Every Little Detail
Summary: His brain functions like it always did; still deducing, still a genius. But he fails to understand why, he fails to remember why. And as he meets his only friend, he fails to remember him as well. Is there something inside Sherlock which will be able to help him remember?
SPOILERS for season 2 ending!
A/N: I am not going to assume how Sherlock survived after the fall, but I am going to assume that it was him who jumped, and therefore by the law of gravity he hit something, since humans don't fly. What, I don't know, and I won't mention it. But whilst he survives, he also comes back with a memory loss.
"Mummy, look!" exclaimed a five year old girl, dressed in a pink coat and a matching hat. Her small index finger pointed towards a tall man who was intently looking at them and all the other people who filled the busy streets of London. Her mother, a blonde woman in her mid-thirties, frowned as she looked at him. Dressed in a long dark coat, his scruffy dark hair flying in every direction and sticking to his forehead, his light eyes looking empty as did his pale face, the man looked dangerous to her. She quickly grabbed her daughter's hand without uttering a word and pulled her towards the opposite direction.
The void left by the two females was filled by Sherlock Holmes himself, who continued to look at the passers-by. Everyone avoided the detective and stayed at least one metre away, due to his dark aura which alarmed them. However he didn't mind, nor did he care, as what he was looking for wasn't found in those humans. They could barely give him any answer to the millions of questions residing inside his confused mind. He snorted as drop of rain fell on his cheek. Like he predicted, in eight seconds most of the people that were walking in the street fastened their pace, while others fetched their bags to get out their umbrellas.
Eventually the rain increased and the street was deserted in less than an hour, bar Sherlock who remained in the same position, letting his own body get soaked by the precipitation while thinking. How am I able to conclude so many things about people I never saw? Why do I even think that deep? Why does this emptiness seem so familiar? Yet why is there also a feeling that once it was filled? Who am I?
The sound of the telephone ringing blended with the sound of the heavy rain in the cosy apartment situated in Baker Street. John Watson grabbed the phone with his right hand, as his left hand held a mug of hot tea, and muttered a 'hello'. He sighed after hearing the familiar voice of his boss and mentally slapped himself when she reminded him that he was supposed to start his shift fifteen minutes in the past. He put the mug near the telephone and placed his free hand on his forehead.
"Look, I'm sorry, it just slipped out of my mind," he said when she paused from her rant. He cringed as she shouted that 'things slip too often out of his mind' and closed his eyes forcefully. "If I leave now I might be there in half an hour. Then I'll stay one hour overtime, okay?"
She seemed content by his reply as her voice softened. John sighed in relief and frustration, and put the phone down. He grabbed the tea and walked towards the window to look at the sky filled with clouds. It looked like it would rain for a while. He sighed once again and drank his tea in one gulp. After putting the mug in the sink, he hurried towards his room to dress. As per usual, he stole a glance towards 'his room', and his aching heart missed several beats.
The cold breeze hit his face as he opened the large door. In five minutes he was out of the apartment, holding tightly his black umbrella while waiting for a taxi. Without Sherlock, he waited at least ten minutes before catching one. As soon as the thought entered his mind, his aching heart returned. He clutched his chest and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "Negative thoughts lead to nothing and I bet he'd call me an idiot for acting like this," he muttered. It usually helped him, in some way, thinking of every time Sherlock called him an idiot. It would leave a bittersweet feeling inside his heart, which somehow mended it. The hollowness remained, but it resided with memories of the detective. However that day John had no luck; the grey sky was a mirror of how he was feeling and the memories which taunted him were a strange presentiment.
After finally catching a taxi and mumbling the hospital's address to the driver, John relaxed in the backseat and looked at the moving wet city, raindrops splashing across the window loudly. He tried to concentrate on the streets and buildings to free his mind, when a familiar silhouette caught his eye. "Wait! Stop here!" he shouted to the driver, who quickly obliged without saying a word.
He opened the car door and ran across the street with no hesitation. He halted three steps in front of Sherlock, his eyes wide in shock. His mouth opened to say something, anything, but no words came out as he was left speechless. Instead, his lips quivered and his eyes blinked a couple of times, to make sure he wasn't hallucinating.
"You're in less than a metre away from me, shock is painted on your face and your eyes just inspected me. I caused you no fear, but surprise. You stopped the taxi and came running here, without even opening your umbrella even if it's in your right hand by the way. You know me," stated Sherlock blankly. John simply looked at him, excitement running through his blood as he heard, for the first time in a month, his friend's usual deductions. But the excitement was masked by confusion, which soon was visible on his face, as he replied with a simple "eh?"
"You know me," he repeated.
"Of course I do!" John answered, then added; "Where were you? I… I thought you were… No. The question is; how the hell are you alive? I saw you falling from such a height!"
Sherlock looked at him attentively without replying. A thunder flashed in the sky, reminding John that they were getting wet. He glanced at Sherlock's clothes and frowned; he was drenched, from head to toes, probably even his underwear. A blush crawled on his cheeks at the thought, delaying his reproach, which never came since Sherlock decided to finally talk. "What's your name?" he demanded.
John felt his blood freeze as the words registered inside his head. "Sherlock! This isn't time to be joking, for fuck's sake! I thought you were dead! I saw you, on the pavement, full of blood… You were dead!" he explained, hurt resounding in every word, especially in the last one.
"I'm not joking. I tried to search deep inside my brain, but all I find is mist. It infuriates me!" he replied, hovering his hands up and then dropping them in frustration. John bit his lower lip as he looked into Sherlock's light eyes. Realisation must have dawned upon him as he then, abruptly, grabbed the detective's hand, and pulled him towards the taxi which was still waiting for him.
"I'm sorry for taking long," he said as they both got in the car and closed the door. The driver shook his head and replied; "No problem. To the hospital, right?"
"Damn, I forgot about that," he exclaimed, slapping his brow. "No, back to Baker Street, please."
"Baker Street?" questioned Sherlock with a slight frown, however John didn't hear as he was writing a quick message on his mobile.
I'm sorry, something came up and I can't come. Feel free to fire me, I realise my attitude was quite unprofessional. –JW
The hour hand met the minute hand over number twelve when John opened the apartment door and shoved Sherlock inside, placing his mobile and keys on the kitchen's table and hurrying to the bathroom to prepare a warm bath for his companion while grabbing a towel for himself. He proceeded towards Sherlock's room to get some clean clothes and went back to the kitchen were the detective was still standing, looking around, with an undecipherable expression.
"I prepared you a warm bath, here are some clean clothes. Hurry up, go" he ordered. Sherlock scanned the clothes before moving his hand to snatch them. Their fingers brushed slightly, causing electricity to pass through their exposed skin. He left without a word and John walked towards the living room, towel over his head to dry his hair up. His head felt like exploding; too many things happening at the same time. He thought Sherlock was dead, yet he sees him standing in the rain on the day that his heart couldn't stop aching. He was thrilled to find out he was really Sherlock, but at the same time there was something missing. Then there was that feeling that he couldn't quite get. A feeling which made his heart beat like crazy while his skin burnt worse than the inferno.
The mobile buzzed, forgotten on the table, signalling an incoming message. The noise registered inside his head, but was left ignored as he undressed to put on some dry clothes. He sat down on the sofa with his laptop and tried to distract himself. A sweet scent of soap invaded his nostrils, short circuiting his brain. He didn't try to understand what it meant; he didn't think at all.
After half an hour, Sherlock walked in the living room and sat opposite to John in a leather chair. John put his laptop away and looked at the detective. The silence in the room was louder than anything as they continued to stare at each other, energy flowing in every path, emotions threatening to spill out. John wasn't a detective, but he was quite sure that the person in front of him was drowning into emptiness and his only salvation was some kind of hope which he managed to remember. While he had no idea on how did his flatmate survive the fall, John concluded from the symptoms he gathered that Sherlock was suffering from post-traumatic amnesia.
"Where were you in this month?" asked John, in attempt to break the ice as well as investigate more on his condition. Sherlock simply shrugged, his eyes still trained on John, as if trying to reach deeper. A shiver passed through John's spine and his eyes fell on the ground. He felt as though he was being split apart, opened like a book, exposing his most intimate self. He bit his lower lip and tried to hide his overflowing feelings by thinking about the amnesia. Definitely post-traumatic amnesia if he's not storing any new memories.
However it was slightly too late; Sherlock stood up and in two large strides he was in front of the doctor. A large pale hand touched John's jaw, whose eyes darted up to lock with the light ones which were now void of emptiness. Sherlock's cold skin fused with John's heated one; an assortment of confusion, embarrassment and affection. The detective kneeled down so that they were on the same level, his hand still possessing John's face with even more pressure.
"I have no idea what I'm doing. I have no idea what I had with you. But it feels like this is what I wanted, deep down," Sherlock whispered, as he slowly leaned towards John.
"Well, it was definitely not this. Though everyone suspected it," he replied, finally able to smile. John got rid of the distance as he let his lips rest upon Sherlock's. Their eyes closed in synchronisation while their lips danced together, passion springing between them amongst all the other emotions which were left untold until their reunion.
Sherlock pulled slight back, his lips still hovering over John's, their foreheads touching. Their breaths mingled as the detective murmured; "Then I am somehow glad that I lost my memory if I was able to gain this. But can I recover it? I still want to know every little detail of my life with you."
"You sure can," John whispered back, letting a tear fall from his eye.
A/N: First of all, please experts don't slay me for any medical misuse. I don't study in a medical area, so all I wrote about was found by googling. If anything I wrote is incorrect, feel free to tell me without shouting at me. Otherwise, hope it makes sense. Secondly, I avoided reading post-Reichenbach fics, because I really didn't want to see thousands of interpretations of it. It's like, I prefer waiting for the actual one, you know. But ironically, I ended up writing about it. I just wanted to write, then the "memory loss" thing came to my mind, and then I couldn't find a better pairing than Sherlock and John to write it down. Thirdly, I hope they're both IC. First time writing Sherlock, it kind of scares me since he's such a complex character. At least he lost his memory here so some OOCness should be kind of acceptable, huh. Alright, long A/N is long *shuts up*. Hope you enjoyed, reviews are nice ^^