"Gillian."

"Anderson, please."

"Anderson. Maybe you should write about it."

"Write about what? My feelings about having made an innocent man plunge to his death? I feel awful. Only so much to write."

"That's not what I meant."

"What did you mean, then?"

"Start at the beginning. From the first time you met him. From before that, even. Write everything."

Anderson rubs his face, grimacing. He knows he looks more than a little wild-eyed as he stares at his therapist's calm face. He does nothing to hide it; this is her job, after all, and since when has anyone made his job any easier for him? No need to pass along a nonexistent favor. "And how could that help?"

"Maybe you're hiding something from yourself. Maybe you need to go back and remember everything. Maybe—" she pauses, considering him carefully "—you'll remember why it isn't your fault."

"It is my fault!"

"It isn't, Gillian—"

"Anderson."

"Anderson. It isn't. It really, really isn't. And I'm asking you to do this. Anderson, I'm trying to help you, but I can only do so much. You need to do what I'm asking."

Deep breath. "Okay. Okay. I'll try. I won't promise anything, but I'll try." And I mean it, he thought to himself, if I'm being honest. He takes a second deep breath and holds it as the woman across from him launches into a list of grief management resources, barely listening.

He takes the tube home. The metal pole sways gently in his hand as he stands against it, watching the others without much interest. He has a long journey ahead of him; he knows he can afford to doze, surrounded by students tapping away at cellphones and mothers with small children. A pair of Americans jabber away. I haven't written anything since I was in uni how does she expect me to it's too big I can't well I could but I don't want to remember well I sort of owe Him don't I? Sigh. I owe Him but writing why writing there's nothing inherent in the act of writing of all things except communication and nobody is ever going to read this ever over my dead body will anyone read it hopefully not literally I would like to stay alive He's not even around to find my potential murderer He would've loved that case Sally would've suspected Him in a heartbeat but I don't think so no it wouldn't be that Watson he must be dying surprised he even responded but it was helpful and the tube sways and he taps the pole aimlessly and rubs the indentation where his wedding ring once was and studies the graffiti on the blue plastic seats.

When he's back on the street, blinking in the sudden light, it's Baker Street and he's gotten off six stops too soon.

He catches himself staring in the direction of His flat and shakes himself, hurrying in the opposite direction. Damn not where I want to be a quick walk to clear my head how did I end up here really would look stupid to go back down into the tube walk away from 221B don't want to run into Watson don't want to be punched would he punch me probably I don't know. Busy intersection. A pair of double deckers roll by. He looks, waits, crosses, walks. Walks. I don't even have anything to write in I could use my computer but no I don't think that's as helpful helpful an hour ago I thought writing was pointless helpful how I dunno there's something old what's the word archaic writing by hand has been around for eons probably this is important then if it's been around this long cracks in the pavement, shop windows and cars, and a blue and white sign that says WH Smith catches his eye.

It's a bookstore, a small one, cheap-looking, nothing like Waterstone's or that holy mecca Blackwell's an hour north. No, this one sells romance novels and greeting cards and can't possibly be at all related to what he's looking for which is what, exactly? He's not sure but he's fairly positive there must be a notebook in the place somewhere, which is what he's actually looking for. He's not sure about the mental aberration there but thinks it might have something to do with the lack of sleep and he pushes the door open and walks into the store. It is, as suspected, full of poorly printed paperbacks and shabby-looking shelves and the clerk at the desk is tired enough for the nod in his direction to be mostly unintentional, but Anderson knows that feeling and doesn't judge the clerk, much. "Notebook?" he asks and is gratified when the sleepy clerk wakes up enough to sling an easy thumb towards the back.

He amuses himself wondering what He would have deduced about the clerk and realizes as he stops that he's synchronized his steps to the fly that's rhythmically throwing itself against the front window, buzzing. It's August—three months after—and it's hot, it's hot in London, and the flies are out in force which annoys everyone but Anderson doesn't really mind, not at the moment anyway, he's looking over the notebooks because he might as well anyway. His therapist is somewhat incompetent he thinks and they don't get on and he's convinced this newest therapeutic plan will fail because so far everything else has although perhaps he shouldn't be too hasty but he may as well just buy the damn notebook because if he doesn't she won't even think he's tried at all. WH Smith isn't Waterstone's and the notebooks aren't great and Anderson cares about quality, even when it's just a notebook, it's important. It has to feel right in his hands because after all he will be entrusting it with what exactly, his deepest secrets? You sound like a tween girl, he thinks to himself, and it doesn't really matter and he picks up a plain yellow spiral-bound one and then suddenly it does matter because he's found the right one, and it's black and thin and tall (can a notebook be tall? this one is) and leather and the pages are gridded, and he knows instantly that yes, he can fill this one. The fly is still buzzing and the clerk lets out a bit of a snore and Anderson has just surprised himself by sincerely meaning to do exactly what his therapist asks.

Twelve pounds later he's strolling back to the underground station feeling good about the world and resolving to stop for pizza on the final walk to his flat.

At home, he discovers that "sincerely meaning to do" and "actually doing" are two different things entirely. He's eaten his pizza and lagged a bit over the washing up and checked his email (nothing new there he's not on the force anymore so nobody regularly stays in contact with him) and delayed all he can so he sits down in front of the window and stares at the terrifying potential of the blank page. It's starting to get a bit dark and so he's turned on a few lights but the glow of the sunset is still coming through his bank of windows and he's not. He's not writing. The page is orange in front of him and he's holding a new pen because isn't that what they did in ancient times, used a new pen every time they wrote YHWH and Anderson knows he thinks of Him as Him, with the capital, so starting with a new pen is appropriate even though it's somewhat messed up and he's still not writing because the page is blank and his mind is stuffed far too full and the transition from thoughts to words is a painful process and he's not scared, he tells himself, but he is.

Time passes and Anderson runs though the memories in his mind and can't bring the new pen to the blank paper. He knows he has to start and Anderson is nothing if not incredibly stubborn and this is something he's chosen to be stubborn about, this writing, and it's agonizing because he's never wanted to do anything quite so much before well probably he has but this, this is consuming his mind at the moment, this is the most important thing in the world, why aren't there riots outside screaming themselves hoarse and demanding he starts the first word and what is the first word and he realizes that the first word has to be him, who he is, his name, and after that, His name, and after that, the fact. So he puts the new pen to the new paper and writes the new sentence:
I am Gillian Anderson and Sherlock Holmes is dead because of me.
He looks at it and it looks at him, innocent as words can be, and he knows they're guilty but right now they're just shapes on a page, and that's enough for now. He takes a shower because the Hebrew scribes cleaned themselves ritually after writing the name of YHWH but he sure as hell is not getting another new pen and he thumbs his ring finger as he slumps into bed.

NOTES: Gatiss has said Anderson's first name is Moira, Sylvia, and Gillian. I went with Gillian and let's assume Anderson hatesit.