Not Broken, Just Bent

The silent genius

A/N: Yay, off hiatus.

Yeah, sorry about the wait.... *awkwardly shoves hands into pockets*

Anywho, I actually have a plot to go with the story now so update should be regular-ish

Please enjoy :)

Chapter 3

John shuffled through the crowd of other shuffling patients trying to find his way to the afternoon meeting. He thought absent-mindedly that they at least should have provided some sort of map as he wandered down the halls; each looking the exact same as the others. He knew it was somewhere down this hallway…. Ah, there it was. Everyone was already sitting in the chairs facing each other, and John quickly sat in the one next to Greg.

            “Hello Mr. Watson.” Mrs. Hudson smiled.

            “Got lost.” John grunted as an excuse, looking down at his hands.

            “Of course dear, it’s no problem.” She then addressed the others in the room, 9 others in total. “Everyone, with the recent departure of Carl Powers, we have a new patient that will be joining us. This is John Watson.”

            “Hello.” He muttered under his breath, giving his hand a sarcastic little wave towards the rest of the room. The room was awkwardly, and Mrs. Hudson cleared her throat a little before continuing.

            “Would you like to talk about yourself?” Mrs. Hudson asked, in a tone that suggested that he didn’t really have an option.

            “Not particularly.” John grimaced, crossing his arms.

            “Now dear…” Mrs. Hudson started, when a low voice interrupted her.

            “Allow me.” The baritone hum said, and John’s attention was brought to a figure out of the corner of his eye, who he recognized to be Sherlock from the cafeteria.

            “Oh not this again.” A man with a nasally voice complained, sitting across from where John was sitting.

            “Now Anderson, we should let Sherlock speak, shouldn’t we?” Mrs. Hudson asked, using the elementary school teacher voice.

            “Listen carefully; this is the only time that Sherlock speaks to anyone at all.” Greg murmured inside his ear. John was intrigued, wondering what on earth this man could possibly say about him.

            “First off, a question if you don’t mind. Afghanistan or Iraq?” He asked.

            “…Afghanistan…” John slowly answered. “But how did you…?”

            “You’re an army doctor with an honorable discharge from Afghanistan. You have had a hard time adjusting to civilian life however, so you must have had a traumatic experience- PTSD then, severe if it put you in a place like this. Also, depression to the point where your doctor thinks you’re suicidal, which quite frankly, she’s correct. You have a brother that you could have gone to for help, but because of his drinking habits he was deemed unsatisfactory for your safekeeping thus… you ending up here.” Sherlock finished with a wry smile on his face, then turned away from John to stare out the window, crossing his arms in front of him in almost a smug fashion. John couldn’t help but stare at Sherlock in amazement.

            “How did you know all that?” John asked, but there was no malice in his voice at all, a tone of awe could be found in it though. Sherlock didn’t answer, firmly steeling his gaze out the window as if the dead trees were the most interesting objects in the world. There was another pregnant silence.