Voice of a Stranger (Johnlock)

The Phone

"Yes, what do you want?" The voice was a low baritone, but the question was abrupt and sounding slightly bored.

John glanced at the phone number on his screen quickly, and down to the pamphlet. Yes, he had the correct number. "Um... this is CALM?"

He could hear the clicking of a pen, and then a low sigh. "Yes, the horrible acronym of Campaign Against Living Melancholy. What's your problem, then?"

The man on the other end of the phone line sounded impatient, like he'd heard it all before. John considered making his excuses and hanging up, but the thought of staring at the ceiling some more seemed even worse than continuing with this.

"I...um...can't sleep. I'm having nightmares. Can't concentrate. Um..." John felt ashamed to admit this. "The therapist they assigned me said I should blog about my feelings but it's not really seeming to help."

"Hmmm...how about the old advice of working a full day or going for a long walk?"

John thought there was a tinge of sarcasm in the comment, but what depression hotline worker would have that when talking to a caller?

Glancing over at his cane resting against the wall, John sighed. "Hard to do either with a bum leg." OK, it was psychosomatic, but it didn't stop the damn leg from making it hard to move around.

"Boring," the low voice on the other end huffed, with a drawn out sigh.

John's eyebrows shot up. Yes, there was no doubt now this worker was being rude, and totally inappropriate. "Excuse me? What did you mean by that?" His voice had a bit of heat now, feeling miffed at this insolent brat.

"Come on, now..." The rich voice started, before stopping with an obvious pause.

"...John..." John helpfully supplied.

There was another sound of impatience. "Oh, how original," the man drawled, voice dropping. "Well, 'John', obviously you are not that serious a case. You are just bored, something I can relate to."

"What?" John couldn't believe the nerve of this worker.

"You are back in London, and you were away long enough not to have close friends or family to turn to with your troubles, so you called here. You didn't go back to Hampshire, so clearly you have been away from there for quite a while too. You said 'they assigned you a therapist' and 'they' must be the army. You didn't choose to come back here. You were invalidated out, and assigned the therapist for PTSD."

John gasped. How could he know all that?

"But it's more than that, isn't it? There's a hint of shame or embarrassment about it all, more than just PTSD. Your tone changed when you said 'bum leg'. It's psychosomatic, isn't it? And it's preventing you from going back to work, something that would be hindered by you having a cane."

"Now look here, mate..." This was all hitting far too close to home.

"You're not the type to navel-gaze and write about your feelings in some blog, John. You joined the army, left England, looking for adventure. You don't need more therapy. You just need to find something that captures your interest again, gives you something besides your past to dwell on. Once you do that, I doubt the leg will trouble you anymore and the severity of your nightmares will fade."

John was sputtering, outraged. "What do you know? How dare you tell me things like this?"

"Was I wrong?"

It was shocking that a man he'd only spoken briefly with on the phone had gotten it all right. "That's not the point! You have been insufferably rude! I called here for help and you tell me I just need a new hobby?"