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The Small Things

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The traffic’s been at a dead stop for almost half an hour and John thinks that if cars don’t start moving soon, he’ll hurl herself from the oven that is his Volkswagen and start screaming.

If he did he’s sure his therapist would have a field day interpreting his actions. There was bound to be some hidden meaning behind John’s frustration, it was never as simple as the fact that he was hot, tired and just wanted to get home.

No, it would be related to Sherlock. His therapist thought everything was related to Sherlock. She was convinced he wasn’t being honest with her. Convinced that he had feelings he hadn’t said out loud.

He did, but that wasn’t the point.

John was a military man, hardened to many things, which meant it took a lot for him to react expressively. And if he did it wouldn’t be big things. It would be smaller things. Like still making tea for Sherlock, still buying enough groceries for two people and refusing to throw away experiments that had long gone past being of any use.

But she wasn’t looking for small cracks in his veneer; she was looking for big gaping holes. Holes she would never find in a thousand sessions let alone the next four mandatory sessions he had left.

A car horn brought John out of his reverie and he realised the traffic was moving once more. He put the car into first gear and went with the flow. No screaming today then, he thought.