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Dr. John Watson sat in the therapist’s chair and said nothing. His therapist was sitting across from him saying nothing. Both of them had been saying nothing for at least five minutes now. It had become a contest and John wondered if they’d sit like this for the full hour. It was fine by him.
Another minute ticked by before the therapist said, “You’re angry again. Why?”
“The damn dog didn’t come back last night.”
“This stray I’ve been feeding.”
“Why are you feeding a stray dog? Do you want a dog?”
“No. I don’t want a dog.”
John didn’t want to care for anything again. He wasn’t certain he could care for anything again.
“Then why are you feeding one? And why are you angry it didn’t come back last night?”
John shifted his position. He spotted a stray hair on his jeans. A curly, black dog hair about 20 centimeters in length. He picked it off and dropped it. He watched the black hair fall to the floor.
“I don’t know. He followed me home one night and hung around the bins. I had a steak that was about to go bad. I thought why waste it, so I gave it to him. He came back the next night. I gave him chicken. I’d saved some bangers for him last night.”
The therapist’s voice was starting to irritate John. Mycroft had been right. He should have fired her. He should never have come back after… after the Fall. But it seemed too much effort to find someone else, to have to go through everything again. Harry. Afghanistan.