Visit to the Psychologist: A Sherlock Fanfiction Story

Visit to the Psychologist: A Sherlock Fanfiction Short Story

221B Baker Street was a quiet place this particular morning. The autumn sky was a canvas smeared with dark gray paint, serving as regrettable reminder for those who did not take a vacation to Hawaii last summer; the faithful housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson, was cleaning the linens and humming softly as she usually did on days that promised nothing but peace, calm, and limitless serenity; Doctor John Watson sat at his desk, absorbed in a blog post that had nothing to do with his new housing situation and everything to do with a certain study of medicine that he had researched as part of his medical field.

And Sherlock Holmes was bored. The walls were also far from hole-free. Of course, the holes had been there for years, but the newer ones were from the night before. The restless detective could not sleep because there was no case, the only condition that could make his life truly unbearable. Though he rarely slept anyhow, case or no case.

The peaceful morning was suddenly interrupted by its first gunshot.

Below was heard a scream that turned into a vexed wail from Mrs. Hudson. Watson was so startled that he jumped in his chair, hitting his leg painfully against the table leg, and he found himself holding down Z on the keyboard. Shaking with frustration, he slammed his laptop and jumped out of his chair, facing the door to the detective's study all in one move. He opened his mouth, hesitated, and then called.

"Sherlock!"

The door to the study opened. Sherlock Holmes peeked out and said very quickly, "No such thing as too much practice," and then closed it just as abruptly as it had been opened.

Doctor John Watson's foot kept it from closing all the way. "Yes, and I am coming in to stop your 'practice'," he declared quickly, "I know it's only been a couple days, but I have had e-nough of your exercises, especially your pistol and the endless amount of holes in the walls of this flat. If you keep this up, I will certainly get very concerned! This place might not ever get sold ..." Watson's wild arm gestures sufficiently added to the enthusiasm of this speech.

The expression on the pleasantly surprised detective's face assumed that he had just tasted a juicy water beetle. "Who said any-thing about selling the flat?" He asked, hardly ruffled.

Watson gave jerky frustrated movements with his head, a habit common of his character, and felt at a loss of what to say. Sherlock Holmes left the door and began pacing the small room with a smoking pistol behind his back, obviously at the height of boredom. John Watson stood there for three quiet minutes and waited for Holmes to stop pacing. This never happened. Once it became clear that Sherlock had no intention of slackening his restless walking back and forth, Watson quickly nodded to communicate that he was about to make a suggestion, and began to talk.

"You know, um," he began, as if not so sure of what he was about to say, "I know you don't have anxiety disorders ... but I've been meaning to tell you this for a while, and I think now I finally should convince you of something."

Sherlock had not stopped pacing. "Convince me of what?" He said sharply.

"To go see an expert," Watson quickly wrapped up in a sigh, and then looked up at the hole-decorated ceiling, "not that you obviously need one," he added, feigning sarcasm, "but I think it might come in handy for me to have your, er, mental stability checked."

Sherlock looked at the doctor and blinked as if he had just woken up. "Just exactly what are you trying to get at?"

"This is what I am trying to get at," John Watson said, getting into a comfortable and conversational mindset, "remember when I nearly went crazy after hearing you rant on about otherwise inconspicuous facts about my life upon our first meeting each other a few days ago? Perhaps you'd missed making the deduction that would lay bare the fact that I myself have been seeing a therapist for quite some time. The point is, since you are not ... um, since you are a bit, uh, messed up--" here he made the cuckoo sign, "I thought that you had better go see a psychologist. Er, just to get their opinion, let's say."