Sherlock x Reader

And the dead shall walk again

Two weeks in a room. Alone. They didn't want other patients to make you worse, or vice versa.  You weren't alone all the time though. Group sessions. For what? To talk about your "feelings?" Bullshit. You were fine. Fine. But sometimes, you would see someone and something about their features, their... appearance... would set something off. You couldn't remember what it was about their features that triggered such a violent reaction in you. Well. A violent reaction at first. But that subdued. Into a shudder. Or a flinch. To replace the flailing and the screaming. But you couldn't remember why you were so affected. Every night you would lie awake, going through the faces and trying to remember what they reminded you of, that would set you off.

But you didn't remember.

The group sessions always suggested the same thing; a figure from your past that caused you pain. But how were you supposed to know which figure that was? There was nothing that stood out. Your parents? No. Being of Scandinavian origin, they both sported blonde hair and clear blue eyes. Though it hadn't stopped them from inflicting a certain amount of pain on you. However, it was a different pain that you felt, when you caught a glimpse of curly brown hair, brown eyes, or high-set cheekbones. Every time you felt close to cracking whose face you were remembering, the black swallowed your mind and left you panicking as you frantically tried to get back to the white.

And then you were back in your apartment, almost as if no time had passed though it had felt like months. The man who'd evaluated you at first seemed to deem you mentally fit to rejoin the grey mess of society. Though you apparently attacked his colleague on that first evaluation. You didn't remember it. It was all covered in black. He'd assured you that there was really no harm done. You even sensed that he was flirting with you, with him looking at you more often than the others during your group sessions, and always finding an opportunity to accidentally brush his hand against yours. He had straight, blond hair. His features were classically Greek. The black didn't engulf you when you looked at his face. So you liked to look at his face. And you liked it more when he smiled because then, you smiled. When you were leaving, he'd hurriedly scribbled his number, his personal number, onto a sheet a paper. And gave it to you. For if you ever needed to call him, he said. But sometimes, on a bad day, something would happen. Something would shift in your vision and you'd see brown curls replace the plain, light strands of hair. And the black would threaten to surround you again. So then you'd tell him, the therapist. And he would help.

When you'd gotten home, you'd dumped all your papers onto your poor kitchen table, still standing under the weight of so much unfinished work. Almost a week, or maybe two, passed until you finally felt at home. It was hard to judge the time. Sometimes days flew past and sometimes, an hour took a week to go by. But it did. And suddenly, something snapped into place in your mind. You weren't going to achieve anything sitting around. You had to earn a living. The rent was most likely overdue. Making yourself presentable, you walked to Mrs Hudson's rooms. Knocked on the door. You were nervous. But as soon as the door opened, you were swept up in a hug from the old lady. It was such a simple, yet overwhelming, show of affection. And you cried, for the first time in weeks. Emotion overcame you and that sweet woman just let you cry on her shoulder, saying that it would all be okay now. She let you in and waited until you'd finished crying to ask if you wanted a cup of tea. With the warm drink in your hand, you sat down at her little table and talked. You apologised for being late on the rent and she just shook her head, saying that it had been paid for by your parents. Seeing your confusion, she explained that she'd found their number and told them what had happened to you. And they'd cared. Enough, at least, to make sure you still had somewhere to live. They cared. And you were so grateful. Despite being bastards half the time, they cared. And you wanted to show them that you were grateful. You made a mental note to yourself. To get back to work and to show that you appreciated the gesture.