Days pass. A week. Two.

John keeps going to see his psychologist because that’s what you do. When you’re lost. When you don’t know what else to do. When you’re trying to keep a hold of your day job.

When you’re trying to get past the reality of your best friend’s death.

In the end, he manages to spill everything to her. The man in the hoodie, the notes, the dreams he’s had. When she asks him ‘How does that make you feel?’ he answers simply,

“Like my best friend is still alive.”

It’s the first time he’s said those words; hadn’t said them to Lestrade, nor to Molly. Forget about Mycroft. They have an uneasy truce due to the combination of Mycroft’s apology and Lestrade’s reminder that Mycroft lost a brother out of all this too.

He opens up to his psychologist in ways that he can’t open up to any of them, and it’s for one good reason. He needs to know the answer to the one question he can’t ask any of his friends. He even holds off asking his psychologist for a long time; sessions fill with more silent minutes than minutes with him talking about himself.

Until the day he just asks it. “Do you think I’m crazy?”

His psychologist shifts in her seat, uncrossing her legs and then crossing them in the other direction. She takes off her glasses and then sits forward, but even then, she doesn’t make her answer quick. John feels himself grow hot and begin to sweat. It’s a horrible feeling to have here; he’s sure that she notices and it will work its way into her notes on him.

But finally, finally, she answers, “No, John, I don’t think you’re crazy.”

John exhales a breath he wasn’t even aware he was holding.

“But…?”

His psychologist holds up her hand, stopping John’s words for the first time.

“No,” she says. “Let me speak. When you first came in to me, you couldn’t even say Sherlock’s name. Could barely admit that he was really dead. Now you’re starting to accept these things, regardless of the strange circumstances surrounding them. You’ve told me that your friend Molly said that when someone misses someone as much as you miss Sherlock, the brain can start to look for things and see things that aren’t really there, and I agree with that. I believe that that was part of your process in coming to accept things the way they are. First, you had to explore all the other options.”

His psychologist waits, gauging his reaction to this announcement. John nods once. Everything she has said is fair.

“I assure you, John, that everything you have experienced is completely natural. The seemingly unnatural parts can be explained away by the nature of your relationship with Sherlock.” She, like seemingly everyone else in London, was well acquainted with the history of Sherlock and John’s friendship. But she was one of the only ones who had also heard it from John himself. “So, no. I don’t think you are crazy.”

John blinks a couple of times, but smiles. That is it. If his psychologist doesn’t think he’s crazy…

*

There’s another envelope of money sitting on his doorstep that arrives while John is out. John marks the twitching of his own fingers when he picks up the envelope and decides to put it on the mantelpiece to deal with it later. He has just come back from a really positive session and wants to keep that feeling of sanity for at least 20 minutes after arriving home.

He can already tell that it’s another envelope filled with money from the feeling of it in his hand.

The message that comes along inside of the envelope when John approaches it again with a calming cup of tea in hand only manages to confirm his suspicions. The note is made up from letters cut out of a newspaper that say only, Not from Mycroft.

This is a practical joke, John tells himself. This is Mycroft. Can’t trust the damn man with anything. Even an apology.

He shoots him a message. Just because it doesn’t come from Mycroft personally, doesn’t mean the man doesn’t know anything at all about it.

I wonder, did your assistant have a bit too much free time? Very funny.

It’s not funny. Not at all. But John has to at least try to keep things light.

When he gets the response from Mycroft a minute or so later, it’s all he can do not to slam his cup of tea down on the table.

It’s not from me this time. Although, I suspect I know who did leave it for you.

John knows exactly who he suspects. It isn’t Sherlock. And it can’t be Sherlock. And it isn’t Sherlock because Sherlock is dead.

John doesn’t respond to Mycroft again after that, doesn’t have any dreams because he doesn’t have any sleep.

It’s a long night.