【Howard】Stockholm Experiment

23

John felt like he was going to be bored to death.

The woman in front of him who claimed to be a psychiatrist was always asking him repeated questions day after day.

Although she was forced away by her irritable or indifferent self every time, she still sat in front of her bed today and began to make routine inquiries.

"Have you known the kidnapper before?"

"He's not a kidnapper, his name is Sherlock Holmes."

"What did he say or do to you during the kidnapping?"

"He didn't kidnap me."

"John, I'm helping you, just say it."

"I'm sorry."

His cold "I'm sorry" once again ended the conversation unilaterally. The psychiatrist waited for a long time in her place, and saw John closed his eyes and leaned against the bedside and didn't want to talk to her anymore, so he closed the book helplessly. , went out.

"He won't talk to me at all," she said to Mycroft, who was waiting outside the door. "He now thinks his kidnappers were right and wants to come back to him. Now he refuses to eat and rest properly. If this continues, His body won't be able to take it."

"In your opinion, what should we do?"

"Provide psychological counseling for his Stockholm symptoms, let John come out of the misunderstanding and let go of his obsession. Although I don't understand your purpose of stopping me, this is the best way."

Mycroft fell silent again, neither nodding nor vetoing.

"Sir!" The psychiatrist became anxious, "This is good for him! I can't watch such a person be destroyed by your brother!"

Yes, the culprit was his brother, he had been selfish once, and he couldn't be more selfish, Mycroft thought.

"Don't worry about it." He said, leaving her with a back view.

In fact, Mycroft worked as hard as anyone these days. Sherlock was still in the hospital, the shot had hit him in the right shoulder.In order to clean up the mess for him, he was under great pressure to fake the news that Sherlock had been killed.Now John's situation is like this again, it's not that he doesn't understand Sherlock's infatuation for him, but it's just that the development can only separate the two of them now.

It's good for them, Mycroft told himself.He got in the car and was going to the hospital where Sherlock was staying. This was his daily routine lately - running back and forth between the two hospitals.

Shortly after he left, John broke another plate, and the poor food was all fed to the floor that the nurse had swept.

If not for Mycroft's sake, his attending doctor would have packed him up and thrown him in a mental institution.

Without eating or drinking, I can't last a few days like this.

I don't know how much money Mycroft paid the psychiatrist, making her willing to do useless work every day.

The doctor was thinking about some miscellaneous things, and skillfully cleaned up the things that could be called "food" in the first few seconds on the ground.

At this time, the door of the ward was opened, and a tall and thin young man walked in.

"Hello," he looked at the confused doctor, smiling politely, "I'm John Watson's new psychiatrist, and I'm going to see him."

"Oh, please," said the doctor, "the last therapist finally broke down?"

"Is it that serious?" the young man asked, and he sat down by the bed.

"It's not very optimistic anyway." The doctor replied, closing the door behind his back.

There were only the two of them left in the ward, and it was extremely quiet for a while.

John closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. In fact, he didn't know whether he was still awake or not.

He said he didn't believe what they said, the pills were just starch.

Just kidding yourself.

"I just ask you one question," said the young man, "do you love him?"

A light flickered in the chaos of his mind.

"Love," John said.

"Well, they say you're just mentally ill," said the young man, "but I know you're not. Right, John?"

The slash at the end of the sentence carries an unparalleled sense of familiarity.

"Are you Sherlock...?" John opened his eyes and murmured.

The person in front of me is not wearing a windbreaker, but those eyes, those eyelashes, that face, that expression, and every rhythmic line, all are obsessive memories engraved on the bone, and all are the death-defying tenderness melted into the blood. .

"Look at me, John, I'm Sherlock." He sat on the bed and pulled the paper-thin man into his arms. The soft warmth warmed his silent body and mind. John shivered slightly, and then tentatively leaned his head against the on his shoulders.With a sigh of relief:

"It seems that I am really dead..."