His Little Pill (JohnLock Fanfic)

Bitter Pills to Swallow

Phrase: Bitter Pill to Swallow
Definition: something that is difficult to understand or accept
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It had been 3 months since the public suicide of Sherlock's equally eccentric roommate, Jim Moriarty, and despite minimal change in behavior he was sent (yet again) to the inane and inept clutches of the resident college therapist. So Sherlock waited, hoping to finally get the idea that he could be mentally sound (at least by his own standards) through the therapist's thick skull.

His suit rumpled with each movement as he sat in the too-small waiting chair, feeling like a primary school child again (or so he assumed the sensation to be similar, he'd purposefully forgotten most of the experience), his outstretched legs crossed at his ankles in front of him.

He waited several minutes past his appointment time, beginning to become impatient. He was a punctual person by principal and easily became ill-tempered when kept waiting for too long.

He was about to stand up and leave when a young man stepped out, about Sherlock's own age, and was walking with a cane. Sherlock watched his face for a few moments as the man walked towards him, Sherlock's eyes taking notice to all of the finer details usually unnoticed by most.

The sandy blond hair in a stage of growing out from a close shave, and the clear and focused eyes, the way his brow furrowed naturally as though he had no idea he looked as though he was scowling at the passing chairs, the way his jaw tightened and untightened in nervousness, the way the beads of sweat seemed to gleam on his skin in a mix of exertion and nervousness, the way he blinked at the fluorescent lights as if they hurt, the tan lines on his wrists, the callouses visible in his free hand as it straightened his sweater.

"Sherlock Holmes, your turn." the therapist smiled falsely, writing something on her clipboard.

Sherlock stood at his name being called, but stopped in front of the man. Sherlock found slight amusement in the fact that he was least a head taller than him.

"Excuse me," he muttered, trying to walk around Sherlock.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock asked, looking down to meet his eyes.

"What?" The man asked in a defensive tone, wondering if he had heard incorrectly.

"I said, 'Afghanistan or Iraq?'" Sherlock repeated, the therapist tapping her foot softly in irritation in Sherlock's peripheral vision. Sherlock pointedly ignored her.

"Afghanistan." The shorter man answered, as though he was he was so shocked at the question that he'd suddenly forgotten.

"Alright." Sherlock affirmed, walking towards the therapist's office.

The man glanced over at Sherlock and smiled, shaking his head in disbelief before making his way out of the building.

Once Sherlock strode in the therapist's office, the woman was already sitting in her chair, looking as unpleasant (towards Sherlock, at least) as ever. He sat in a nearby arm chair and waited for her speel to begin. After a few moments of him waiting, she cleared her throat again.

"How are we this week?" She asked, her clinical voice and smile practiced and precise.

"I absolutely hate it when you say that," Sherlock told her.

"When I ask how you're doing? It's only polite-"

"No." He puts up his hand as he says it, stopping her. "That time you said it the proper way, 'How are you doing?'. When you ask how 'we' are doing, it is condescending and you are talking down to me, it is unappreciated."