Visit to the Psychologist: A Sherlock Fanfiction Story

Visit to the Psychologist: A Sherlock Fanfiction Short Story

Sherlock was now sitting in his armchair, elbows on the armrests and his hands together beneath his chin in the thoughtful position that made him a most iconic figure, his eyes half closed while listening to Watson. When the doctor finished having his say, Holmes got up to examine the only wall that had no holes, an untidy mess of papers and string going in different directions all over the place. In his mind, this was tidiness. He then quickly turned on his heel to face John Watson. The smiling expression on his face was so comically unexpected that Watson twitched.

"My ... dear ... Watson," Sherlock said, opening his arms wide and talking slowly and impressively, "let's say I'll play along."

"You mean you'll go?" Watson said, his breathing slowing down.

"Well, I have weighed the odds," Sherlock said, putting on a theatrical appearance, "and I don't see why not. I have no case and I might as well go have a bit of fun before this dreadful monotony finishes me off."

Watson had given a sigh of relief, but at the word fun, he tilted his head as if he hadn't heard right. "Wha-- no, no, Sherlock, you are not going to ---"

"Then I won't go," Sherlock cut him off shortly.

Mrs. Hudson cleaned her way into the kitchen. John Watson was not at the kitchen table and was in Holmes's office. The kindly old housekeeper was oblivious to this, and with her back turned while dusting the top of the fridge, she talked to him.

"How is your post coming, John?"

She continued cleaning without a turn of the head.

"Did you hear Sherlock's gunshot, John! Land sakes, I honestly think I will lose my nut once and for all if he ever gets bored again!"

She stopped dusting and brought her arms down, as if just realizing something, and turning around slowly, she said, "On second thought, have you seen-- oh!"

The silent kitchen confronted her surprised face, and she listened for the slightest noise. That was when she heard two muffled voices arguing down the hall in Sherlock's study. Shaking her head, she decided not to be a peacemaker just this once; leave it to them this time to figure things out.

Noon found Sherlock Holmes walking nonchalantly out 221B. He immediately signaled a taxi. Twelve o'clock was the busiest time of the day on Baker Street, so there were quite a few cabbies waiting on the sides of streets for busy passersby.

Sherlock was far from busy.

When he found out who his cabbie was, it was too late. Doors were closed and the seatbelt on. The young freckle-faced driver looked excitedly via his rear view mirror at the frowning detective.

"What case is it now, Mr. Holmes?"

"I'm not on a case, Jedidiah," Sherlock said, trying not to sound too lackadaisical. Because that was very much what he was feeling right now. Rarely did he ever get to spend time doing other things outside of his flat that didn't have to do with a case. Especially to see a psychologist about himself.

One hour later found Sherlock Holmes sitting across a desk from a tall, business-like man with large glasses and a relaxed manner. For two whole minutes, Sherlock sat there, eyeing the busy psychologist, who knew little of how much information about himself was being processed in his patient's mind as he took some last minute notes.

Holmes felt that he had wasted enough time already, and, bored with his findings in the deductions of the psychologist, decided to break the silence. "So, Brad, when shall we start? Or would you rather finish taking notes of what to explain to your wife about your boss's damaging alcohol addiction?"