Remember me when I am gone away,

Gone far away into the silent land;

When you can no more hold me by the hand,

Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.

Remember me when no more day by day

You tell me of our future that you plann'd:

Only remember me; you understand

It will be late to counsel then or pray.

Yet if you should forget me for a while

And afterwards remember, do not grieve:

For if the darkness and corruption leave

A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,

Better by far you should forget and smile

Than that you should remember and be sad.

- Remember by Christina Rosetti

Prologue

John watched as Sherlock's slender hands traced a pattern on the silver and black wallpaper at 221b, his movements delicate as a temple dancer's. He gently tugged the pieces of wallpaper which had come undone with showers of bullets on bored days; he rubbed at the sprayed graffiti as if it would disappear under his touch. Under his fingertips, it all felt so surreal. As if he was sleeping right now and he would wake up and be somewhere else. John watched as he desperately tried to think of something associated with this wall, something he had done before, but nothing came to mind. He furrowed his eyebrows slightly, the bridge of his nose creasing. Then he turned to his partner and shook his head in frustration.

"No," he said simply, but his tone was defeated and his body betrayed the neutral expression on his face. John watched as the fight left his eyes, the intense concentration he had coerced Sherlock into vanishing just as quickly as it had appeared. His shoulders drooped noticeably. "I tried, but I just can't." The frustration he felt was becoming evident. He bit his lip a little too hard, barely noticing as a trickle of blood slowly sliding down to the prickly chin that he had not shaved for three days. John shook his head.

"Sherlock, we don't have to do this now," he said gently, whipping a tissue from his pocket and making his way towards him. He held Sherlock's forearm in a tight but not uncomfortable grip and began dabbing his friend's face with the crumpled tissue. Sherlock didn't fight him off, didn't push him away with a huff and an insult. He simply stared off into nothing, lost in the dark abyss he had fallen in to. It was as if half of him wasn't there. He leaned his hand against the wall again, but he didn't turn to examine it. John squeezed his arm tightly, jolting him from his thoughts before he could go in to them so deep he would not find his way out. "Come on, then. It's 6 o'clock. Do you know what happens at 6 o'clock?" Sherlock tried. He really did. He looked to the windows, light spilling through and streaking the glass where Mrs Hudson had made a feeble attempt at a cleaning job. He closed his eyes and took one long breath, sucking in as much air as he could and blowing it back out. Then he opened his eyes and replied dully, "I don't know. I don't know, John. Why don't I know?"

He shook himself from John's grasp and attempted a march around the flat but ended up teetering, lolling from side to side in a disorientated rage. John could tell he was smouldering, trying to sort through his smudged thoughts and not being able to do it. He couldn't trust his own mind, the one thing that he had been able to rely on for all of his life and it was absolutely infuriating. He scooped up his tea mug, staring at the logo through squinted eyes, trying to make it out. He couldn't. So he hurled it against the wall, watching the crafted mug shatter and fall to the floor in a shower of white pieces. As soon as he had did it, he instantly regretted it. His light eyes traced the edges of the cracked pieces, realisation dawning on him far too quickly of what he did, and John's done for and slightly disappointed face greeting him when he looked up just made him feel all the more ashamed. He didn't know why, but he couldn't face it. He dropped on to the chair he stood beside and covered his ears, the sound of the cup smashing over and over in his rattling head.

It was John's turn to lose the will. He ran a hand through his hair and tried to ignore what had just happened for just a moment so he could form some rational thought. The cup was an accurate representation of his strength; something that had to be created over a while but could be broken within a few seconds, especially if your name was Sherlock Holmes. He had been at this for three days with his best friend and he cared enough to do it for three days more, but the outburst just dampened his spirits and robbed him of any hope that perhaps things would get better. He really thought they were making progress, that soon he and Sherlock would be able to sit down and have a decent conversation about the weather, or dinner, or even an insult or two. All those things he thought he'd never miss, but did. All those things he thought he could live without, but couldn't.

He looked to the windows, the light falling on Sherlock's table of knickknacks. His violin. A cup of tea. The newspaper. Then he gazed back at his friend: a helpless, shadowed face that needed someone. That needed him. His eyes didn't look empty, but glazed over, as if the real Sherlock was desperately trying to break through the misty haze to reach him. And John knew he couldn't give up on him.

"Come on, Sherlock. Just remember."