Title: Lost Files

Rating: K+ (brief language)

Setting: Early season 1

Summary: When past horrors and failures loop through the mind in vibrant technicolor, John Watson wonders if it's even possible to stop the images. As always, Sherlock Holmes has a solution.

John Watson soon discovered that the good thing about running around London chasing criminals all day was that it left no time for nightmares. Unlike the time he spent in the bedsit, his first month or so of Baker Street life was fortunately nightmare-free. However, that could have been because John was trying to adapt to Sherlock's lifestyle, which seemingly involved staying awake all day for days on end. After a while, it became apparent that John was like much of the rest of humanity, and required sleep in order to function. Thus, he would retire to his bedroom at night, leaving Sherlock to do…whatever it was he did…for six or seven hours, until they could pick back up as a team in the morning.

Perhaps out of pure exhaustion, John had slept deeply the first few nights. But then, the memories resurfaced.

The first few times he was awoken in the night with a shout, sweating and heart racing, he didn't leave his room. He was still used to the bedsit, after all, so he didn't feel uncomfortable resigned to a small space. And besides, he didn't want Sherlock aware. The limp was one thing: it was a physical manifestation. Nightmares were psychological and emotional and John knew that for all his brilliance, his flatmate didn't shine in those areas.

So, he puttered about his room until dawn, grateful for when the hour rolled around that seemed appropriate to emerge from his room, feigning a good night's rest.

After a few nights of this, scattered throughout a week's time, John's mental capacity began to suffer. He was never as quick on the draw as Sherlock – who could be? – but now his entire brain felt muddled due to lack of sleep and nightly surges of adrenaline. John was more than a few steps behind, both physically and mentally, and finally when, at a crime scene, Donovan reached a correct medical conclusion before he did, he knew something had to give.

Back at the flat that evening, he bid an early goodnight to Sherlock and retreated to his room to try some of those deep breathing exercises that Ella always promoted. They never seemed to work before, but it was worth a go now. John would be willing to try anything just to get a few hours' rest.

But like clockwork at 2 a.m., John sat up with a gasp. His heart was racing so fast that despite his medical training, he worried it would burst. He slid his feet onto the ground and sat with his head in his hands.

This one, this had been the worst one so far. John could still smell the smoke and feel the sand on his cheek, and how was that even possible when he was here in London, so far from the war in both location and time? But it didn't matter. He felt the immediate pain of being shot, and the lasting pain of seeing his friends gunned down, some of them never to get back up. And he was their doctor and he was supposed to save them but he was shot and he couldn't move and he—

No. This would not do. John stood and, noting that his leg was hurting him again, made his way to the staircase. He had to get up, to move, to feel the hardwood floors of 221B beneath his feet and know he was here, in the present.

John made his way down the stairs and into the kitchen, limping slightly, and set the kettle. He would have his tea and sit for a moment, maybe watch some telly or read, and maybe he would feel comfortable enough to go back to sleep. If not in his room, then on the sofa, and he could tell Sherlock in the morning that he came down for a quick cuppa and didn't feel like going back to his room, that was all, and Sherlock would—

Sherlock.

John looked up from the counter and there he was – Sherlock – in his dressing gown and holding his violin and bow in one hand, and looking rather confused.

"John?" he inquired, as if confirming his friend's identity.

"Ah, sorry, mate." John ducked his head apologetically. "Just—got thirsty."

"For tea." Sherlock checked his watch. He was wearing his pyjamas and dressing gown, but still had on his watch. "At a quarter past two in the morning."

John shrugged, hoping to convey nonchalance. "Yeah."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, studying John in that way he did with everyone, before his face softened back to indifference. "All right," he said dismissively as he turned to leave. "Make me a cup, too."

When the tea was brewed, John brought both mugs into the sitting room, where Sherlock sat at the desk working on his violin under a bright lamp. The older man took his place in his chair and watched his friend for a moment. John didn't know much about musical instruments, but the strings were off the violin, tossed haphazardly to the side, so he figured Sherlock must be cleaning and restringing it. It was comforting, somehow, that such intricate care was being given to something deep in the night like this, and John was glad Sherlock was working on the violin right this very moment. Yes, he found himself both grateful for the company and just as grateful that Sherlock was engaged in something, something that would keep his focus off of John and why he was awake so early.

"Couldn't sleep?" Sherlock asked without looking up from his work.

Damn.

"Ah, y-yeah," John stuttered in reply. "You know, some nights, you just…can't stay asleep." He took a sip of his tea and glanced out the window, where a hard rain was pattering down. "Must be the weather."

Sherlock made a noise in the back of his throat. "Most people find the rain soothing. They say it helps them to sleep."

John shrugged in response, though Sherlock couldn't see it with his back turned.

A few moments of silences passed, the air filled only with the sounds of rain and Sherlock fingers brushing over the violin gently as he worked. John's eyes drooped: he nearly felt he could go back to sleep like this, warm from the tea and lulled by the sounds of life.

"Unacceptable."

John's eyes shot open at the sound. "What?" he asked, his voice thick with near-slumber. Sherlock was staring straight ahead when he spoke, but now turned around in his chair to face his friend.

"This. You," he gestured towards John. "It's unacceptable."

John frowned. "Sorry, but I'm not quite following you here."

The younger man sighed, stood from his chair, and began to pace. "You have nightmares," he began. "Over the past week, you've had as many as three nights of them, four if you count tonight. And each night, they disrupt you to the point you do not go back to sleep."

John's mouth was agape. "How can you possibly know that? I never leave my room."

Sherlock pointed above his head. "You are just upstairs. I can hear you walking around."

John lowered his gaze. "What does it matter what goes on with me at night, Sherlock?"

"Because," Sherlock answered pointedly, "it affects how you are when we're on cases. You aren't sleeping, so you're not focusing when we're at a crime scene, or researching, or when I'm telling you my deductions." Sherlock pointed towards the mantle past John's head. "I may as well go back to talking to the skull, for all the good you're doing!"

So the skull was more useful than he was. John narrowed his eyes. "Well I apologize then, Sherlock, for being such a burden to you." He took a shaky sip of his tea to calm down, averting his gaze away from his flatmate. "You sodding prick."

Sherlock strode over to his chair and ungracefully flopped down in it. "John, I—" he broke off, and John heard him scratch his fingers through his hair in frustration. "Look, I'm sorry. That came out wrong. All wrong." John stole a glance at his friend, and saw true regret on his face.

Sherlock closed his eyes and placed his fingers together in front of his mouth. A brief moment passed, and then he opened his eyes and spoke. "Let me try again. John," Sherlock looked directly at his flatmate, "you have been a tremendous help with the cases since we started working together. The fact that I can notice you are slipping now is a testament to how you performed before."

John frowned. That sounded a bit like a compliment, but he could never be sure.

"Well, what about you?" he retorted. "You said it yourself: you're always awake when I am!"

Sherlock tutted. "My sleep schedule is different. I do not require the same amount of sleep, as an average person, which is not the same as being kept from rest due to psychological turmoil. When I need sleep, I assure you I get it.

"But what is happening to you," Sherlock continued, "affects The Work, and also your health. This cannot continue."

John blinked in response. He wasn't surprised at the comment about The Work, but his own health as a matter of equal importance – that was new.

"I don't—" he began softly, but stopped when his voice trembled. Taking a breath, he tried again. "I've tried to stop it, but it doesn't work."

Sherlock nodded. "I can help. There are ways you can…delete…certain memories. Things you've learned or thought or seen." Sherlock paused, studying John. "I do it when my Mind Palace feels too crowded, or when information becomes unnecessary."

"So you want me to forget my memories?"

"Basically, yes. The ones that are causing you turmoil at night, anyway. Which I assume are about the war?"

John nodded and considered this proposition for a moment. "It works? This…'deleting'…thing?"

"The first time I learned how to do it, I was seven and I deleted Mycroft's birthday." A wide grin spread across Sherlock's face. "He was turning fourteen. We were having a big, formal dinner with family and friends, and I spent the day wading through the river catching frogs. I was comparing differences in the ones that lived closer to town and the ones further out in the country," he added quickly, apparently not wanting John to think he was merely playing.

"What happened?"

Sherlock laughed. "I came home while everyone was still there, wet and smelling like dirt and decay. The party was ruined: everyone had spent it looking for me, thinking I'd drowned or been abducted. Mum was furious!"

John rolled his eyes. "Brilliant use of your mind, Sherlock. Ruin your brother's party."

Sherlock tutted in response. "Oh, Mycroft got over it. And I added the date back to the Mind Palace, and I don't miss our family dinners now." A pause. "Well, most of the time I don't."

"Back to me," John said pointedly. "The thing is, Sherlock, you just delete facts. If I delete these memories…then I delete the people they're about, too."

Sherlock frowned. "I don't understand."

"The memories of the war," John paused, trying to find the words to explain. It wasn't logical, not really, and that made it hard to express to someone whose entire world was rooted in logic. "It's not the fact that the war happened, or I was in it. I can't just delete those facts. What you're asking me to do is to delete the memories of watching my mates die."

Sherlock blinked. "Well, yes. Exactly."

Running his fingers through his hair, John tried to keep the frustration out of his voice. "But if I delete those memories, then I forget the people they're about. My friends. It's horrible stuff to remember, but it's part of who they are. And who I am, since I was there. You understand?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly. "…Sentiment?" he asked.

"Yeah," John admitted. "Yeah. Sentiment."

Sherlock drummed his fingers on his knee in silence for a moment, lost in thought. Then his eyes lit up with a spark.

"Transfer!"

"Transfer?"

"Like computer files," Sherlock was up and pacing again, this time out of excitement instead of frustration. "The hard drive gets too full, so what do you do? You transfer files to another one. You delete them from the hard drive, but not altogether."

"…okay…"

Sherlock stood in front of John. "You tell me the memories. You delete them. I store them for you in my Mind Palace, so if you need them again, I can give them back." He held out his hands as if to say voila! "That's how I reprogrammed Mycroft's birthday. I had it written on a calendar, so I just got the memory back once I saw how it upset my Mum."

"So you want to hear about the stuff from Afghanistan?" John repeated. "You want me to talk to you…like a therapist?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes immediately. "No," he snapped. "This is not…therapy," he spat out the word like a bad taste. "This is a transfer of files from one hard drive to another."

It still sounded exactly like therapy to John, but leave it to Sherlock to reduce it to something between machines.

"Okay," John agreed. "So…when do you want to start?"

Sherlock sat back down in his chair. "Why not now? Why not start with whatever woke you earlier?"

And so John told him. It was awkward at first, because they had never discussed things like this, at least not so extensively. And usually when John talked, Sherlock only paid him half attention (unless it was about The Work). But here he sat, giving his full attention while John shared the memory that shook him awake. And when he was done, Sherlock shared the technique he used to delete information. It involved sitting still and breathing a certain way and a lot of visualization. If John hadn't known better he would have made another comparison to therapy then and there.

He got what Sherlock was saying, but John still couldn't bring himself to do it. He couldn't delete the last moments he had seen his friends alive, so he pretended and told Sherlock that yeah, it seemed like the memory was gone, and either he was a good liar or Sherlock was just so willing to believe it had worked because the younger man's face lit up in such a glow with the knowledge that it had worked, John's painful memory was gone. Then he went back to work on the violin, and John moved to the sofa to catch a few hours' sleep before the day officially began.

Interestingly, John might have still had the memory, but it didn't resurface during the night.

After that, it became a habit. When John woke from a nightmare, he made his way downstairs and found Sherlock waiting. John would tell his flatmate what he had dreamed, the memory that had caused it, and Sherlock would listen. After a while, they moved past the war and into his relationship with Harry, his parents, and parts of his childhood. Sherlock would stay quiet at first, but soon began interrupting to make connections to things John had said previously. The first time it happened John gave him a curious look, and Sherlock had explained quickly that he was simply making a mental trail to connect these files together, so they could be more easily stored.

Their time always ended with John "deleting the files." Which John never did. But what he found interesting was that although he didn't delete the memories like Sherlock instructed, he found himself thinking on them less and less. He didn't forget his friends, but he thought about their deaths less and moments from their lives together more: happy, funny moments despite their tumultuous surroundings. The same could be said for his thoughts on Harry and his parents. The bad memories remained, he could bring them up at any time if he wanted, but they weren't as clear as before, not as close to the surface.

Thanks to this transformation, John's sleep slowly became more peaceful. He saw Sherlock less and less in the middle of the night, and woke rested and clear-minded. They never spoke of it, but John wondered if somehow his nights talking to Sherlock were what he was supposed to get from his sessions with Ella. Despite Sherlock's insistence to the contrary, was he actually providing a sort of therapy? Whatever the result, John didn't think about it much. He took comfort in the fact that someone else kept his "files," so he could focus on other things.

And then came that horrible day in June.

John didn't know why he thought he could sleep that night. How well could he sleep after watching his best friend plummet to the ground? How could he close his eyes and not see a pale head with dark curls split open, bright red blood on the pavement?

And he was helpless to forget, because he'd never really tried before, not when Sherlock thought he was teaching him. Instead he had faked it and now when he really, really needed to delete the memories, he couldn't.

John laid in bed and wondered what happened to memories after you died. Sherlock's server was now "offline." But the files he had kept for John weren't lost. No, they were back with John now, clearer and more vibrant than ever, with every scene tinged with Sherlock's blood. Sherlock jumping and friends getting shot and Harry his mum and dad all in danger, and John helpless to save any of them or delete one single detail.

He longed to pad down the stairs and see his flatmate sitting in his chair, tea in hand.

Bad night?

You have no idea.

He had told Sherlock to delete his files meant he would delete the people they were about. The part he left out was the fear of that loss: the fear of losing his memories and being alone. But sitting in his bed at Baker Street, John didn't see how he could possibly be any more alone than he was now, looping everyone he had ever failed to save on replay through his mind.

Author's Note: Sorry to end on such a somber moment, but we all know it gets better at Baker Street, right? Reviews and feedback are much appreciated!