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

Tea and Biscuits

"Why today?" my therapist asked as she placed a box of tissues in front of me.

The conspired events replayed in my head for the countless time. Every time I thought about it, I would shiver and uncontrollably go into another fit of tears.

"Do you really want to hear me say it?" I questioned, focusing my mind to the calming thunderstorm outside.

"Eighteen months since our last appointment," she stated.

"Do you read the papers?" I asked her, sitting up.

"Sometimes," she answered unsurely, not understanding where I was going with this.

"And you watch T.V.? Then shouldn't you know why I'm here?" I choked up and cleared my throat. "I'm here because . . . " I take a sip of water to calm myself.

Advancing closer to me, my therapist asked, "What happened, Jane?"

"Sher . . . " I rasped before choking up again.

"You need to get it out, Jane," she insisted. I took a few deep breaths, closing my eyes momentarily.

"Sherlock Holmes, the love of my life," I said, blowing my nose and wiping at my dampened red cheeks, "is dead," I croaked before sobbing once again. Saying his name used to always feel like a piece of rich chocolate was melting in my mouth, overwhelming my tastebuds with an incredible flavor, but now even thinking about him feels like dark, acidic licorice that my senses distaste.

~ 3 months earlier-

The dreams from Afghanistan came back, and I didn't know why, or how. They weren't only about Afghanistan, but also other places I've been to. Any and every memory from the army both haunted me and thrilled me, in some unexplainable way. Every night I would have these kinds of dreams, wake up drenched in my sweat yet cold, and unable to fall back asleep. On the rare nights Sherlock actually slept, he would wake up from my quiet screams and comfort me until we both fell asleep. If he wasn't sleeping that night, he would hear my crying, walk into the bedroom, pick me up bridal style, make tea for the both of us, and we'd fall asleep on the couch.

"Falls of the Reichenbach; Turner's masterpiece thankfully recovered owing to the prodigious talent of Mr. Sherlock Holmes," the art director said as multiple cameras were pointed at me and Sherlock.

I gently rubbed his arm as the director extended his arm to give Sherlock a small box; a token of appreciation. Everyone around us applauded as Sherlock glanced over at me, frowning at my inability to hide my smile.

"Diamond cufflinks," Sherlock concluded as he rustled it slightly. "All my cuffs have buttons."

Lightly stabbing his foot with my heel, I reassured to the director, "He means thank you."

"Do I?" he asked me quizzically. I jabbed my heel a little harder and he clamped his mouth shut to withstand a sound.

"Yes, you do," I muttered. "Just say it."

With an exasperated sigh, Sherlock turned to the director and said insincerely, "Thank you." He laced his fingers through mine and took a step forward to leave before I caught him and forced him to smile for the photographers as the cameras flashed.

~

" . . . back together with my family after my terrifying ordeal," the man said tearfully with his arms around his wife and son. The amount of press in this interview had me slightly overwhelmed compared to the last one. All of the boom operators looming over us, the microphone in our faces, and news cameras filming us live for the locals to see made me a little anxious.