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Alone - Sherlock (BBC) AU

Title: Alone
Author: solidfoamsoul
Word Count: 936
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Spoilers for "The Reichenbach Fall"
Disclaimer: Un-beta-ed. I came up with it while taking a nap, so forgive me if it leaves more questions than answers. That's just the name of the game, though, isn't it, with this show?
Summery: AU. John visits his therapist and discovers more than he's ready to.

"Why today?"

John blinked, frowning briefly, "You want to hear me say it?"

Bloody shrinks. The most obvious of answers and they need you to say it. For your own good.

"18 months since our last appointment." The doctor spoke tersely. Was she scolding him? In that jacket that looked as if she stole it from Lady Haversham.

"You read the papers."


"And you watch telly." She nodded. John's chest tightened even more, "You know why I'm here." He pinched his lip and waved his hand. Just get it out. Give her what she wants. "I'm here because..." He closed his eyes, feeling sick.

The doctor leaned forward, with her terribly concerned, but not really because it's my job, face. "What happened?"

John opened his eyes, looking to her as if facing his greatest adversary. And he felt like throwing up. He shut his eyes again, feeling just as sick as the day it happened. "Sherl--" He stopped, clearing his throat and swallowing hard, but he couldn't get past the lump in his throat.

"You need to get it out."

Yes, thank you, I was trying... You fucking-- Stop. She's right. He nods and tries again.
"My best friend... Sherlock Holmes... is dead."

He shut his eyes again, fighting back tears. He took a deep breath, counting backwards from five.

"John, we need to address the rest of the problem."


"The stuff you needed to say--"


"--but didn't say it..." She paused, expecting him to answer. And when he didn't, she prompted, "Say it now."

John shook his head, "I'm sorry. I can't."

"John... It's time to face reality. You killed Sherlock Holmes."

"No. No..." John frowned at her. How could she even suggest that? How, in any way, had he helped Sherlock with this? "No, he fell. He ju--" He jumped. John covered his face with his hand. And he could see Sherlock's broken body on the pavement. All the blood from his head. Those stupid cheekbones smashed in. The whites of his eyes. A sob escaped him.

"When they discovered the truth, John, you killed him. Because you were ready to face the world on your own. It's okay."

"He's dead!" John shouted. The doctor didn't lean back, she didn't even flinch. "He's dead and we're burying him today and it is not 'okay'!" Another sob and John inhaled deeply, attempting to calm himself.

"Exactly who are you burying?"

John's hand held his throbbing forehead, "What is wrong with you? I thought you were here to help."

"I am, John. Of course I am." She sounded almost motherly. Except for the cool professionalism behind it.

"Because you're doing one hell of a job," John muttered sarcastically. She leaned back in her chair, only to retrieve a newspaper from beside it.

"I'm trying to show you the truth. And the sooner you admit what you already know, the sooner you can move on. Grieving over someone who isn't real is no way--"

"He was real." John sat up, his hands shaking with rage. He stopped, forgetting whatever defense for Sherlock he had. The doctor held up the newspaper that had put him and Sherlock on the map. But there was no Sherlock Holmes. Only trusty Doctor Watson wearing the deerstalker.

"Why has it got two fronts?"

"And we have one man to thank..."

"It's not a deerstalker anymore, it's a Sherlock Holmes hat."

"Nobody could be that clever."
"You could."

John felt sick all over again. "What is this? What...?"

"You created Sherlock Holmes. To cope."

"No. No, he was real. He was my friend, he was real!"

"To you, John. You made him up. You created the blog and--"

"You told me to! You told me to write and I did. I never could until I met him."

The doctor said nothing for a long moment, folding the paper up and setting it on the floor.

John gave a sarcastic smile, "What? Are you going to tell me I made up Mike Stamford? Molly Hooper? Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, my own sister? They're just figments of my imagination, too? That Moriarty is my creation and innocent people died because I really killed them pretending to be some Irish lunatic?"

"You've never met D.I. Lestrade, John."

"Yes, I have. We're mates. His name's Greg."

"It's Gareth."

John laughed.

The doctor went on, "I wanted you to write in the blog about your own feelings and emotions. About the war. It could have been a way for other soldiers to reach out to you and even help them cope with civilian life."

"Like a support group."

"Yes, but instead you wrote fiction, John. There is no Molly Hooper at Saint Bart's. And no Moriarty, evil genius or otherwise. Or a Mycroft Holmes."

"Of course not."

The doctor picked up another newspaper. John dragged his hands over his face, "Stop it. Stop showing me this..."

The large headline of The Sun read: "Blog author Watson kills off Holmes! - Fictional detective finally defeats his nemesis."

"No... I didn't-- I didn't make him up."

"You were alone, John. This entire time."

John put his face in his hands, the tears coming again. He didn't hold them back. If anything it might make her shut up. "I was so alone... I owe him so much."

The doctor held her tongue, silent for a few moments while John cried. "He's gone. It's time for you to move on and find the real John Watson... without Sherlock Holmes."

A feeble whine came from the military doctor's lips. He shook his head, muttering, "There isn't one... There just isn't one."


Feb. 16th, 2012 09:31 am (UTC)
Занятный блог
Супер! Все бы так писали :)