heaved another sigh like a sulky child before complying. The newspapers printed the article the next day, "HERO OF THE REICHENBACH". Their picture was below the headline, the three of them smiling nicely.