Of Dubious and Questionable Memory
By Diandra Hollman
---
John
---
I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised that Mycroft's secret detention
center had a fully equipped medical lab. Though the implications were rather
disturbing to consider.
Thomas assisted in the preparations and guided me to finding the tiny chip
just beneath Sherlock's scalp. It didn't require more than the smallest of
cuts to retrieve, thankfully, so shaving his hair was not necessary. No
doubt it had been months before when Thomas had stitched the original wound.
The one he'd acquired during the accident.
Thomas' hands were steady, practiced and professional, but his voice was
anything but. He spoke quietly, hesitantly. As if he couldn't quite grasp
the sudden change in his circumstances. No doubt the visible chafing on his
wrists from the handcuffs made it impossible to forget that he was still
technically being held captive.
"I've got it," I announced as I felt the pincers grip the tracker.
"Stop," Thomas said with more force to his voice than he'd used since we
began. "He's going to be sick."
I let go and stepped back instinctively, only a moment before Sherlock
lurched sideways on the table and heaved. Thomas held a rubbish bin in
position and supported him with practiced ease, soothing him as he moaned
pitifully, being unable to bring up more than a thin bile. When had he last
eaten?
"It's all right, love," Thomas whispered, his thumb tracing the ridge of
Sherlock's jaw. "Just breathe."
Sherlock huffed in annoyance, but seemed to obey the gentle command and lean
into Thomas' touch gratefully. It was the most obvious confirmation of the
affection he held for the man that I had witnessed to that point.
I caught the glint of the light bouncing off Sherlock's wedding band as his
hand covered Thomas'. He nodded and I sensed a wordless conversation pass
between them.
"Can you finish," Thomas asked me, barely taking his eyes off Sherlock.
"Yeah," I said, though I hesitated to move.
"Do it," Sherlock ordered, though his voice slurred a bit, making him sound
less than commanding. "Take it out now."
I touched the bleeding wound tentatively, testing his pain response. Maybe
the numbing agent hadn't set in yet? But he didn't give any indication he
felt the touch. I looked to Thomas. "We should find an anti emetic..."
"Now," Sherlock snapped.
"Shh, just relax," Thomas murmured.
Right. Quicker the better, I supposed. I gently pried the wound open and
tried to get the pincers directly back around the chip. It only took a
couple seconds and then Sherlock grunted as I tugged it free. "Got it," I
said triumphantly, dropping it on the tray and pressing gauze over the
bleeding incision.
Thomas reached for Sherlock's throat suddenly, checking his pulse and
calling "sweetheart?" Whether from pain or his growing illness, Sherlock had
passed out. Thomas' eyes turned to me nervously and I saw a mixture of pain,
guilt and possibly fear in them. Fear of what, I wasn't sure. But it was at
that moment, I think, that I first understood why Sherlock so firmly
believed Thomas incapable of hurting him.
"Get the anti-emetic," I said quietly.
He hesitated only a moment before he went to the medicine cabinet to search
for something suitable. He returned in short order with two bottles, which
he held out to me.
"You'll have to do it."
"I know," he said, still holding the bottles out to me. And I realized he
wasn't offering them to me so I could administer the drugs. He was letting
me read the labels and give my approval.
I looked him in the eyes and said "I trust you." A bit foolish, maybe. It
was possible one of the bottles contained benzodiazepine or something
similar to his anesthetic concoction. But no matter how badly it might have
pained him to see Sherlock suffer, I didn't think he would try anything
under Mycroft's nose as it were.
By the time he'd changed gloves and got the needle prepped with a mixture of
the drugs, Sherlock started to come round.
"It's all right," Thomas soothed. "You're safe. I'm here. John's here."
"John..." Sherlock sounded lost and confused.
I touched his shoulder gently, keeping pressure on the cut with my other
hand. "I'm right here."
"You're real..."
It wasn't quite clear if he was asking or stating a fact. My eyes met
Thomas'. He still looked fearful and pained, but now his eyes were decidedly
wet.
"Yes, darling," he answered. "He's really here. Can you open your eyes for a
moment?"
Sherlock groaned softly as he complied. He was rewarded with a warbling
smile.
Thomas held the vials of medicine up so Sherlock could see them. "I'm going
to give you an anti-emetic and some paracetamol. Is that all right?"
Sherlock grunted an assent with barely a pause for consideration. Either he
was as convinced as I was that Thomas wouldn't try anything untoward or he
was beyond caring. I hoped it was the former.
I lifted the gauze a bit to verify that the bleeding had slowed before
warning "I'm going to do a couple stitches. You all right?"
"Yes, get on with it," Sherlock grumbled.
Thomas returned to my side, handing me sutures and using a bottle of sterile
water to flush the wound so I could see what I was doing. It did only
require two stitches. If it had been anywhere else, he might have got away
with just a butterfly plaster.
"You all right, love," Thomas asked after the first stitch was tied off.
"You're avoiding addressing me by my name," Sherlock noted tiredly. "You're
afraid it will reinforce the conditioning. Or else complicate it. Have you
always done that?"
I hadn't noticed he was relying overly on pet names until that moment. Trust
Sherlock to be aware of details even in his condition.
Thomas glanced at me before returning his focus to the wound. "I don't like
making you ill."
"Mmm. You can stop it now. Avoiding it will only prolong the recovery
process. And the anti-emetic will counter the effects anyway."
Thomas' eyes darted to my face nervously before refocusing on my hands. He
said nothing.
I cleared my throat and asked "what should we call you? Thomas? James?"
"Henry," Sherlock answered before he could speak. He reached for the
man clumsily and for a moment I feared he was signaling a need to vomit
again. But his long fingers just wrapped around Henry's wrist.
Henry blinked rapidly and nodded.
"Right," I said gently as I tied off the last stitch. "That should do it."
"Slowly," Henry warned as he helped Sherlock sit up on the gurney.
Sherlock grunted with annoyance, but didn't argue with him. For him, it was
a massive accommodation. Although it could have mostly been owed to the
nausea the movement caused, which was only being tenuously held at bay by
the meds.
Henry cradled his head carefully, as if he were holding an injured bird, and
looked into Sherlock's eyes with the critical consideration of a doctor
assessing his patient. Sherlock covered his hands and tugged them away with
a nod. Another silent exchange between them. He inspected the damage to
Henry's wrists as I had done earlier before looking him in the eyes.
"It doesn't matter who procured the drugs. And it doesn't matter if the
danger was a serial killer or my own drug induced hallucinations. You have
spent these past months keeping me alive. Even if your reasons for doing it
weren't entirely selfless, you don't deserve to be punished for your
efforts. I have done far worse to protect the people I care about." He
looked at me pointedly and I recalled the sight of the back of Charles
Magnusson's head exploding. Sherlock had murdered him to protect me. To
protect Mary and Rosie.
He turned back to Henry. "You are one of those people. I meant what I said
yesterday. I will keep you safe. Even if the biggest threat to your well
being is me." He took a slow, heavy breath. "And if that means I must
continue taking the drug until you both deem the side effects of withdrawal
to be at a safe minimum, then I will do so willingly."
Henry's breath caught and he stared at Sherlock as if he was certain he had
misheard. My own shock at this change of sentiment was tempered by our years
of friendship and the understanding that to him, this was the only logical
next step.
"I don't want to," Sherlock added. "But I trust that you will only
use continuing the drug as a last resort if the danger of not doing so
proves too great..."
Henry kissed him, smothering anything else he might have said, unflinching
despite the fact that Sherlock's breath must have been foul with all the
vomiting he'd been doing. When he broke the kiss, he pressed their foreheads
together and whispered, "I never wanted you to forget."
"I know," Sherlock sighed. "It's why I have always trusted you even when I
knew you were lying to me. You would never do anything to hurt me unless
doing so prevented something far worse. But you have also taken advantage of
my condition to conceal parts of your past from me and I would like that to
stop now."
Henry's breath grew heavy, thick with building tears. He shook his head
slightly, not in argument but in protest of something that obviously pained
him.
"You don't have to tell me anything. Just let me discover it in my notes."
"It's not the telling that makes it unbearable," Henry all but whispered.
"It's the way it changes everything. How you look at me. How you touch me."
He took a deep breath and pulled back so he could look Sherlock in the eye.
"Even when you try not to do anything differently, you still treat me as if
I am damaged. One false move or poorly chosen word away from shattering
completely."
"Maybe that's because you never let me have all the data. If I could be
confident in my knowledge of what triggers you, I wouldn't have to fear
stumbling upon it accidentally."
The same head shake. Henry didn't believe him. Sherlock reached to cup his
face, pressing a thumb to the healing bruise beneath his eye. Or perhaps
wiping away a tear. "But I will never be certain unless you allow me to
prove my theory. You said it yourself. I keep working it out. Trust me to do
it properly."
Henry swallowed thickly and slowly, almost reluctantly nodded. He kissed
Sherlock again, tenderly and with obvious affection and I began to feel
awkward about observing their interaction. I busied myself with cleaning up
the surgical tools, trying to ignore their quiet discussion, but unable to
get far enough away in the small room to not hear it at all.
"I can compel my brother..."
"Do you have..."
"...Mrs. Hudson...John?"
It took me a moment to realize Sherlock was trying to ask me something. I
turned back to find him looking at me. "Sorry?"
"Is 221b still available?"
"Er...yes. Mrs. Hudson only just got round to trying to fix it up to put
back on the market. And when we knew you were alive and coming home, she
started stocking the fridge and pantry in anticipation."
"It's a two bedroom," Henry said and it was unclear if it was a question or
who that question might have been directed at.
Either way, Sherlock responded. "We won't need the second bedroom. Unless
John or Rosie needs it."
Henry averted his eyes, obviously feeling awkward acknowledging their
sleeping arrangements in front of me. I felt a pang of sympathy for him. He
was obviously a private, possibly even shy person and Sherlock... wasn't.
"We're fine for the moment. Though I'm sure she'll be eager to see her
godfather again."
Sherlock snorted. "She's too young to retain memories yet. She might have a
vague recognition of me still, but she hardly noticed my absence."
"Right." Sometimes I forgot who I was talking to. "I'll talk to Mycroft
about releasing you then."
"That won't be necessary," Sherlock replied.
"Yes, it is. He trusts my judgment."
"Fine," Sherlock agreed. "Can I use your mobile? I need to speak to Lestrade
before he leaves Cressington Park."
---
Sherlock
---
Convincing Mycroft to drop charges against Henry is easy. Convincing him to
release the drugs Lestrade had confiscated back to Henry so that he can
continue my treatment proves a bit more difficult. In the end it is John who
has to assure both Lestrade and my brother that this is the best solution
and he will monitor my condition and ensure that my recovery progresses.
The responses John and Henry had to my conclusions are similar and yet
diametrically opposite. Henry is horrified by the prospect of continuing my
"treatment", yet relieved as it reduces the risks to my health. If he needed
to atone for the months spent lying to me, I could very easily make the
argument that all the time he has spent caring for me and torturing himself
with this moral debate is sufficient penance.
John obviously doesn't like the idea of allowing me to continue consuming
the drug that affects my memory as a solution - especially as I've told him
previously I had no intention of doing so again - but he is practical. He
accepts my assessment of the risks involved and understands that losing my
memories - painful as that might be - is preferable to having a stroke or a
heart attack.
They both love me and want to see me through this illness, no matter what it
takes. I have every confidence in their joint ability to do so.
Mrs. Hudson welcomes me back to 221b with open arms. She is warm, but far
more reserved toward Henry and I wonder just how many of the suspicions John
and Mycroft had about him she was made aware of. Like John though, she seems
to trust my judgment of him.
The first thing Henry does once John leaves us to our own devices in the
flat is acclimate himself to the kitchen and begin making food he insists I
must eat despite my protests.
"You need something in your stomach. Don't argue with me."
I settle in to the table, spreading out all the data I have both in hard
copy and on the laptop and set about reconstructing the last nine months and
separating fact from fiction. Starting with Gruener.
Obviously Gruener the brilliant psychotic serial killer was a total fiction.
I arrange all the murders attributed to him into two categories: pure
fiction based on recent suicides, accidents or unexplained deaths and
sensational accounts of the hits James Armitage carried out. John fit in
neither as I wrote that account using the pattern suggested by the others as
a guide.
Henry is visibly nervous as he confirms which deaths he was responsible for.
He takes care to justify each one - the black market arms dealer, the
trafficker in abducted girls, a ranking member of Al Quaida - until I
finally assure him he doesn't need to.
"I don't believe you would blindly follow an order you believed to be
unjust. You could only have taken another man's life if you believed his
death served the greater good."
The pain and tears in his eyes make it clear I've struck a nerve. I push the
plate of pasta I've hardly touched aside and take his hands. "Whatever
you're thinking of right now doesn't change anything."
"I know," he says shakily, gripping my hands to reassure himself. "You told
me once that the world was better off without him in it and you didn't care
how I'd done it."
"Andrew Gruner." It's not a question. I am absolutely certain he killed his
abusive ex husband. He nods anyway. "I assume I've told you what I did to
Charles Magnusson?"
"You did," he says quietly.
"Everything I've read suggests Gruener was just as monstrous, perhaps even
more so. You were lucky to have survived his cruelty. His death shouldn't
haunt you." But it does. I can see the moral struggle in his eyes. Which
tells me exactly what sort of man he is and justifies my desire to protect
him.
"I did survive," he agrees. "But I know that's not because I was stronger
than my mother. Just like I know the fact that it took me so long to leave
him doesn't make me weaker. I fantasized about killing him many times.
Poisoning him. Stabbing him. Strangling him with one of the ropes in his
collection. With a necktie. The one thing that always stopped me was the
fear that I would be caught. Because if I had to spend the rest of my life
in a prison cell because of him...then he would have won."
People often wonder why victims of abuse stay with their abusers long past
the point where they are able to deny the pattern. Part of it is denial that
the same person - usually a man, but not always - they fell in love with
could hurt them. They chase the high they feel when the abuser showers them
with attention and adoration and delude themselves into believing that maybe
this time his dark side will stay buried. The other part, either
alternatively or in some combination, is that they are justifiably terrified
that any attempt to leave the abuser will result in their death. Most
homicides resulting from domestic violence happen when the abused party
tries to leave.
I'm sure Henry must know this. I probably said something to this effect one
of the times I successfully worked out his history. But it can still be
difficult for survivors to accept the truth of it, even in hindsight.
He is staring at our entwined hands. As if he can't bear to look me in the
eye for fear of seeing the pity he dreads. "I got lucky. I got away and was
reasonably assured he wouldn't find me. But I was terrified of going back
home. To England even, much less London. My nightmares all revolved around
the fear that he would find me." He blinks rapidly and shakes his head
slightly. "I still told myself that wasn't the reason I ordered the hit.
That it was because I knew I wouldn't be the last of his victims. That I was
stopping him before he hurt others who didn't have the resources I did. That
I was justified."
"You were," I interrupt. "The authorities were obviously incapable of
recognizing the threat he posed to you or anybody else. You were the only
one who could have stopped him." I pause and observe the way his lip quivers
and a tear spills down his cheek as he nods. "Is this the first time you
admitted the role you played in his death?" I am assuming, of course, that
what he has told me is true. But he has no reason to lie now.
"Not exactly. I described it to you as I did to the agent who carried it
out, casting him as a victim of Thomas Gruener. You removed it from your
notes four months ago and made me swear I would never put it back in because
he didn't deserve to be thought of as a victim whose killer was never
brought to justice."
Despite all the conclusions of the past two days, it only occurs to me now
that Henry spent months convincing me he was a monster and the vile people
he killed his innocent prey. "And you don't deserve to be thought a
murderer." The pieces are falling into place rapidly now. "You were able to
hide from him, but that wasn't enough. He still held power over you. You
needed to be free of him. And your work with MI6 provided the means. But you
still couldn't do it yourself and risk any suspicion falling on you. As you
said, being imprisoned for his murder would only give him victory over you.
So you detailed the plan to a professional. Someone skilled, like you, in
creating accidents."
His eyes have drifted from mine. He swallows thickly and nods.
I give his fingers a quick squeeze and he looks into my eyes again. "But you
are still allowing him power over you by torturing yourself with guilt or
fear of some sort of karmic retribution. No one is seeking vengeance for
that man's death. You shouldn't feel any more guilt over it than you would
any of the ones you carried out under government orders."
"I know," he says softly. "But if I don't feel even the smallest amount of
guilt over taking a life...what makes me any less monstrous than they were?"
"The fact that you are even asking that question," I answer easily. A scrap
of data floats to the forefront of my mind, but I can't recall where I ever
read it. That ancient cultures put more value on warriors who could shed
tears after battle than the ones who stifled all emotion in order to appear
more fearsome. Because the ability to cry over being forced to make that
choice made them more human.
Thomas was an innocent victim. James was a trained killer. Henry is the
broken bits of both men, plagued by the morality of his actions and
struggling to find happiness and peace.
Numerous times in my journal I have expressed unease over the apparent
imbalance in our relationship. The assumption being that I am not holding up
my end and he is practically a saint to put up with me. Now that I have a
more complete picture of him, I understand the part I really play.
I stand up and circle the table, pulling him up out of his chair. He is
surprised by the sudden action, but offers no protest. I cup his face in my
hands and kiss him, firmly, but not forcefully. He makes a noise somewhere
between a whimper and a groan and surrenders to it, leaning into me. His
hands reach up to grip my shoulders, steadying himself. He makes a small,
helpless sort of sound as I turn my attention to his neck and I feel any
hesitations he may have still had melt, his body relaxing.
'I could do anything I want to him right now,' I think. The arousal clouding
my brain clears a moment later as I realize this is exactly the submissive
tendency Gruener took advantage of.
'It's about trust,' the woman had said.
He trusts me not to hurt him as others have. And because I could sense that
trust - that vulnerability - I have trusted him with my life even when all
the evidence I had suggested he could be dangerous.
He is dangerous. But no more than I am. And certainly not to me.
His eyes open, confused by the sudden loss of sensation as I have pulled
back. His pupils are dilated. He gasps as I cup the front of his trousers,
feeling his cock stir against my palm.
"Will you fuck me?"
His gaze darkens and he shifts, pressing against my hand. He licks his lips
and nods.
---
Thankfully, Mrs. Hudson didn't disturb my more...personal belongings.
Everything is as I left it in the dresser drawer. Henry offers to use a
condom despite no evidence of either of us using one these past months. He
claims it will help him "last longer", but I assure him that is not
necessary as I don't expect I will have much better endurance. Besides, I
have seen plenty of video and anecdotal evidence of his impressive stamina.
He takes it as a challenge and spends more time than seems necessary on
foreplay until I wonder if his goal is to get me off before he's even inside
me. It certainly feels like he could succeed in that endeavor.
I moan and thrust into the increasingly sodden pillow beneath my hips as he
gives a particularly obscene lick. I am past caring if I am being too loud.
If Mrs. Hudson or the neighbors can hear me.
"Shh..." I shiver as he whispers directly into my ear, not having registered
the movement. I feel of the blunt, wet head of his cock pressing against me
for a moment and then he sinks inside. I gasp as my body offers no
resistance, muscles shifting to accommodate him with obvious familiarity.
"All right?" he pants.
I know he is asking after my comfort, but the logistics are all wrong. "No,
wait," I mutter.
He pulls out immediately, babbling apologies, and I realize too late my
mistake. "I should have used more slick...did I hurt you? I'm sorry...we
don't have to..."
I kiss him forcefully to stop the torrent, mumbling "shut up" into his
mouth. I run through the advantages and disadvantages of multiple standard
positions in my head before remembering the video I recorded days ago. Me in
the dominant position, him penetrating. A sort of balance of power. I think
I know how I can improve upon that theme.
I manhandle him into position reclining against the bedhead and leave him
momentarily to search for suitable bindings. His expression darkens as I
press the sash from my dressing gown into his hands a present him with my
wrists in clear indication of what I expect him to do with it.
"Turn around," he says, his voice soft, but deeper and darker than before. I
follow his instructions and he expertly binds my arms behind my back. At the
forearms, not the wrists and tight, but not painfully so. His experience is
obvious. As is his excitement at seeing me restrained. I wonder if he will
let me experiment with different variables in future.
I straddle him as gracefully as I am able and pause while he locates the
bottle of lubricant and ensure his cock is sufficiently slick. He guides me
into position, but allows me to control the speed of penetration. It is an
odd sensation, feeling my body open to him with an ease of familiarity even
though I can't quite remember doing this before. I pause when I am fully
seated to give myself a moment to adjust to the sensations.
"All right," he asks gently, sounding a bit overwhelmed, but still far more
in control than I feel.
I nod and widen my stance, a whimper slipping out of me as that causes him
to sink just a little deeper. He may not be significantly above average in
endowment, but this position allows me to feel every inch of him keenly.
His hands stroke my thighs, abdomen and hips. He makes no effort to move
anything below his waist or force me to move. The fact that he is not taking
advantage of the situation proves that he understands what I am doing. I am
at his mercy despite being in the more dominant position. I am demonstrating
my trust in him while also proving that he can trust me. I rock gently in
his lap, not really thrusting, but unable to remain still any longer. He
grunts and grips the back of my thighs.
"We both know...you've no trouble coming like this," he says, the strain in
his voice a testament to his restraint.
"I assume you mean without manual stimulation. I never said you couldn't
touch me. You can do whatever you like. You have full control over when - or
if - I achieve orgasm." I'm sure he won't actually torment me by keeping me
on edge for very long, but I won't object to anything he does regardless.
There is a hesitation while he reads my face. Then his hands tighten on my
hips. I buck against his hold instinctively, my body chasing the pleasurable
friction. He waits patiently until I am still. Then he guides me through a
very long, controlled thrust, lifting me almost entirely off him and
bringing me back down at an angle that perfectly stimulates my prostate.
It is the easiest thing to simply allow him to take control of my body. Not
that I am passive. I can feel the muscles in my legs and abdomen work,
compensating for my inability to use my hands to balance as I ride him. But
my movements are entirely thoughtless within the confines of his guidance.
Helpless noises spill from me as I chase my orgasm and for a fleeting
instant I think I should be mortified. The sash bites into my skin as I
instinctively try to reach for my cock. He notices, but he doesn't take
pity. He shifts and I feel his knees come up so he can brace himself better
to thrust.
Through the haze of pleasure, I see his face go slack and feel his movements
become erratic. 'He's coming,' I think feverishly. And that knowledge pushes
me over the edge. The tension breaks and my orgasm washes over me so
suddenly and powerfully that my vision tunnels and my body goes slack.
I feel his hand on my arm as my awareness returns and realize that I must
have actually lost consciousness. I am laying on the bed and he is hovering
over me worriedly. "What..." My voice has an alarming slur to it.
"Can you sit up for me," he asks in the calm manner of a doctor.
There is an ache between my legs as I move to comply. But there is very
little residue anywhere on my skin, so clearly I was out long enough for him
to clean me up.
A glass is pressed into my hands and he commands me to "drink." Again, I
don't hesitate before following his directions. Mostly because the smell of
orange juice is helping me draw all the conclusions I need while he is
confirming them. "You fainted. I should have known better than to let you
exert yourself. Have you had ANYTHING to eat or drink since last night?"
"Clearly not enough," I mutter. Blood loss. Vomiting. My blood sugar must be
dangerously low.
"Clearly."
He is upset, but in a way that makes it clear this is not the first time
this has happened. Not surprising given my eating habits. As my senses
return, I take in the sight of him, my dressing gown wrapped around his
naked body, cinched with the sash that has left faint bruises on my arms.
His hair is mussed and he obviously didn't take the time to give himself
more than a very perfunctory wash after cleaning me.
"I'm sorry."
The tension in his shoulders loosens a bit as he calms. "What can I make
that you will eat? The anti-emetic should still be working, but I can give
you more if you think you need it."
My stomach rumbles, awakened by the orange juice, but not having anything of
substance to digest. I am hungry. "I think I can eat that pasta now."
---
I try to get a few more answers as we eat, but as he has also gone without
food for the better part of a day and I have been reprimanded on multiple
occasions about certain topics not being appropriate to discuss while
eating, I try to limit the scope. He confirms that he is really qualified to
be a doctor and MI6 just provided the paper trail to prove his credentials
for multiple false identities. Our marriage license, like the identities we
took months ago, is not real, but all the photographs of our "honeymoon"
are.
"We spent a month on the continent, building our identities as Will and
Henry. Conditioning you..." This last bit makes him squirm a little.
"I assume that involved using our aliases while we were having sex so I
would associate the names with pleasure."
"It wasn't only during sex," he protests. "Anything that gave you pleasure
or made you happy worked just as well. A massage. Solving one of your cases.
A really beautiful piece of music."
"And seeing as our most recent sexual encounter caused me to have an orgasm
so powerful I literally lost consciousness and you never once called me
anything other than pet names the entire time, you are obviously still
reluctant to use either name now."
He sighs. "I didn't want to use this method of training you to use the right
name even when you couldn't remember the reason. You insisted it was the
most effective. I don't know how to reverse the process without risking
having you associate pleasure with illness. I don't want to hurt you."
"Thank you, but the only way to reverse the conditioning is to desensitize
me. The anti-emetic should dull the response as well as temper the effects
of withdrawal for now. You should use that to your advantage."
He chuckles dryly and shakes his head, taking another bite before responding
properly. "One night in Rome, you had me tie you up and instructed me to do
whatever I wanted to you so long as I periodically prompted you to say your
name and stopped immediately if you got it wrong. It took three attempts and
even half mindless you worked out that seeing you struggle against the
bindings and cry out in frustration was turning me on. I never knew if you
did it deliberately."
"Most likely," I agree. "I doubt I would have made the same mistake twice."
This explains the bizarre "kink" I noted in my journal where he made me
orgasm while saying my own name. "So bondage and submission still excite you
so long as you remain in control."
He swallows a bite slowly. "I never gave much thought to it. Before Andrew I
didn't even know such things existed. And then I learned that being
helpless, being under the control of someone I could trust was exciting.
Until I realized I couldn't trust him." His eyes follow his fork as he
absently pushes a bite around his mostly empty plate. "Since our arrangement
was never negotiable, I never had the experience of being the one
dominating. Until you taught me that the rules didn't have to be unbending.
That I didn't always have to be the one submitting. That I could say no."
This is why I trusted him in spite of the lies. Even when I forgot
everything else, I understood that he was placing all of his own fragile
trust in me. Whether because he initially believed me to be in an abusive
relationship as well or because he knew I could never hurt him is largely
irrelevant.
I realize this conversation is affecting his eating. I need to reign it back
in. "I know you want to go by the name Henry, but I assume you've no
attachment to the surname Peters?"
He blinks in confusion. "Why?"
"We should start the paperwork for legally changing it. How would you feel
about taking mine?"
He stares at me for several long moments. "Are you...proposing to me?"
"Well, I suppose we could just marry if that's simpler. But I don't think
it's necessary. I don't plan on changing our current arrangement any time
soon."
His face contorts a bit and he makes a couple aborted attempts at speech.
"You...want me to take your name legally...even if we aren't married?"
"Yes."
He laughs and rubs at the stubble growing on his face. Which calls to mind
another detail.
"We should have your things brought down from Cressington. I should have an
extra toothbrush and razor in the bath, but you'll probably want your
clothes."
He shakes his head, dazed by the shift in conversation, but he makes no
effort to stop me. "Yeah, um...we can wait to get Gracie back until you're
stable. Assuming you still want her..."
"Of course I want her. But yes, she should stay with Lillian for now. If she
is upset by what she thinks is distress, I imagine she wouldn't cope well
once the withdrawal really sets in."
"She's just trying to be useful. But yes, you should be the primary focus of
care right now." He pauses as another thought comes to him. "What about the
bees?"
"They won't need tending until spring. I'm sure the house will have new
owners by then."
He frowns. "You don't need to tend to them regularly?"
"I assume you are referring to the frequency of my notes about them. I was
keeping a memory stick with a supplemental journal in the hive."
Understanding washes over his face. "Above a board?"
"The crown board, yes. They rarely venture that high in the winter, so I was
unlikely to disturb them." I pause while he chuckles fondly and returns to
his dinner. Another detail of the missing months comes into focus. "I didn't
need to hide it, did I? You knew I was keeping a secret journal all along,
but even if you'd known where it was you wouldn't have taken it. You wanted
me to find it. To have all the data."
He shrugs. "I knew you would work out the truth eventually. You did it once.
Although knowing where it was might have tempted me to try to alter its
contents and stall the inevitable." He drops his fork onto his plate with a
finality that makes it clear he is finished eating. "I honestly never
expected any of..." he waves at our surroundings "this."
"You thought I wouldn't be able to stop my brother from pressing charges."
"Until you offered to make improvements to the Gruener case and your
treatment I thought you would gladly have me arrested for abducting you." He
pauses, biting his lip while he visibly corrals his thoughts. "I don't think
you meant for us to be discovered yet. You wanted to be more certain of your
full recovery first. You wanted to come back to London on your own terms."
"With you?"
He shakes his head. "I never considered how I would fit into your life once
you'd recovered. I think I always expected the plan to go wrong somehow.
Because it couldn't possibly last very long." He sighs and tears begin to
pool in his eyes. "You've expressed distress repeatedly in your journal at
your inability to tell me you love me. But when you had the opportunity to
leave - and every reason to want to - you not only chose to stay, you
constructed an elaborate puzzle designed to keep you at my side until you
solved it. You..." His voice catches and he blinks rapidly. "You were giving
yourself a better chance at recovery, yes, but you were also protecting me.
You wouldn't have done any of that and you wouldn't be entertaining the
possibility of continuing treatment now even though it terrifies you if you
didn't love me in your own way."
That's how John knew. That's why Henry keeps brushing off my clumsy verbal
responses to his romantic declarations. Apparently, it is obvious to
everyone else.
Love is a construct. No. Marriage is a construct. Love is a chemical
reaction, combined with an evolutionary instinct to form bonds and care for
one another. It is often confused with lust, which Henry also feels toward
me, obviously, but what we feel for each other is clearly more complicated
than pure carnal attraction.
"Marry me," I find myself blurting. "Forget what I said earlier. My hatred
of social conventions can make me blind to the obvious. I do love you and if
proving that necessitates a contract, I will oblige."
He is quiet for a full minute while his face goes through a whole range of
expressions from surprise and amusement to wariness and resolve. He reaches
for my hands and squeezes as he says "Sherlock..." My stomach gives a
halfhearted sort of rumble at the name. I ignore it. "You don't have to
prove anything to me. As nice as it might have been to have a few months
believing we were bound by contract...we don't need one to validate us. This
is enough."
You are mine.
You didn't choose me.
He still hasn't reconciled the fact that he has made it this far. That we
are both still alive and free after stepping off the carousel, as I
repeatedly referred to our life in Cressington in my journal. "Are you
trying to respect my disdain for social convention or are you making it
easier for me to leave once I am free of the drug and able to retain
memories because that's what you still believe to be inevitable?"
His mouth twitches into a sad sort of smile. "A little of both, I suppose.
One thing about living with you for the better part of a year: it has forced
me to think more practically. You once told me that this honeymoon period -
romantic infatuation, you called it - lasts on average for two years. I've
known you for barely one and you...you hardly know me at all."
"I do know you. I have been leaving clues in my notes and in my mind palace
for months. I knew instinctively that I could trust you even when you were
clearly lying to me. Even when you let the neighbors believe you could
strike me deliberately. Because I buried the truth so deep into my
subconscious that I could never forget."
I think about the encounter with Mary in my mind palace that I described in
my notes. The spy that John loved in spite of everything urging me to
understand why I had chosen her as messenger.
And of course, my brother's intrusion to offer the assessment that I "can't
help but become attached."
"You love him."
John always was able to see the things I couldn't.
"A compromise then. We will wait until I am recovered and you are satisfied
of my intention to stay. And until then...what is your mother's maiden
name?"
He gives a little start, surprised by the question. "Ronson."
"We can legally change your name to Henry Ronson if that isn't
objectionable?"
His smile now is genuine and full of affection, his eyes once more becoming
wet with tears. He nods. "All right."
---
I spend a few more hours piecing together a more accurate and complete
history of the past months and writing a new letter I can read if taking the
drug proves necessary. John drops by with more antiemetic, liquid
paracetamol and an IV bag of saline for use in the event that I become
severely dehydrated. Henry mercifully doesn't tell him about my fainting
spell. But whether that is because he is preserving my dignity or simply
wants to avoid explaining what I was doing when it happened isn't altogether
clear. Either way, it would be pointless as it was obvious from the way John
scrutinized both of us that he knew we had recently had sex.
After ensuring Henry had his real phone number and exacting a promise to
keep him updated about my condition, John left us again. I'm not sure if his
faith in Henry to care for me through the worst of the withdrawal is
grounded in mine or the other way around.
I am driven to bed far earlier than is my usual habit by a creeping
exhaustion Henry insists is normal for my condition.
"It's not all that different from any illness, really," he explains. "Your
body is using all of its resources to fight it and so you tire easily."
Curled against him in a familiar bed, I trace my finger along the scar on
his abdomen. "What's the real story behind this?"
He kisses the top of my head, being careful of the newly re-stitched scar he
covered in salve earlier. "There is a version of it in your notes. I
underestimated one of the men I was sent to eliminate and he got the upper
hand. I had to shoot him, which wasn't the plan. I never saw my handler so
upset as I did after that mission. I slipped up and almost got myself
killed. Worse, my cover was almost ruined." His breath catches as I let my
hand drift lower, until my fingers are just brushing the scar hidden beneath
his pubic hair. "I didn't lie about that one. I threatened to leave Andrew
and he tied me to the bed and threatened to castrate me. He said other men
were welcome to have my arse, but..." He swallows. "My cock would always be
his."
I'm too tired to hide the flinch. My earlier assessment was correct. Gruener
had been far worse than Magnusson, if on a deceptively smaller scale.
I run my fingers along Henry's penis in gentle exploration intended to
soothe and not excite. It twitches slightly in my hand anyway in response to
the stimulus. He does nothing to try to stop my attentions, but we both know
neither of us is up for anything more tonight. "There are some cases the law
cannot touch," I murmur. I stop my petting motions and let my hand rest low
on his abdomen, just above the pelvic bone. "Where justice must be carried
out through more private means."
His fingers tangle in my hair, rubbing and lightly scratching my scalp until
he drags a contented hum out of me. I tilt my face toward his and he kisses
me slowly. Gently.
"I don't want to forget again," I whisper into his lips.
"I know," he whispers back sadly.
I cling to him desperately as I drift to sleep. As if I can will myself to
avoid the likely inevitable descent into withdrawal and need to take any
more of the drug.
If only it were that simple.
Notes:
All discussions of abuse and victims of abuse are
based on the experiences of the disturbingly large number (that I know of)
of female friends I have who have been abuse survivors. The paragraph with
the discussion about why a victim might stay with an abuser and put up
with the treatment because it is followed by a high that they don't want
to give up is also partly inspired by Jodi Picoult's book Mad Honey,
which features an abuse survivor.
The statistic about infatuation lasting about two years is from The
Five Love Languages by Gary Chapman.
One of my favorite scenes to write was the Mind Palace conversation
between Sherlock and Mary because I was really able to play with a detail
that only I knew at the time, making it sound like his subconscious was
begging him through her to remember.
Ronson (or apparently Ronder because I misremembered, but let's say I just
changed it the same way this show changed Milverton to Magnusson) is the
name of the woman in The Veiled Lodger who was mauled by a lion
in a plot to murder her abusive husband and make it look like an accident.
This is the same woman Sherlock talked out of committing suicide by
telling her her life was not her own. I may have used names from several
characters for Henry, but he has far more in common with Mrs.
Ronson...der. And again, I quoted the line "there are certain crimes which
the law cannot touch, and which therefore, to some extent, justify private
revenge". The Milverton, Gruener and Ronder cases all demonstrated
Sherlock's willingness to look the other way when a woman gets revenge on
a man who hurt her.
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