The real fall

Chapter Twenty

John's therapist hands him a phone and he leave the room to talk to someone. I sit down in a chair and Sherlock pouts, picking me up and sitting me on his lap. "Get me a fresh glass of water please, this one's filthy." Sherlock asks the therapist, who frowns and takes the vase from his hand and walking into the kitchen. Sherlock closes his eyes and sighs, his left hand playing with my hair.

"How did you know? How?" John demands, striding into the room. Sherlocks eyes flash open and he looks at John. "On Monday, I decided to get a new therapist. Tuesday afternoon, I chose her. Wednesday morning, I booked today's session. Now, today is Friday. So two weeks ago, two weeks before you were abducted at gunpoint and brought here against your will, over a week before I even thought of coming here, you knew exactly where you'd need to be picked up for lunch?!" John rants, baffled.

"Really?" Sherlock asks, his head resting ontop of mine. "I correctly anticipated the responses of people I know well to scenarios I devised. Can't everyone do that?" He sighs. I shake my head and he frowns. "How?" Mrs. Hudson asks.
"Except the boot. The boot was mean." Sherlock snarls at Mrs. Hudson. I wack his arm and he smiles at me, kissing my forehead.

"Never mind how. He's dying to tell us that. I want to know why." John says.
"Because Mrs. Hudson's right. I'm burning up. I'm at the bottom of a pit and I'm still falling, and I'm never climbing out." He murmurs. I turn to him and he suddenly looks lost. Broken. He looks down at me and I wrap my arms around his neck, hugging him close. He breathes deeply before releasing me from his lap and standing up.

"I need you to know, John. I need you to see that up here," he gestures to his brain, "I've still got it. So, when I tell you that this is the most dangerous, the most despicable human being I have ever encountered. When I tell you that this monster must be ended. Please remember where you're standing because you're standing exactly where I said you would be two weeks ago." Sherlock exclaims. He falls down into a seat in the kitchen, clutching his head.

"I'm a mess, I'm in hell, but I am not wrong, not about him." Sherlock insists. He gestures for me to come over and I walk towards him swiftly. He pulls me onto his lap and mumbles incoherently to himself. "So what has all this got to do with me?" John asks.
"That creature, that rotting thing is a living, breathing coagulation of human evil. If the only thing I ever do in this world is drive him out of it, then my life will not have been wasted." He spits. Then he remembers me and adds, "Also if Rachel doesn't leave me again." I smile and kiss his cheeks making him shoot me a small smile.