Of Dubious and Questionable Memory
By Diandra Hollman
---
Henry
---
There are times when I think the loss of memory can be a blessing in
disguise. You have been largely spared from remembering the worst days of
withdrawal. When you could do nothing but writhe in pain. When you soiled
yourself because you couldn't make it out of bed. When you screamed barely
coherent threats at me because you thought I was - or was at least working
for - Moriarty. It is agony to watch you suffer these entirely preventable
indignities. Which is why I have gladly accepted the alternative of you
forgetting who I am these past months, the ethics of dosing you without your
knowledge be damned.
It is a delicate balance, trying to keep you fed and hydrated as withdrawal
sets in. First you can't keep anything down, which is easily treated with
anti emetics. But once you stop vomiting, whatever food I can ply you with
finds another path of violent exit from your body. I have spent several
nights on the bathroom floor with you, unable to coax you from the room
entirely for fear that you won't make it back quickly enough. I held your
shivering, sweaty body and reassured you as your bowels churned loud enough
to be plainly audible. Wiped your feverish brow and helped you drink tea
laced with the drug that would technically cure your illness while telling
myself I had no other choice.
I wait for you to return to bed on your own now, folding myself and the
covers around you to warm you back up after your exposure to the chill air.
I have my own limit for how long I will wait before following you into the
bathroom to wrap you in a blanket or a towel. I have suggested you wear
something to bed to avoid this problem, but you always refuse, insisting you
cannot sleep if you are not naked.
"You are feeling guilty because John obviously knows we had sex earlier,"
you mumble distantly.
"It wasn't something a responsible doctor would do," I admit. "You were
obviously in no condition to be exerting yourself."
"Hmm. I doubt even a 'responsible doctor' could be faulted when his lover
quite literally has him by the balls."
A snort escapes me. "Yes, you are very adept at making me forget my
responsibilities." You run your fingers over my hand and it takes me a
moment to realize that you are feeling for my wedding ring. "Suppose I
should take that off."
"Not yet," you say so softly I could almost believe I imagined it. A moment
later your breathing deepens and I know you are asleep. You won't stay that
way long. But I have learned to embrace these periods of respite and try to
find whatever sleep I can myself so I am alert enough to properly care for
you when the sickness inevitably worsens again. I press myself close to you,
feeling how your body has already warmed again, and close my eyes.
---
Sherlock, Day 12-?
---
I am back on the rooftop, about to jump, reciting my note to John. Only this
time, before I can finish I see John crumple to the pavement, the phone
falling from his hand. I have taken too long. The sniper took the shot. A
pool of red blossoms beneath his head and I scream his name impotently into
the open line...
I wake to my own horrified screaming. Arms wrap around me, pulling me into
an embrace and I struggle instinctively until a familiar voice murmurs in my
ear.
"It's all right, darling. You're safe. It was a dream."
I still and take a moment to reorientate myself. The familiar man is
stroking my back, soothing my trembling body. His face was one of the faces
that flashed in my mind as I saw John collapse. The people I could be
compelled to do anything to protect. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, John, Rosie
and...
"Henry."
"I'm here," he whispers in my ear.
I shiver and clutch him to me. They are safe. All of them. Moriarty is dead.
There is no active threat. I am home. Henry is taking care of me.
"What day is it?"
"It's Sunday."
I sigh and burry my nose in his neck. "Third day."
"Yes. How do you feel," he asks softly.
"Slow. Muddled." My stomach churns uncomfortably. "Empty."
"Think you can handle a bit of toast and a cup of tea?"
Despite the hollow churning of my stomach, the thought of eating anything
makes me feel nauseous. "No."
"Just tea?"
I need to replace the fluids I'm losing. My fainting spell last night proved
that much. But the knowledge that consuming anything will only fuel these
horrid symptoms, dulled as they may be by the antiemetic required to give my
body a fighting chance of absorbing anything makes the prospect unappealing.
"I won't put anything in it," he assures me, obviously thinking this is what
is prompting my hesitation.
"I know," I sigh. I close my eyes and then I am startled by the mattress
dipping beneath his weight.
"Can you sit up for me?"
I fell asleep again. And now he is sitting on the other side of the bed,
dressed and holding a cup of tea. I sit slowly, mindful of the vertigo that
causes. "What day is it?"
He presses the cup into my hands. "You were only asleep for about ten
minutes, love. It's all right."
"That's not what I asked."
He hesitates and I realize that may have come out a bit testier than
necessary, but I am already becoming frustrated with my inability to hold on
to data. And I have the beginnings of a headache forming. "It's Sunday,
sweetheart."
"You're still refusing to use my name, I see."
"I don't want to add to your discomfort. We have plenty of time to reverse
the conditioning. I know you are impatient, but you really don't have to do
everything at once. Be gentle with yourself."
I grunt into the cup before carefully taking a sip. It is hot, but
comfortably so, and it is sweetened to my preference. Of course he would
know exactly how to make my tea. We have been intimate for the better part
of a year. "You said you wouldn't put anything in the tea. So you must have
the drug here."
"Yes."
I wait a moment for him to elaborate, which he doesn't. "I suppose it's no
use asking where you're keeping it?"
"John and I thought it would be best if I didn't."
Of course. The burden of continuing treatment for addiction is on the
doctor, not the addict. "You know I can just find it."
"I'm not trying to stop you taking it. Just stopping you taking it without
me knowing so I can hopefully prevent you setting your progress back further
than necessary."
"Mmm." I sip my tea and ignore the way it sloshes about rather unpleasantly
in my empty stomach.
"Your mother called."
I wince. "What did Mycroft tell her?"
"That you are alive but unwell and not ready for visitors yet. I confirmed
his assessment as your live-in doctor." He hesitates. "Does she know about
your sexuality?"
I snort. "Yes, my parents have known for years." As has Mrs. Hudson, which
is why she was so convinced that John was my lover when he moved in to the
flat with me. "I'm sure Mycroft thought it best not to tell them everything
all at once, but she likely knows anyway depending on how long you spoke
with her."
His lips twitch. "You take after her, don't you?"
"She is of above average intelligence if that's what you mean. I'm sure the
two of you will get along well once you are formally introduced."
His face freezes. "You...you want me to meet your parents."
Oh. How many of his relationships have been serious enough to warrant an
introduction to parents? Did Gruener have living parents when they married?
Were his adopted parents still part of his life? There is so much I still
didn't know about him, even if I do know the darkest parts of his past. "If
we are to eventually be married, they will insist upon it."
He sighs. "Your brother was obviously kind in his description of me, though
I don't know why. I can't imagine they will be very forgiving once they
learn that I am the reason their son faked his death for a second time."
"As I recall, you said I was largely responsible for that plan."
"I abducted you. It doesn't matter the justification for my actions or the
reasoning and intent behind everything that came after. I've hurt you.
Repeatedly and deliberately."
"They will understand. As I have. As John has. Even my brother, apparently,
has accepted my faith in you if he is trusting me in your care." I reach for
his hand and entwine our fingers. "What about your parents? The ones who
adopted you."
"Fostered. We haven't kept in touch."
The headache is becoming stronger. I can no longer ignore it, nor can I hide
it from him.
"How bad is the pain? Scale of one to ten."
"Six, up from three or four a few minutes ago."
He tightens his hold on my hand. "Do you want paracetamol?"
My face twists as I contemplate how much worse I would feel if I put
anything in my stomach that my body will inevitably reject.
"I can give it to you intravenously," he says before I can speak, obviously
realizing the cause of my hesitation.
I squeeze his fingers gratefully. "All right."
He leans in to kiss me before he goes to fetch it. I take another sip of tea
and close my eyes, breathing deeply.
"Sherlock?"
My eyes snap open to the sight of Henry's worried face. "Where..."
"It's all right, sweetheart, just relax." He is stroking my hair, carefully
avoiding the area that is throbbing dully. I strain to recall the source of
that pain. Did I hit my head? Is that why I was unconscious? No...surgery.
The chip. Then why was I unconscious?
"What happened..."
"You fell asleep."
I can feel a warm wetness beneath me and have a moment of horror before I
remember the tea I was holding moments...(minutes?) ago. I can't have been
unconscious long then. What was he fetching for me?
"Do you still want the paracetamol?"
Right. I nod slightly, trying not to aggravate the problem further.
I watch as he prepares and administers the shot, afraid if I close my eyes
for more than a quick blink that I will lose consciousness again.
"It's all right, love," he says as he finishes the injection and rubs my arm
gently. "You can sleep."
"Don't want to," I say and hear my voice slur alarmingly.
He purses his lips and blinks rapidly, staving off tears. "I know."
I don't want to forget. But I also don't want to die. And I don't know how
to avoid both of those outcomes. I feel helpless. I reach for him and he
slides under the covers with me, pulling me tightly to him. He wraps the
duvet tighter to me and I realize I am shaking. But I'm not sure it's from
cold.
"Shh, I won't let you," he murmurs in my ear and I don't know which fear I
voiced out loud. Either way, I doubt he can be so sure of his answer. But I
trust him to do everything within his power to keep me safe.
I trust him.
I...
---
Moriarty is sitting in John's chair, the light from the fire in the hearth
dancing madly on his face, adding to his usual air of derangement. "This was
all far more interesting when you thought you were hiding from a serial
killer. Although I admit...I was a bit jealous. But now?" He groans. "This
is all so boring."
"Reality often is," I mutter.
"Oh, of course it is. That's why you enjoyed our little game so much isn't
it? A welcome distraction. A bit of excitement more satisfying than drugs.
Longer lasting too." He smiles in that reptilian fashion of his and climbs
from the chair, crossing the distance to mine in the time it takes me to
blink and bending over me. "Admit it. You miss me."
I wince as pain throbs behind my eyes. I am feeling too warm and his
proximity is not helping matters. "What do you want?"
I can feel his hot breath on my cheek as he purrs "I told you. I want you to
burn."
I cry out as the heat increases. The burning seems to be coming from inside
me. 'How is he doing that,' I wonder feverishly. He laughs as I writhe in
agony.
'I will burn the heart out of you.'
"Sherlock!"
I open my eyes and Mary is hovering in front of me.
"Can you hear me," she asks worriedly.
Wasn't I just talking to someone else? How long has she been calling to me?
I try to move but my transport doesn't seem to be responsive to even the
simplest of commands. Am I dying? Am I already dead?
Oh. Mary is dead, isn't she?
"I'm sorry." The effort of speaking is almost more than I can bear. My eyes
close.
"What for, love?" Her voice sounds odd, but I am too tired to open my eyes
again to determine why.
"I wasn't there to save you," I mumble. "...failed..."
I let myself be swallowed by the darkness, only to be dragged back again as
something cold touches my face. I groan and try to move away from it.
"Are you awake?"
I would know that voice anywhere. "John?"
"Got it in one. That's good." Cool fingers press to my wrist. "Can you open
your eyes for me?"
I concentrate on performing that simple task, but only manage to open them
briefly. Why am I so tired?
"All right. That's fine." The fingers let go of my wrist and the cold thing
touches my face again. "Do you know where you are?"
I am reasonably sure I was in 221b earlier, but I'm not sure when that was.
It certainly feels like my bed, although the smell is slightly off. "Home."
John sighs. "Yeah."
"Where's..." I struggle to think of the name that belongs to the face, but
it is escaping me. "Where is he?"
"Henry? I made him take a break." He pauses. "Do you remember what you said
to him? Something about not being able to save him?"
I frown. Save him? What is he talking about?
A memory of his tear-streaked face springs to the forefront of my mind.
'Burn the heart of out you.'
"Moriarty. I couldn't stop him. He killed you both."
"A dream," John pronounces and I can hear the relief in his voice. "It's all
right. It was just a dream. Moriarty is dead. He can't hurt anyone anymore."
"Mmhhh..." I cannot stop myself from sliding back into the void.
---
I can see John's cab pulling up across the street and wonder which vantage
point the sniper is aiming from.
'It's a trick. Just a magic trick.'
'You always want everything to be clever.'
The body behind me is still warm, blood still spreading from what remains of
his skull. His expression frozen in a victorious smirk. Willing to die just
to beat me.
This is how we end.
"Don't come any closer. Stay right where you are."
"What are you saying? What...Sherlock?"
"Sherlock!"
I turn, startled to hear the voice coming from behind me, fearing for a
moment that it is Moriarty. But it is... "Henry," I whisper to myself. A red
dot appears on his forehead. 'No, not again.' I can't let Moriarty win.
I climb onto the ledge before it's too late. Before Moriarty's men decide I
am not holding up my end and carry out his orders. I think I hear Henry
scream, but he will understand. I have to do this to save them. All of them.
He made sure it was the only way.
Pain explodes through my body, shocking me to alertness. I am on the ground.
I am alive. I failed.
Hands are touching me now and I see his face again. Henry. He's alive. I try
to yell at him to run. He isn't safe. He may never be safe again as long as
I am alive. But I can't seem to form the words.
"Can you hear me," he calls frantically. "Oh god...don't move..."
Everything is fuzzy around the edges. More hands spread something warm over
me and I realize I am shivering. Naked on the cold cement. Why am I naked?
There's another voice but I can't tell if he's speaking to me or Henry. A
hand slips into mine and I try to grip it with numb fingers. I need to warn
them. They are still in danger. I need to...
---
John
---
I was startled awake at an ungodly hour of the morning by voices. I panicked
for a moment as I'd forgot where I was. My old room above 221b. I'd offered
to stay when it became obvious Henry was struggling to care for Sherlock as
his withdrawal worsened.
I had the presence of mind to put on my shoes and grab my phone. Old wartime
habits, Sherlock would note, but something in the urgency of the shouting I
heard told me I might need to be prepared to run.
I arrived downstairs and opened the door just in time to see Sherlock climb
naked through the open window. Henry screamed his name from the other side
of the room, helpless to stop him. Then he ran past me down the stairs,
seemingly not even aware of my presence. I stood frozen for a moment,
feeling the familiar sickening horror I'd hoped never to feel ever again.
But perhaps because I had experienced it all before, I was able to push it
aside so I could do what needed to be done.
I went back for my duvet and dialed emergency before I reached the front
door, mechanically reciting the location and nature of the incident
requiring an ambulance.
"I couldn't stop him," Henry babbled frantically as I spread the duvet over
Sherlock's naked body with my free hand and checked his pulse. He was alive.
From my angle I couldn't tell if he was awake, but the way Henry kept
telling him not to move I was reasonably certain he was.
"Did he say anything," I asked.
Henry shook his head. "Nothing I could make out." He was trembling. I knew
that had as much to do with the trauma as with the fact that he was only
partly dressed and barefoot.
I could hear dispatch relaying everything I said and ordering me to stay on
the line. Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway, bundled in her dressing gown,
and whimpered Sherlock's name in horror.
"Go," I ordered Henry. "Get your shoes and your coat. Ambulance is eight
minutes away."
His eyes met mine, dazed. And then he blinked and for a moment it was like
looking in a mirror, watching the calm of a field trained medic settle over
him. He nodded, detangled his fingers from Sherlock's, and stumbled back
into the flat, accepting Mrs. Hudson's steadying support.
"Don't you dare die on us," I muttered as I pressed my fingers to Sherlock's
carotid artery again.
I thought I heard a soft sound of acknowledgement from him, but I couldn't
be sure.
---
I arrived at A&E less than an hour after the ambulance carried them
away, after I reassured Mrs. Hudson that Sherlock would live and made sure
he hadn't done anything in his delirious state that might burn down the
flat. He hadn't. I didn't need to be him to deduce that he had gone straight
from the bed to the sitting room window, opened it, and jumped.
I found Henry in the waiting area, slumped in a chair. I was struck again by
the difference between the image he presented and my initial expectations of
him. He may have been taller and more broad shouldered even than Sherlock,
but he was so thin that his posture gave him an almost insubstantial
appearance. Delicate almost. Easily broken.
He sat up straighter when he spotted me. "He's in surgery..."
I sat beside him.
"We should have dosed him sooner. We waited too long."
"You couldn't have predicted he would do this."
"I could have," he argued. "I should have."
I looked at his face. His eyes were rimmed red and haunted looking. Dark
bruises beneath them stood testament to the exhaustion he must have felt.
"You should get some sleep." I knew this was probably a futile effort. I'd
taken off work and dropped Rosie off with Molly to spend a day and a half
back at 221b helping him care for Sherlock. I'd convinced Henry to sleep for
part of it, but obviously it hadn't been enough. Watching him tirelessly
care for my friend had dispelled any lingering doubts I may have had about
him. He tended to Sherlock's every need with the patience and familiarity of
a doting spouse. Initially, I'd wondered how he'd managed to do it alone for
the better part of a year, but then I'd understood. This was why he had
continued to drug Sherlock, even though it meant erasing his memories and
unraveling any progress they may have made. "You'll be no good to him if you
collapse," I added.
He looked like he might just. He seemed to be barely keeping himself
together out of necessity.
I handed him my car keys. "My car's out in the park. I'll fetch you when he
wakes."
This finally broke past his hesitation. He nodded and accepted the keys
gratefully.
---
I nodded off briefly in the waiting room chair. Then, once it was a
respectable hour (and after the surgeon assured me Sherlock was stable and
moving to recovery soon), I phoned Mycroft to tell him what had happened.
Then I phoned Mrs. Hudson.
"Oh, that's a relief," she sighed when I updated her on his condition. "And
how is Henry? Poor dear was in such a state."
Mrs. Hudson treated Sherlock as if he were an adopted son or a favorite
nephew. She knew him and within five minutes of meeting Henry, she seemed to
have sized him up and given her stamp of approval.
"He could use a hot meal, but I doubt he'll be able to eat until Sherlock
wakes up."
She made a soft sound of sympathetic agreement. "Just tell me when and I'll
have it ready within the hour."
I smiled. "Will do."
---
The drug Henry had given Sherlock was derived from an anesthetic used during
surgery. Which is why I was hesitant to call him straight away when Sherlock
was moved into recovery. I wasn't sure how a setback after they had worked
so hard to avoid erasing Sherlock's memory would affect either of them.
Ultimately, I decided it was more important to have Henry present regardless
of what happened as he was the doctor who had spent months managing
Sherlock's condition. He could manage his expectations. He'd been doing it
as long as they'd known each other.
That was a sobering thought. That he had spent far more time explaining who
he was when Sherlock awoke in the morning than he hadn't.
He still looked exhausted when he arrived at the room, but at least he
looked a bit less like a stiff wind would do him in.
I kept one eye on the monitors, noting the spikes in activity as well as the
calming effect Henry had on him. Sherlock had said repeatedly in his notes
and journals that he trusted Henry, even when he didn't fully recognize him.
His instinctive responses bore out that claim. He didn't have the strength
to open his eyes and he was obviously in pain despite the morphine, which
was understandable seeing as practically the entire left side of his body
was encased in plasters. But his blood pressure lowered noticeably as Henry
murmured soft reassurances and touched him like he wanted to take away his
pain but feared he would only cause more.
"It's all right, darling," he whispered into Sherlock's ear. "You're in
hospital. You're safe."
Sherlock struggled to speak, his breathing labored beneath the oxygen mask.
All he managed was a slurred "Hhnnn."
"John is here. He's safe," Henry murmured.
I wondered if I should move closer, speak, touch him. But it felt like that
would be unnecessary and intrusive. He was barely conscious. And I wasn't so
certain it had been my name he was trying to say anyway.
I watched as he slowly slipped back under and waited another minute before
gently trying to pry Henry away from him, assuring him he could return after
he washed and ate something. He pressed one last kiss to Sherlock's all too
prominent cheekbone before letting me maneuver him all the way out to my
car.
We were halfway to Baker Street before he spoke.
"I'm sorry."
I glanced at him and our eyes met briefly as I realized he'd been idly
watching me. "Sorry?"
"I thought I was saving him from you. I hurt you both because I jumped to
the wrong conclusions."
"Yes," I said carefully. "But we can't all be Sherlock Holmes. Even he's not
as bloody perfect as he'd like the world to believe he is." There were many
cases I never wrote about. Some due to discretion or the sensitive nature of
the incident and the people involved, but some simply because they didn't
make for a good story. They were never solved or Sherlock had got it wrong.
But I probably didn't need to tell Henry any of that.
"He deserves better."
I snorted. I couldn't help it. "No. He deserves someone who will love him
despite his many faults and protect him from the dangers he
recklessly invites. Very few people have seen him at his worst and not run
screaming. If anything I would question whether you deserve him.
A young, good-looking doctor could surely pull better. That said...I've seen
how he is with you. You inspire him to want to do better. Be better. Kinder.
More sensitive. So yes, kidnapping him from the scene of a car crash because
you believed he needed to be rescued wasn't a normal way of going about
starting a relationship, but I would hardly expect Sherlock to do anything
the normal way. I think in the end it just might work out."
He was quiet for a while, thinking. Then he said softly "we're a bit
masochist, aren't we? Those of us who don't 'run screaming'?"
I chuckled. "A bit, yeah. And yet...I would take a bullet for him. And I
know he would do the same for me. Because as much as he drives us round the
bend, we love him and he loves us."
"Yeah," Henry all but whispered.
I glanced at him as I pulled the car onto Baker Street. "I should be
apologizing to you. I let my temper get the better of me and gave you cause
to think he needed rescuing. If it had been me in your shoes...I can't say I
wouldn't have done the same." I practically had done, I realized. I had
distrusted Henry when I first met him. Drawn conclusions based on faulty
assumptions even when the reality of him didn't match my expectations. As
Sherlock would put it: I had committed the capital offense of theorizing
without first having all the data.
"I forgave you months ago."
I parked on the curb and turned more fully to face him. "You did, didn't
you? That's why you kept texting me, pretending to be him."
He stared at his hands in his lap. I could see him fingering the edges of
his shirt sleeve, fussing with his ring. "I never believed you were as cruel
as my ex husband. I never wanted to hurt you. I just...wanted to stop you
hurting him." His hands stilled and his eyes met mine. "In a way, I think
Sherlock made me a better person as well. He proved to me that not all men
were like my father and Andrew. Whether he did it deliberately or not...he
taught me how to trust again. How to love without fear or pain."
I felt my lips pull into a bit of a smile without any conscious effort on my
part. "Sherlock rarely does anything that isn't deliberate." I reached to
squeeze his shoulder gently. "You should get in there. Mrs. Hudson will be
waiting. I'll go back and wait with Sherlock in case he wakes again."
Henry gave me a wan smile, nodded and opened the car door.
Notes:
A lot of this story is my way of cutting off the
direction the show was headed in before it went down that road.
Acknowledging that actually, he would have serious injuries from jumping
out the living room window of 221b even if it wouldn't be fatal is
directly defying one of the goofier moments of "The Final Problem" where
the characters apparently became superhumans and just...bounced off the
pavement or something, completely unharmed.
Back to the
Sherlock fan fiction page | Back to the story
index