He had memories of what it'd been like Before John.
The world: A constant stream of irrelevant information. Details inputted into his head and outputted as conclusions that didn't matter. An overload of external stimuli.
Too much. Vision sometimes shut down – a coping mechanism, to block out some of the excess information. When the blindness struck, he'd curl up on a London sidewalk for a time, or else grope for buildings to guide his way, if he was in a rush. Eventually he memorized every block and side street and gutter in the city, in case his sight should spontaneously disappear.
Before: Years of voices melding together and faces with features shrouded in shadow. Certain faces became familiar, over time, and easier to process. Lestrade is in a number of his memories. Not the Lestrade he knows not, but a more concerned, but less gray version of the D.I. In his memories, Lestrade's eyebrows are always furrowed, and he's always disappointed.
His brother is in those memories too, but never as a face. When he pictures Mycroft he sees a CCTV camera angled awkwardly toward him, or a lean silhouette following him in the night.
He used to take taxis because the tube had been too much. In the underground there'd be people, watching him. Or not watching him, and talking to each other. Endless chatter and the groaning of an electric train that ran twenty-four hours a day. He'd hired people to shop for him; the music or televisions in stores was overwhelming.
It is a damned good thing no one had ever sent him to a doctor. He'd been a dissociative curiosity; he watched the world outside himself, mostly – as much of the world as he could handle, that is. It was only when he was on a case that he jolted back into himself, found something tangible and manageable to focus on. Later, after John, people assumed that Sherlock sought adrenaline highs as much as John did. He didn't, not really. Cases made the world less overwhelming. Like cocaine, they gave him one problem to focus on, for a time, instead of myriad problems out of his control, and not even solvable.
He imagines that one day, if he hadn't discovered detective work and John, his brain would have become inflamed. It would have cracked his skull, and his skull would've pierced a seam down his head, and Sherlock's thoughts would have exploded into the universe.
It'd been scary, Before: he used to end up places and have no idea how he got there. When external stimuli became too much, his mind shut down, and memory formation became impossible. He'd call his brother during those times. Mycroft always knew where he was, would always send someone to pick him up. After, John was with him, almost always, guiding him. That was enough.
Sherlock made a promise to himself when he was on the rooftop of Bart's: He wasn't going to lose himself again. He would not forget hours, or days, of his life. He would focus, focus, focus on crushing Moriarty's web, and once he came back John would be there to anchor him. He promised himself.
Sherlock breaks that promise. He gets on a plane. Goes somewhere, somewhere important, somewhere Moriarty's web is involved.
The plane ride: Too much. Dozens of vents, pushing out dry, cool air onto the sleeping faces of passengers. Too much breathing, too much thinking, too many laptops droning and iPods playing softly. Too much turbulence. Too many times the flight attendants had to tell him to stop pacing up and down the aisles, to sit down. He accuses two of them, loudly, of sleeping with the pilot, and they look at each other like their worst suspicions of one another have been confirmed. They forget he's there, so he takes his seat, and he imagines he didn't shout out his deduction. He imagines he whispered it, softly, in the ear of the dozing passenger beside him (Not the fat man who tried leaning against Sherlock's shoulder, obviously – John. He's imagining.). John would have giggled, and Sherlock would have felt the immense relief he always feels when John makes Sherlock's more useless deductions into something (sentimentally) valuable. But John isn't here. Nothing to do with the information. Can't stop it from flowing in, though; can't stop his brain from analyzing everything. Too much. Too much. Overload.
He needs to find another skull, if he can't have John.
Shit.
He isn't in the plane anymore. He is standing in an airport, feet away from a pair of doors that lead to a city. Shit. Shit. He's here. But where? He racks his brain; where had Mycroft sent him first? Impossible to reach information when the brain is too busy struggling to process minute details, like the sound of dust drifting in the air. Everything hurts.
He dials Mycroft.
"Brother, dear. Was your death successful?"
"Where am I?" Sherlock says. He closes his eyes; sunlight is pouring in through the glass doors. Too much.
"Sudan," says Mycroft. "Shall I send someone to help you?" Mycroft's minions are lurking, of course; here to kill the bad guys once Sherlock figures out who the bad guys are.
"No. That'd ruin everything, you know that." He can feel Mycroft purse his lips on the other end.
"They're there if you need saving," Mycroft says. And hangs up.
Everything passes in a whirl. The heat, the dehydration, the water, the diarrhea. The wish that John were here, treating him, even though Sherlock would be embarrassed and moody if he were, and even though Mycroft's minions have every medication he needs. It bothers him, that he's in less danger than he thought he would be. It makes him less a martyr. Makes it seem like he left John for nothing.
It's not like a case; there is no definite goal, no definite number of criminals that Sherlock needs to name. There are no crime scenes, only suspected individuals and hints from Mycroft. Only following people, trying to remain discreet despite having the lightest skin for miles. He works restlessly for four weeks, and the chase becomes his obsession. As soon as he's given Mycroft enough information to go on, Sherlock collapses.
His body gives out when he returns to his hotel room. He'd been hungry and thirsty since arriving; hardly any of the food or water available seems trustworthy. He'd been jittery from an overdose of street coffee, but now that's worn out. His heart and head are pounding and he's drenched in perspiration. He groans and closes his eyes.
None of Mycroft's assistants check on him until the next morning. They find him curled up on the hardwood floor, in a puddle of sweat and urine and vomit.
They think he has malaria. He needs serious medical assistance, but none is available in the country. He hears them talking about it to each other; rough, male voices shouting, debating their next move. Everyone too scared to call Mycroft and tell him that his younger brother's dying. They can't cross the border with him; every man is needed to target Moriarty's men. They can't decide which is more of a danger to Sherlock: Moriarty's men, or malaria.
End up sending Sherlock on his way in a stretcher, with an interpreter. Sherlock's passed out for the plane ride. He'll be safe, though, Mycroft's men decide; three American doctors wait for him in Ethiopia.
He wakes up in a tent. He's sore down to his marrow; his body so exhausted from ceaseless shivering that now he can barely move. It's sweltering but there's a cool rag on his forehead and he's lying naked and bald. Perhaps this should bother him, but he's never been one for modesty and he's mostly just pleased his caretakers have taken reasonable precautions against the heat.
"Ah, you're awake." A white, brown-haired man, tall and muscular, slips through the tent. He's wearing a three piece suit despite the heat, and a ridiculous sunhat is balanced on top of his head. He hovers over Sherlock and seems to care even less about Sherlock's nudity than Sherlock does.
"Where am I?" Sherlock rasps.
"A village some miles north of Addis Ababa," the man says. "And congratulations! As it turns out, you don't have malaria. You're just weak as hell and used to clean water." The man holds up his hand, grinning, and waits for Sherlock. Sherlock stares back dully. The man's grin slips away. "Too soon for a high-five?"
Sherlock can't place the man's accent. It might be American, but his consonants are too rhythmic and clipped.
"Right. Well, if you can stand, I can help you get dressed. We'll need to leave very soon."
Sherlock's memories come back to him, at least enough of them to make sense of why he is naked and bald in a tent in Africa: the rooftop, his phone call with John, the fall, the plane ride, Sudan, his collapse…
Sudan had been first on his list. Check. Ethiopia wasn't on his list at all. So this man – one of Mycroft's men, obviously – is asking him to go to the country next on the list. Which is… Right.
"Somalia," Sherlock says faintly. The man chuckles.
"I think we need to get you out of Africa. Only first world countries for you, Mr. Holmes. And now up you get," the man says, grunting as he squats by Sherlock's side and pushes Sherlock up by his shoulders. Sherlock manages to stay there, long enough for the man to pull Sherlock's arms through the sleeves of a loose cotton T-shirt.
"You're not one of Mycroft's men." Sherlock figures it out as the man is helping Sherlock put on shorts. Under normal circumstances, he would have known this immediately, but his brain feels slow and groggy at the moment. It's a new sensation.
"No, I don't work for governments," says the man. "But you obviously need me, seeing as how Mycroft's men had you leave Sudan with only an interpreter, and that interpreter was detained at the border."
"You got me past the border," Sherlock says.
"Yes," the man says, as Sherlock fumbles to secure the shorts around his hipbones. His fingers trace across hard bone. He's lost a lot of weight in just four weeks; he wonders if John would find him pathetic, getting ill twice in less than a full month after his "death." He wonders if John thinks of him at all.
No. Stupid. He must.
John needs Sherlock. Sherlock doesn't need John. Sherlock had forgotten that.
"Come on, look brighter. If you look sick they won't let you on the plane," the man says, giving Sherlock's arm a punch. Sherlock feels woozy; falls back.
"I shouldn't go with you," he says.
"Probably not, but you will," says the man.
"Why would I?" he snaps.
"Because you're sick and alone and you don't do 'alone.' I can tell. You need me." The man stands. "I'll be waiting outside. We should be out of this village by sunset."
Sherlock manages to stand on his own, shaking and weak. When he walks out he finds four men sitting on the ground. Three are obviously the American doctors; Sherlock wonders if he should be thanking them, but it doesn't seem worth the effort. The fourth is the man that helped dress Sherlock; he's laughing and smiling boisterously. There's a group of small, dark-skinned children around him, and they're all shouting the same word. It takes a moment for Sherlock to comprehend it as, "Papa!" The man is hugging them like he really is their papa, and every now and then he gives one a kiss on the head.
Handmade bowls are on the dirt ground, Sherlock notices; the three by the doctors have been scraped empty.
"Mr. Holmes, good to see you standing," the man says. He reaches past the children, and pushes one of the filled bowls forward. "Dinner's waiting."
Sherlock drops to the ground. He looks distastefully at the bowl, which is full of cold lentils.
"I'm not hungry," he says flatly. The children all quiet and stare. The man gives him a pleasant smile, but his eyes are hard and unyielding.
"You're never 'not hungry' in Ethiopia, Mr. Holmes. Eat the food. Now." Sherlock and the man stare at each other for several long seconds. The doctors are frowning. Sherlock feels like a fool, and he's wondering if maybe staring this man down will win him back his pride. It doesn't. He takes the bowl.
The man nods and goes back to playing with the children.
"Who wants one last piggy back ride?" he asks, laughing merrily, and all the children jump up and raise their hands. It's a happy sight, almost. Sherlock almost smiles, the taste of lentils dull and dry in his mouth.