Of Dubious and Questionable Memory
By Diandra Hollman

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Day 424, Sherlock

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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

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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

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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.


*Part 1: Day 1, Day 2, Day 3, Day 4, Day 5, Day 6*

*Part 2: Day 10, Day 11 part 1, part 2, part 3, Days 12-14, Days 424, 500 & Day 1,552*

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