A/N: Hey guys, so I deviated from canon a bit and made Irene a genius psychiatrist instead of a genius dominatrix (I can’t help myself. I love Irene!).
Disclaimer: Everything in this fic that you read about therapy and psychiatrists is MADE UP. I didn’t do any research beyond a cursory Wikipedia search and once watching a Dateline special on repressed memories when I was twelve(ish). As a general rule, it is probably a bad idea to take mental health advice from imaginary characters, but I think it goes double for this fic, considering how much fun I’ve had tormenting John.
Part 14: Irene Adler: Consulting Psychiatrist
When the police were out of their depth, which was always, they called Sherlock Holmes. When Sherlock Holmes was out of his depth, which was almost never, he called Irene Adler. From time to time, when the minds of ordinary people proved to be too difficult for him to parse, he reached out to her.
Irene was a psychiatrist who specialized in treating patients who suffered from personality disorders. She often testified in murder trials, explaining the pathology behind the violence.
Mycroft had sent Sherlock to her a long time ago, out of fear that his brother exhibited homicidal tendencies. Within five minutes, she’d come to a diagnosis. She told Mycroft that his brother’s biggest problem was that he was an insufferable arse, and that so long as he was kept busy, he probably wouldn’t be much more of a menace to society than he already was.
He pasted on his most sociopathic smile as he stepped into her office. She shook her head at him in mock censure.
“So, how have you been? I haven’t heard from you in well over a year.” She said.
“Things have been interesting.” He replied
She scrutinized his face. “You owe me fifty quid.”
“What?”
“You met someone. I was right, you were wrong. Pay up.”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but reached for his wallet. In spite of his rabid curiosity, his pride did not allow him to ask her how she knew.
“What’s his name?”
“John Watson.”
“So, why isn’t he here? If he’s mad enough to take you on, he must be in need of professional help.”
“Actually, that’s why I called. I need some advice.”
“Oh, sorry.” Her tone was contrite, but she leaned forward, betraying her interest.
Sherlock began talking. He described their kiss, their confessions, and finally John’s mysterious injuries and gaps in his memory.
Irene leaned back and nibbled on her pen. “That’s very unusual. Given the past injuries you’ve observed as well as his behavior, it is possible that your relationship is triggering him into experiencing flashbacks.”
“How do you explain the amnesia? He never remembers the episodes.”
She wrinkled her brow. “That is more difficult. I’m reluctant to say that they could be repressed memories. It is a controversial diagnosis. Many psychiatrists don’t even believe that they exist. Typically, when people experience trauma, they can’t stop reliving it. Their inability to forget rather than their inability to remember is what ruins their lives.”
“John’s not wired like other people. If you put a gun to his head, he would be as relaxed as you in your living room. If he is faced with too much inactivity, he becomes depressed.”
Irene did not smile, but her voice warmed. “It sounds like you’ve met your soul mate. If he is half as twisted as you, I suppose anything could be possible.”
Fill: No Refuge from Memory: 14a/?
Disclaimer: Everything in this fic that you read about therapy and psychiatrists is MADE UP. I didn’t do any research beyond a cursory Wikipedia search and once watching a Dateline special on repressed memories when I was twelve(ish). As a general rule, it is probably a bad idea to take mental health advice from imaginary characters, but I think it goes double for this fic, considering how much fun I’ve had tormenting John.
Part 14: Irene Adler: Consulting Psychiatrist
When the police were out of their depth, which was always, they called Sherlock Holmes. When Sherlock Holmes was out of his depth, which was almost never, he called Irene Adler. From time to time, when the minds of ordinary people proved to be too difficult for him to parse, he reached out to her.
Irene was a psychiatrist who specialized in treating patients who suffered from personality disorders. She often testified in murder trials, explaining the pathology behind the violence.
Mycroft had sent Sherlock to her a long time ago, out of fear that his brother exhibited homicidal tendencies. Within five minutes, she’d come to a diagnosis. She told Mycroft that his brother’s biggest problem was that he was an insufferable arse, and that so long as he was kept busy, he probably wouldn’t be much more of a menace to society than he already was.
He pasted on his most sociopathic smile as he stepped into her office. She shook her head at him in mock censure.
“So, how have you been? I haven’t heard from you in well over a year.” She said.
“Things have been interesting.” He replied
She scrutinized his face. “You owe me fifty quid.”
“What?”
“You met someone. I was right, you were wrong. Pay up.”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but reached for his wallet. In spite of his rabid curiosity, his pride did not allow him to ask her how she knew.
“What’s his name?”
“John Watson.”
“So, why isn’t he here? If he’s mad enough to take you on, he must be in need of professional help.”
“Actually, that’s why I called. I need some advice.”
“Oh, sorry.” Her tone was contrite, but she leaned forward, betraying her interest.
Sherlock began talking. He described their kiss, their confessions, and finally John’s mysterious injuries and gaps in his memory.
Irene leaned back and nibbled on her pen. “That’s very unusual. Given the past injuries you’ve observed as well as his behavior, it is possible that your relationship is triggering him into experiencing flashbacks.”
“How do you explain the amnesia? He never remembers the episodes.”
She wrinkled her brow. “That is more difficult. I’m reluctant to say that they could be repressed memories. It is a controversial diagnosis. Many psychiatrists don’t even believe that they exist. Typically, when people experience trauma, they can’t stop reliving it. Their inability to forget rather than their inability to remember is what ruins their lives.”
“John’s not wired like other people. If you put a gun to his head, he would be as relaxed as you in your living room. If he is faced with too much inactivity, he becomes depressed.”
Irene did not smile, but her voice warmed. “It sounds like you’ve met your soul mate. If he is half as twisted as you, I suppose anything could be possible.”