You're An Idiot, Sherlock Holmes (OC x Sherlock)

A Funny Feeling In My Stomach

As a former soldier, psychologist and doctor for the British army, I sometimes find myself feeling left out or an outsider from others. It may be because I was born in America but gave I up my citizenship for one in the U.K., or because I've never been one to have lifelong friends I've known since kindergarten, or for that matter, friends at all. I'm no longer in the war, but every day still feels like I'm in some sort of battle. And I like that. 

My therapist suggested that I was to write a blog on my day to day life, which I found quite stupid. It's just some severe PTSD, big deal. Who would want to read about that, and why would I write about it? but no matter how much I disliked the idea, I still do what I'm told, and write that blog. I keep my laptop in a drawer in my flat. below that laptop lays a gun. Why I chose I gun to keep there, I don't know. Memories of the war, I would think? The idea of the fact that I have a therapist is rather silly in my opinion. I worked in psychology since I could remember, I should be able to work out my own problems and feelings without the help of another human, thank you. 

"How's your blog going, Jane?" My therapist asks me. I just roll my eyes and sigh. If she wanted to know, she would have read it herself.

"It's good," I answer. 

"You haven't written a word, have you?"

I sit up. "I despise the idea, but that doesn't mean I don't try it." She writes something on her clipboard. "Did you just write Still has trust issues?" 

"And you read my writing upside down." She clears her throat. "Jane, you're a soldier."

"Was a soldier."

"It's going to take you some time to settle to a civilian life."

"It hasn't been that long," I scoff. "What, only . . . three or four months?"

"Writing a blog will help you adjust," she continues. 

"Nothing ever happens." 

"You can read people's mental stage just by one look at them, I'm sure something interesting comes up every now and then."

"It feels weird. When I was helping the soldiers cope, it wasn't so weird. but now just looking at someone in their everyday life minding their own business and know what's going on inside their head . . . feels like I'm invading personal property. I feel like a perv."

She chuckles at the last remark and I can't help but stare out into the window, down at all the busy people walking around mindlessly. I hear her write something else down on her clipboard but I don't bother to look.

"I need some fresh air," I say finally, taking my coat before my therapist could say anything. 

I stroll to the park where it's peaceful and I can let my mind wander. 

"Jane!" I hear from behind me. "Jane Watson!" I stop walking and roll my eyes. Oh, human socialization, how I adore you. A plump woman with glasses walks up to me as I turn around. "It's Stamford, Michelle Stamford. Remember? We were in that bar together," she says. I don't have the faintest idea on who she is.

"Hello again," I say, holding out my hand. 

"Weren't you abroad, somewhere? I heard you were shot. What happened?" 

"I got shot," I answer with a shrug. This leads to an awkward silence. All too familiar. "So you're still at that school, teaching?" 

"Yep, teaching those bright young things like we used to be," Michelle answers. "I hate them," she adds with a laugh. No clue what she's talking about. "How're you? Just staying in town to get yourself sorted?"