Of Dubious and Questionable Memory
By Diandra Hollman
---
Day 424, Sherlock
---
Knowing that my memories were incomplete and suspect for the better part of
a year is frustrating to say the least. But I learned to accept this
unchangeable reality. Once Henry felt secure and confident in his standing
with me, he helped fill in any gaps in the data - even if it meant revealing
a lie or manipulation. I valued that honesty and came to rely on his recall
of events above my own.
In particular, my memories surrounding my jump from the window of 221b are
largely non-existent, which Henry and John both assured me is a mercy. I
don't know why I jumped, but as I was feverish and incoherent and very
likely didn't know where I was or what was happening to me it is not
important. The extended hospital stay resulting from the incident aided in
my recovery from the drug. As did Henry's continuing efforts at
rehabilitation.
We were just settled back into 221b with my memory showing signs of
improvement when all news was eclipsed by the results of a ridiculous vote.
Which was itself eclipsed by something even more ridiculous in America. The
details of neither interested me at all, although there was some brief
promise when the first involved a murder, but Henry assured me that
bemoaning the fact that it wasn't interesting "enough" was Not Good. Henry
and I argued for a stretch about whether I should care more about politics,
but I didn't see the point in getting worked up over the self-inflicted
drama of idiots easily taken in by propaganda. He eventually contented
himself with discussing matters that didn't interest me with my parents, who
came to think of him as their favorite child.
John also befriended Henry with a speed I didn't expect but probably should
have. Rosie adored her "Uncle Henry" almost as much as she did Grace and
Henry happily spoiled both of his "girls" whenever possible.
It was partly this easy acceptance of him by everyone who mattered in my
life (likely in combination with the case I'd recently finished wherein the
client was being stalked by a man intent on her inheritance) that prompted
me to consider proposing.
Henry stilled, pulled the sheet back and blinked up at me incredulously, his
hair tousled and his face ruddy. "Sorry?"
"There's no sense putting it off any longer," I continued, knowing full well
he'd heard me.
He glanced down at my half erect penis and I could tell he was debating
whether or not he should resume his efforts.
"Sorry. Continue."
"No, I can't very well carry on when you're obviously distracted."
"You know I'm fully capable of thinking about many things at once."
"Okay, then I'm distracted." He crawled up the bed to lay on his
back beside me and scrubbed his eyes with his palms before turning his head
toward me. "You're serious?"
"Yes. Neither of us has any reason to fear our relationship will not last
anymore. We have been living as if we are married for more than a year now.
We might as well sign the paperwork."
He chuckled softly. "And here I thought you were being romantic."
His voice was colored with a unique mixture of affection and exasperation
that I was growing accustomed to. "You're disappointed?"
"No." He kissed me. After a long moment, he leaned back far enough that he
could look me in the eyes. "There was never in this world a man who loved
with a more whole hearted love."
The intensity of his lustful gaze - and the feel of his still somewhat
turgid cock pressing into my thigh - made it easy to ignore the instinct to
scoff at his overly tragic romanticism. I reached for him, pulling him
closer, letting my legs fall open in encouragement as his fingers wrapped
tentatively around my reviving erection.
Minutes later, as he penetrated me, he whispered "I am yours and you are
mine," heatedly in my upturned ear. I realized he'd not formally accepted my
proposal, but I took that as unofficial confirmation.
I squeezed our entwined fingers together before succumbing to the fog of
lust and moaned "yes."
Mine.
---
Day 500
---
I began having second thoughts about marrying when I realized it was going
to be more involved than just signing the necessary documents. Henry was
initially cooperative on that point, but claimed he felt bad about excluding
my parents and Mrs. Hudson. We argued for a bit before I came to understand
that weddings, like funerals, are more for the benefit of the parties not
directly involved. I agreed to the small sacrifice on the condition that we
would eliminate the most absurd traditions associated with marriage in favor
of simply reciting a few words in front of an officiant and the small
handful of people who were important to us. Or to me anyway as he didn't
have any family or close friends (the hazard of being an orphaned former
spy). He did insist upon writing his own vows, and I agreed to do the same
easily enough as I figured anything we wrote would be better than the
standard religious fare.
John took it upon himself as my best man to help me write my vows. Or
rewrite them, more accurately, because as he put it, the ones I'd originally
written were "bloody awful."
"It's a wedding, Sherlock. Not a lecture on the value of marriage as an
institution."
"Ridiculous exaggeration," I grumbled. He gave me a withering look, to which
I sighed "fine."
"Okay, let's start from the top." He opened his laptop on the table. "Why do
you want to marry him?"
"Because we are already living as if we are married and legal documentation
of our status facilitates any medical or financial arrangements that may
need to be made."
He sighed and muttered something unintelligible under his breath. "Let's try
it a different way. Tell me about him. What makes him happy? What does he do
that makes you happy? What little things does he do to show you he loves
you?"
"He..." I glanced at Grace, who seemed to be napping beside Rosie while she
played with her toys. Except she was obviously keeping a weather eye on the
small human. "He bought me a dog to lift my spirits," I murmur. "He may have
been inspired by a depressing Italian film that suggested an animal
companion could reduce thoughts of suicide, but he has a very particular
look in his eyes when he sees me with her."
"Good," John praised, his fingers flying over the keys. "That's good. What
else?"
I thought back on some of the things I had noted in my journals during the
year largely forgot. "He knows me. Everything about me. How I take my tea.
How I crave mental stimulation..." How to bring me to orgasm with impressive
skill and efficiency. "He...takes care of me. In every way possible, both as
a doctor and a lover. He is supportive and understanding without
overindulgence or any expectation of a return in sentiment."
John had that understanding smirk on his face. I pronounced the thought I
knew was forming in his mind before he did.
"He loves me."
"Yeah. He does."
"Despite the fact that I have never returned the sentiment."
"You have. After a fashion."
"Have I?"
He abandoned his typing entirely and turned toward me. "You're not as
mysterious as you think you are. You might find expressions of sentiment
abhorrent, but you are perfectly capable of demonstrating love. For anyone
who knows you, it is obvious that you love him."
Obvious.
John returned to writing after that pronouncement, but I couldn't stop
thinking about those words.
On the day of the wedding, I carried notecards with the words John wrote in
my pocket. I assumed Henry was doing the same until we stood in front of
Lestrade - who volunteered to officiate - and he smiled, took my hands, and
recited a vow he had clearly been working on for longer than the months we
had been planning the wedding.
"It seems cliché to say I didn't truly know what love is until I met you,
but I cannot think of a better way to describe the impact you have had on my
life. You made me question everything I thought I knew. You taught me that
it is possible to love without fear or pain. You restored my broken faith in
people and earned my absolute, unwavering trust. I know you don't believe in
fate or divine forces, but I choose to believe your appearance in my life
was more than random chance. Because even if I didn't know how much I needed
you, I realize I have been searching for you all my life. And now that I've
found you, I cannot imagine a future without you by my side. It is my
fortune and privilege that I will not have to. It will be my honor to call
you my husband from this day forward and I will love you, wholly and
completely, for the rest of my life. I am yours. Until my body ceases to
draw breath."
I heard Mrs. Hudson sniffle from somewhere behind me, but I couldn't tear my
eyes from the intensity of his gaze. Time seemed to lose meaning until
Lestrade cleared his throat and called my name softly.
"Right...ah..." I considered reaching for my notes, but the words - which I
hardly needed the cards to remember anyway - suddenly seemed hideously
inadequate. So instead, I looked into his eyes and said the words that came
to me. "Love is a dangerous disadvantage," I began. I heard John groan
softly, but ignored him. "A chemical imbalance that makes people behave
irrationally. For example, it can compel a man to legally bind himself to an
insufferable drug addict who is incapable of recognizing its virtues."
The nervous whispering coming from the gathered witnesses stopped and Henry
smiled encouragingly.
"It may speak to your masochistic tendencies that you love me more than
could possibly be warranted."
Someone snorted. I couldn't be bothered to identify who.
"But I find myself basking in the warmth of your affections every day. And I
am only fortunate enough to do so because you have saved me, many times
over, from self-destruction. I may not be able to return the sentiments you
bestow upon me so freely, but I assure you that does not mean I am not
keenly aware of them. And while I am not sure I am deserving of your so
eloquently expressed devotion, I vow to spend every day as your husband
striving to become the man you believe worthy of such honors."
I heard a couple sniffles and saw Mrs. Hudson daub at her eyes with a
handkerchief from the periphery of my vision.
"All right," Lestrade said, bringing everyone back to the moment at hand.
"Do you, Henry Ronson, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
"I do."
"And do you, William Sherlock -"
"I do," I interrupted impatiently.
"Holmes...right. Then by the power vested in me, I pronounce you -"
I tuned him out as I pulled Henry to me and kissed him, feeling the
vibration of his muffled laugh beneath my lips.
We fell into bed late that night, still partly dressed and exhausted. When I
woke up the next morning it was to the feel of his eyes already studying me.
He smiled as I opened my eyes and reached to trace the lines of my face with
gentle, reverent fingers.
"Good morning, husband."
"Mmm..." I captured his hand and turned my head to kiss the ring that
encircled his finger. "I fear I am already becoming far too accustomed to
this."
He laughed. "To me calling you my husband?"
"To you. To the way you look at me. The sound of your voice saying my name
in all the myriad of possible inflections and colors. The feel of your
touch. Remembering everything about you. About us."
He sobered at that. "Are you already growing bored of me?"
"No. Familiarity does not necessarily engender boredom."
He was quiet for a moment, as if he was waiting for me to say something
else.
"What?"
He laughed softly. "Well, I don't think I'll ever be fully "accustomed" to
you, darling." He leaned closer and kissed me gently. I could still taste
the cake that had been Mycroft's contribution to our small ceremony on him
and wondered if he tasted the same. After a couple slow, lazy kisses, he
sighed. "I could use a shower. Join me?"
I felt a stirring in my groin. This too was becoming familiar. The way my
body responded to the slightest provocation from him. And his to mine. I
licked the spot on his neck I knew to be sensitive and was rewarded with a
small whimper of arousal. I would draw many more sounds like that one from
him throughout the course of the day, I knew. In the shower. On the bed. On
the kitchen table if the mood struck me. I ignored the voice inside me that
told me I was primitively staking a claim as was now my legal right to
satisfy the baser desires of my transport. Not because it was wrong, but
because I was more than willing to suspend such thoughts for the next
several hours at least.
"Absolutely."
---
Day 1,552
---
Life returned to something like normal. John helped Henry get a job at the
clinic. Both provided assistance when needed with my cases. I found I no
longer required the stimulation of illicit chemicals, although Henry accused
me once or twice of using sex to get a similar high. Usually followed by a
reminder that I should really check to see if he was "finished" before
running off to test the brilliant theory that had come to me.
Political scandals, terrorist attacks, protest demonstrations and natural
disasters all danced around the periphery of my awareness, often blurring
one right into the next until it seemed every week was marked by a
reshuffling of parliament, a wildfire, or gun violence in America.
Then came the event even I couldn't ignore.
As COVID 19 patients began to overwhelm all hospitals, John and Henry were
both pressed into service. Henry insisted on sleeping in John's old room for
a while to avoid the possibility of infecting me. I humored him for a few
days before convincing him that he was being ridiculous and should really
come back downstairs.
Worst of all, the lockdown meant that all potential interesting cases
practically evaporated. I grew so desperate that I took on a client who
suspected his wife was having an affair, though at least that turned out to
be more than it appeared. It turned out the woman in fact had a child her
husband didn't know about. A child who had been in the sole custody of her
father until he became an early casualty of COVID. She had kept the child a
secret for fear that her new husband was too "traditional" to accept the
mixed race product of a teenage fling. He was horrified when he learned of
her fears. "I am not a very good man," he'd said. "But I hope I am better
than you give me credit for."
"If you ever think I am getting too arrogant or overconfident or full of
myself, would you say the word 'Norbury' to me?"
John blinks at me from the laptop screen. He is tired. Overworked and
stressed. "Sorry, what?"
"Never mind. It isn't important. Continue."
"How is Henry?" He has that understanding, sympathetic look on his face
again. He knows I've thrown myself into the work as a distraction from my
helplessness.
"Still managing with steroids and breathing exercises."
"And you're still testing negative?"
"Yes, and I still can't see anything in my samples that explains why." This
disease is endlessly frustrating.
"Consider it a blessing. You don't want to catch this."
"I know."
He is still giving me that look. "And how are you holding up?"
"I'm fine."
"It's okay to admit you're not, you know."
A horrible cough from the bedroom makes me flinch.
"Go. I'll check back in tomorrow."
I nod and ring off, only belatedly realizing I failed to ask after him and
Rosie. I already know they are fine, but Henry has spent so much time
lecturing me on the value of reciprocity that I feel a nagging sense of
guilt when I don't ask anyway.
That might go a long way toward explaining the way I feel toward Henry right
now as well. In my journal, I described him once coming home in an emotional
state after losing a patient. I comforted him and put him to bed, noting
that it felt as if the tables were turned somewhat for the first time in our
relationship. Now I am plying him with fluids and medicines and cleaning the
bucket he uses when he doesn't make it to the bathroom in time to vomit. The
parallels to my condition at the height of my withdrawal are not lost on me.
Henry is resting – at least as much as he is able – in our bed with a pillow
clutched to his chest. Grace is beside him, facing the door as if ready to
protect him from any dangerous intruders if need be. She lifts her head as I
enter the room and wags her tail.
“Good girl,” I murmur, scratching behind her ears. Satisfied by the praise,
she puts her head back down, returning to her guard. So devoted is she to
her task that she has hardly left Henry’s side in days unless absolutely
necessary. His reasons for adopting her may have been based in faulty logic,
but I am glad of it as she has been good for both of us. Especially once she
got over her alarm at any noises we make during sex.
I need to wake him and convince him to swallow more paracetamol. Perhaps
give him another dose of steroids as his breathing is alarmingly labored
again. But I take a moment to just observe him. It is obvious he threw the
covers off recently. His skin is flushed with fever, but soon his near naked
state (just some well worn pants) will set him to shivering. He looks
so...vulnerable. I find myself wishing I could remember those previous times
(or was it just the one?) I found him in this state. Given his history, did
he try to mask his weakness for fear it would be exploited? As he did when
he first tested positive for this disease ravaging him now? I may have
earned his trust, but years of habit are difficult to break.
I don’t quite know what these feelings are exactly that well up in me until
the words come tumbling from my mouth almost without thought. “I love you.”
He stills and his eyes slowly open, blinking up at me blearily. “Am I
awake,” he asks softly, his voice rough and painful sounding.
I sit beside him and take his hand. “Sorry.”
He squeezes my hand. “I’m not going to die.”
“I know.”
After a small, awkward silence, he asks “is this about your case?”
“Possibly.”
“Y-“ He is interrupted suddenly by a violent bout of coughing. I note that
he tries vainly to turn his face away from me out of consideration before I
tug him into a more prone position and rub firm circles on his back. I wince
as the pain draws tiny whimpers from him. Sympathy pains squeeze my own
chest and I wonder if this is what people call heartache. “You never
had...to say it,” he finally forces out. “I always knew.”
‘You’re not as mysterious as you think you are,’ John had once told me.
I am reminded of a conversation Henry and I had that I have only a hazy
memory of, mostly aided by my account of it in my journal. “You are capable
of loving so deeply that you are paralyzed by it,” he’d said. “And you can’t
help but dread that the thing you love will be taken away from you too
soon.”
Logically, I understand that the possibility of him succumbing to this
disease is very small. One in millions. But it isn’t nonexistent. And some
small, primitive part of my brain given to sentiment is obsessing over that
unlikely scenario and fretting over the possibility that I might lose him
and it won’t be because I failed to stop some villain, but because of a
virus. Something largely beyond my control.
“I don’t want you to mistake my abhorrence for sentiment as taking you for
granted.” I don’t want him to die having never heard me say the words.
Ridiculous thought, especially since he most certainly isn’t dying at the
moment, but this pandemic is forcing me to confront our mortality in a way I
hadn’t previously considered.
He smiles tiredly. “Never.”
I need to fetch him some paracetamol and maybe some tea. But right now I
cannot resist the impulse to climb into the bed, pulling the covers over
him, and curl my body against his, absurdly taking the comfort I should be
giving. But he is more than willing to indulge me. As always.
“My darling, Sherlock,” he says quietly.
I stopped feeling the effects of the conditioning years ago. Now, hearing
him say my name in that reverent way of his gives me a brief spike of
endorphins. Not as powerful as drugs, perhaps, but no less pleasant or
addicting. I hum contentedly and squeeze our entwined fingers briefly,
feeling the hard press of his wedding ring.
I still have my ring set on the music stand in my mind palace. But now it
bears only two sets of initials. One to recall the man he once was – TS –
and one for the name he gives proudly now.
HRH. Henry Ronson Holmes. My husband.
THE END
Notes:
The vague description of a case involving a stalker is a reference to
"The Solitary Cyclist".
Henry's line about "never in this world a man who loved..." is repeated
from the first chapter of the story and adapted from "The Disappearance of
the Lady Francis Carfax".
The final case Sherlock is working on, including Sherlock's reaction
("say Norbury") is from my favorite short story The Adventure of the
Yellow Face. I modernized it a bit, but the quote from the husband
is exact. And that and Sherlock's reaction are the most important part of
the story.
My personal experience with COVID is closer to Sherlock's than Henry's,
although I never even lived with anyone who had it. One of the perks of
being an introverted loner, I guess. Sherlock is right that Henry will
obviously live, but the pandemic made the whole world confront mortality
and I figured Sherlock would not be immune.
Author's notes, post script
Admittedly, when I started this story it was with the idea that Henry
would eventually be the bad guy (or Gruener). This was probably because of
the influence of Before I Go to Sleep. I realized pretty quickly
that it would be far more interesting, less formulaic and Henry would be a
far less two dimensional character if I went in a different direction.
None of the other elements really changed. In no version of the story was
John really dead. For a while I was simultaneously writing the part of the
story I was currently on in conjunction with the part where John discusses
the accident and everything that came after from his perspective. Which
was confusing as I occasionally forgot what tense I was supposed to
writing in, forcing me to redo several paragraphs.
I debated whether I should rejoin the world and all events that happened
from Brexit to COVID or just continue to let everyone happily exist in an
alternate universe where those things didn't happen. I decided to consider
it one of those "change the things I can" moments. As a fanfiction writer,
it isn't my job to rewrite events in the real world. It's my job to
rewrite events ON THE SHOW. The accident that drives the plot of this fic
happened somewhere in the first few minutes of the first episode of season
four, after Rosie's birth but before Mary's death. In the absence of
Sherlock, Mary's death happened somewhat differently, but after that this
timeline diverges entirely. I incorporated a lot of elements and quotes
from the original Doyle stories, modernizing and adapting, much like the
writers of the show did back when they had the time to put a lot more
thought and care into their episodes.
I hope you enjoyed my longest, most ambitious and I believe best story to
date. The years I spent writing it were some of the most challenging of
all of my fic writing "career", but I have loved creating this world and
this story.
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