I shouldn’t have had that second cup of coffee. I’m tapping my fingers on my knuckles like I’m nervous, or lying. I wouldn’t want her to imagine either, so. Take a breath, calm down. Jesus.
I stare up at the bit of damp on the ceiling. That’s even worse: probably looks like I’m avoiding her. Or guilty of something. I push myself back into the chair, uncross my legs. Look out the window. Another grey day. It will probably rain later. Rub my temples. God. This is terrible. Look back down to her hands: fingers covering a blank page. She’s not writing anything at all. She’s just looking at me. Observing me. Evaluating me, probably. Waiting for me to explode.
You would know right away. If not from the fidgeting, then from the way my collar is buttoned, or from some stain on my trousers I didn’t notice, or the way I tied my shoes. You’d know. You’d take one look at me and say, So, you’re finally cracking up, are you? It’s been coming for a while. I’m surprised it took you this long to notice.
Well, I’ll just tell her. That’s what she’s here for, right? To help. I’ll tell her. She’ll probably prescribe me something.
“I stopped a man on the street,” I say. “No: I ran a man down on the street. I chased him like a criminal. Because I was convinced—”
I interrupt myself, swallow. Breathe. God.
This is hard to do. Take a breath, exhale. I hate therapy, why am I in therapy? Why can’t I just repress all this like any other man in my family? Like anyone else? Does everyone crack up when their best friend—
Wait. Breathe. Okay, focus. Focus. How do I say this?
“I saw him in the street, looking at me. I could feel him looking at me, you know how you can—”
That part isn’t relevant. Don’t be boring, John. Get to the point. Let’s try this again.
“I saw the long coat, you know. And curly hair. He was tall. Skinny. The collar pulled up. It was from a distance. You know what I mean.”
“Tell me,” she says. She’s not going to help me here at all. She wants me to say it. Dig my own grave.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and shut my eyes. “I thought it was him.”
Swallow again. It’s embarrassing how close to tears I am. I don’t want to be like this. I don’t want to see ghosts. I want to be all right. But I’m not, I’m really, really not. It’s like it happened yesterday, or earlier this morning: blood. Too much blood. I didn’t see the impact, but I feel like I did. I can see it perfectly well anyway. Your head must have struck the pavement first, and broken. You would have known, you would have felt it, for a few seconds. Did you see me, before you were gone? I don’t think you did. As far as you knew I was still across the street where you told me to stay. Eyes fixed on you.
If you had to die, Sherlock, which you didn’t, I would have rather been with you. Not an impossible span of feet away. That was so incredibly unfair.
Why did you want me to see that? You could have called me from anywhere. Why did you do that to me, Sherlock? Why did you make me watch?
That’s a good question.
Yeah, sure it is. You want me to ask Ella that? Hey, Ella, why do you think Sherlock forced me to watch him throw himself off a building and land on his head? Do you think he might have been, I don’t know, a psychopath with no understanding of human emotion? Or do you think he just didn’t give a shit about how it would tear me to pieces? Was I supposed to be impressed? I know you’re not much good with social cues, Sherlock, but christ. That was a cruel thing to do. Such a fucking cruel thing. You die and you make me watch. You fucking tit. What were you thinking?
It’s a good question, John. You know my methods. Why would I do that?
Don’t. Don’t send me down that road again.
“You thought it was?” Ella, prying for more details. I have to be clear with her. Maybe it will affect the dose she gives me.
“I knew it was.” That’s what so scary about this. That feeling. I knew it was you. I didn’t doubt it, I didn’t. Not at all. Like I’ve been waiting for you to come back, Sherlock. Like somewhere, somehow, I don’t believe you’re dead. I saw you. I heard you hit the ground. The blood, your skull. I saw. I felt no pulse. Your eyes, christ. Sherlock. Your eyes.
We buried you. I know you’re dead. But there’s some resistant part of me that doesn’t want to believe it. You’re smart, Sherlock. Very smart. Irene did it; a body in the morgue. DNA tests proving it’s her. But it wasn’t. Could you have done that?
But I saw you. I saw your blood. I saw.
Did you make me watch so I would have proof? Were you trying to help me avoid this magical thinking, imagining, somehow, that you’d come back to me?
“I was sure it was him,” I tell her. “I was sure. But I know he’s dead. I—”
Yes. I saw you die. I don’t want to say it. I don’t want to cry in here. I feel myself twisting my lips to hold it back. So obvious: even Ella can see that. Even I would recognize the grief on my face.
“John,” Ella says. “This is perfectly normal.”
Normal?
“You’ve endured a trauma. It’s normal for it to take time to become reality.”
It doesn’t feel very normal.
“You’re looking for him, why? There’s something you need to say to him. Something you didn’t get a chance to say. You’re looking for him to get some closure, John. It’s to be expected.”
Why is she so certain about that? What do I have left to tell you?
“Try to talk to him, John.”
“He’s—” I want to say, he’s dead, but I can’t. I can’t do it, not again. I squeeze the bridge of my nose hard. “I can’t.”
A blatant lie. You talk to me all the time.
I’m not going to tell her that. She’ll have me committed.
“Try, John.” She leans back. “Just try.”
What, now? Here? Out loud?
“What do you need to say to him?”
What do I need to say to you? I don’t know. “Why did you do this?” I look at her face to see if she approves. This is like a test at school: the teacher knows the answer, but I don’t. “Why did you do this to me?”
She raises an eyebrow. Not the right answer. Okay, then.
I shut my eyes, I try to picture you. It’s not hard. You’re always there, just behind the curtain or a door. You’re always so close.
We’re in a cab. Lestrade is just outside, the police are hovering around. They’re laughing, they’ve got their phones out. Snapping pictures, I think someone’s getting video. They’ve hauled you by your armpits into the backseat, and the driver looks terrified.
“It’s fine,” I tell him. “It’s fine, he’s fine. It’s just...it’s nothing, he’s fine. Recreational. He won’t throw up.” I hope that’s true.
They push you into the cab without much finesse, but I support your head. You’re pretty much out cold, but your fingers are twitching, like you’re trying hard to hold on to some thread of consciousness. I wonder what on earth that woman pushed into your veins; hopefully nothing addictive. Lestrade folds your legs into the cab and I rest your head in my lap. I can hear the snap of phone cameras and I look up and give them all a wry look. People will talk indeed. Now you’re curled up in my lap, my hand on your shoulder, I’m telling Lestrade to be careful with your feet. Make sure they don’t slip out and get slammed in the door. My hand is in your hair, cupping your head. I can feel your pulse racing. What on earth did she give you?
“It’s all right, Sherlock,” I tell you, though I’m fairly sure you can’t hear me. “We’re going home. It’s okay. I’ll take care of you.”
Lestrade shuts the door, and I can hear the police laughing. It doesn’t matter. You won’t care. I adjust your jacket a little, and pat you on the hip.
“We didn’t see that coming,” I tell you. “A naked woman with a syringe. She’s stolen your coat. She’s smart, like you are. You like her? I think she likes you.”
I don’t know why I’m talking to you. “Yeah, I think you do like her. I think you do. I’m sure she’ll be back.” As I say it, I feel my stomach drop in a strange way, like I don’t quite belong anymore. Like Irene is about to change everything. I don’t know why: I’m just your friend. That’s all. Irene, well. I pat your hair, and listen to your breathing. “You’ll be fine,” I say. But I mean me.
What do I want to tell you? I look down at your face in my lap. Your eyelids are fluttering slightly. You’re struggling against it still. What do I need to tell you?
I look up at Ella. “I don’t know.”
“You need to find out, John.”
I nod. I guess I do.