Today was the day she was to meet with John’s former therapist. A nice lady as referred to by many of her friends. Yet, she was not convinced that it would help her transition into acceptance. John arranged the whole thing after she was sent to St. Bart’s for the 6th time, dehydration from all the lost nutrients and lack of proper nutrition. She’d been ignoring her medication, insisting that everything was completely fine. It was up until last week that Mrs. Hudson found her vomiting over the kitchen sink of 221 B, weak as a dying flower as she slumped over the table that was cleaned off of Sherlock’s experiments to keep her from remembering.
“To start things off, I’d like for you to tell me why you’re here. Why you’ve been referred to me.” Dr. Thompson stared into her bloodshot eyes, searching for something that had been lost a long time ago. Happiness.
“I was held against my will.”
“This will help us both-“
“Us both? US BOTH? Please tell me that you’re not trying to sympathize with me,” A bitter smile passed over her face before she stood up, glaring at the therapist whose color from her face drained completely “because to you, I am nothing but someone who is insanely depressed, someone who you need to talk to for an hour to get me out of the thought of shooting myself in the head by the end of the week. So, don’t use the word ‘us’, because you obviously do not need help, and I am perfectly aware that I do. I do not need this session to get me back on my feet, because I can do that on my own.”
“Ms. (Y/L/N), I’d appreciate if you’d sit back down.”
“And I’d appreciate if he’d come back, but I guess this session will turn out to be a disappointment for the two of us.”
With a single tear escaping her swollen (Y/E/C) eyes, she swung her bag over her shoulder and grabbed the doorknob with a killer grip. “Tell John that his efforts of helping me has been very much appreciated, but attending a therapy session will just make things worse. Standing here, listening to someone who clearly has no idea of what I’m going through is the last thing I need.”
The cab took a slow turn to Baker Street, and she managed to pay him without bursting into a fit of hysteria. She couldn’t face anyone. It’s been a year, but it felt like an eternity.
Her phone laid lifeless on the coffee table. Collecting dust over the months, those agonizing months. Suddenly, something in the back of her mind urged her to switch it on. Something told her that all hope has not been lost, and it was going to be worth a try. And like a schoolgirl, she rushed into Sherlock’s old bedroom and plugged her phone in. Anxiously waiting for what was in her phone.
It had not been touched for 9 months, yet a message said otherwise. Her finger trembled as it tapped on the screen to unlock it. It felt like she was unable to move as the screen popped out revealing the sender’s name. He had been gone for 365 days, and she had not received anything in nine months. Surely, this was something. Last time she checked, there are 273 days in 9 months and certainly not 365.