Title: Crumbling Palaces
Author: Diverie
Summary: Sherlock's Mind Palace starts misplacing data. When John realizes what has happened, it is already too late. Sherlock is losing his mind, and nothing in the world will ever be right again.
Sometimes, Sherlock has good days, and sometimes... he has very bad days. John usually calms him down with tea, but if that doesn't work he'll place a kiss on his cheek and murmur, "It's all right, everything is going to be all right," into his ear as he stares at the walls with unseeing eyes. He almost envies Sherlock some days for his ability to forget those days. Sherlock will sometimes send texts to people who are long gone. There is always the look of confusion as John sits him down and tells him what has happened. He doesn't always believe him. At night, there are nightmares that haunt his mind even in his waking hours. Images of Sherlock ending his own life because the despair grew too much.
John walked into the living room, and tried not to show his tension as he came closer to Sherlock.
"John, there's a case! Oh, this is wonderful!" Sherlock grins, and his eyes are bright and it almost hurts to look into his eyes and be reminded of what would've been.
"Yes. Quite wonderful." He tries to sound enthusiastic, but judging by Sherlock's frown, he has failed. When John doesn't say anything further, Sherlock grabs his coat and dashes out the door with John following behind. He sighed, and put his hands in his pockets. He forces a smile as Sherlock hails a cab and waits impatiently for his flatmate. John gets into the cab with a numb feeling surrounding his heart. For today, John will play along and try to make the mourning that appears in Sherlock's eyes every time disappear for a bit. John will pretend that everything is okay. Just for today.
The next day, Sherlock lies on the couch and stares at the ceiling and stays absolutely still. John forces toast and eggs down his throat, but Sherlock refuses to eat anything else. He's much too thin these days, but there's not much John can do about it. He supposes it'd be hypocritical of him to force his friend to eat when he barely consumes anything but tea.
"Did you do anything today?" he asks, almost dreading the answer.
Silence.
"I can't remember."
On the weekends, they watch telly and sit on the couch together. John playfully hits Sherlock when he spoils the ending of Taxi Driver.
Sometimes John will point to an actor and ask, "What about her?"
And then Sherlock will roll his eyes and obligingly tell John his deductions. "Married, twice, obviously an alcoholic. She has two dogs and one son at college. She works as a P.A." He sighed.
"Brilliant!" John grins. "That never gets old." He gave a wistful look, and a smile played on his lips. "I remember the first time we met. You, with your curly hair and those brilliant blue eyes. You asked if I'd served in Iraq or Afghanistan. Then, you ran off and almost got killed by a killer cabbie!" John laughed.
Sherlock coughed. "That may not been one of my best decisions."
"Definitely not." John's mouth quirked into a smile.
He giggled, and Sherlock huffed.
"Oh, those were the good old days, when our only problem was Moriarty. I mean... he was something I could actually fight. But this..." he trails off. John sighed. "I don't know how I'm ever going to live without you," he confesses.
"You won't have to." Sherlock's jaw is set and he scrutinizes John. "I won't forget you."
John's mouth becomes dry. "I know you won't." He swallows, feeling the taste of ash on his tongue.
One day, Sherlock finds a box labelled 'Mycroft's things' in the back of his closet, behind his old notebooks. There's a thin layer of dust on the lid and he blows it
away. In it, there is an umbrella, an old phone, and some papers. Sherlock takes out the phone and turns it on. For some reason, he can't deduce the pass
code. Sherlock goes to the backyard and sees John watering the flowers.
"Who is Mycroft?" Sherlock asks.
The colour drained from John's face and he opened his mouth, but snapped it shut soon after. He breathed and set down the watering can. "He's—he's your brother, Sherlock."
"Oh."
Later, they sit in the kitchen and drink tea while John tells Sherlock about his older brother.
"Mycroft..." John coughed.
Sherlock leaned forward.
John took a deep breath before continuing.
"He was an absolute prat, but he did everything for you. You used to hate him." John smiles, but his eyes are sad.
Sherlock nods. "Where is he now?"
John doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.
Around him, the bees fluttered for a moment before flying away. The soft scent of honey and lilies wafted into his nose, and he sighed. He wished he could stay
and feel the breeze on his skin forever. It made him think of days filled with sirens and the Game and a warm hand covering his own.
Sherlock didn't know how long he stayed outside, but when John found him he simply said, "Come on. Let's get you inside."
He followed, and lets John fuss over him. He doesn't miss John glance at him with barely concealed concern at his easy compliance. It won't be long now, he thinks.
Leaning on John, he softly says, "John. Don't—don't leave me. Please." His heart is beating furiously and he hates how weak his voice sounds.
John embraces Sherlock in a hug catching him by surprise. "I'll never leave you." He laughs lightly. "Besides, you'd probably piss someone off and get kidnapped before I even pack my things."
Sherlock sneaks up behind the stranger who has his back turned and is shuffling through papers. He raises the umbrella and prepares to strike. Suddenly,
the man whirls around and has his leg out, ready to kick but when he sees Sherlock's face, he stops.
"Sherlock?" The man's eyebrows went up and a few wrinkles appeared on his forehead.
"Who are you?" Sherlock glares, and when the man takes a step toward him, he brandishes the umbrella.
"Sherlock. It's me, John," the man said softly. "I'm not going to hurt you."
"I doubt it." he said, tightening his grip on the umbrella. "You could be trying to kill me. I will ask again. Who are you?"
"A friend," he says with a cool calm.
"I don't have friends," he hisses.
The blond flinched and muttered, "Right. I'll just leave then," then blinks and turns around, walking out the door with his head held high. But there's a quaver in his steps and a barely noticeable limp as he leaves.
The next day, Sherlock wakes up to find John sitting on the edge of his bed. He sits up.
"I forgot you." Sherlock's face is expressionless, but his fists are clenched.
John shakes his head. "It's all right. It wasn't your fault-"
"Of course, it's my bloody fault!" Sherlock shouts, tossing the covers aside.
"I should be able to control this disease," he spat. "I've chased criminals, destroyed the greatest threat known to mankind and I can actually use my brain,
unlike the rest of you lot." Sherlock pants. The world is spinning rapidly before his eyes leaving his body feeling like someone has taken over. John is silent.
"Yet..." Tears shine in his eyes. "I can't remember my own best friend."
John turned his face away. "I'm sorry."
"What?" His head snaps up. "Why are you apologizing?"
John looked down. "This is my fault. I'm a doctor. Maybe if I'd caught the signs sooner, I could've done something, anything, other than this. I could've found a
cure. I feel like I'm just sitting here doing nothing when I could be-"
"What? Could be what?" he asks. "There was nothing you could've done. Besides, I wouldn't want you throwing away your life for me. Finding the cure to this-"
He gestures to his body. "Could've taken years. And it would be for nothing. I am losing my mind as we speak." Sherlock trembles.
John moves forward and embraces his friend in a tight squeeze. He breathes through his mouth, and presses his face into his friend's back. "Sherlock..."
Sherlock hugs him with all the strength he can muster, feeling a strange, fuzzy feeling spreading in his chest. He shakes his head. "John, I know this won't
last." He buries his head in the crook of John's neck. "But I don't want to be gone, and regret not spending my last moments with the person I care about."
He leans back and stares at John, blue eyes smouldering. "I'm glad I was lucky enough to have you as my best friend, John Watson."
A man walks in and the door closes behind him quietly.
"Hello, Sherlock." The blond says, a bit too cheerfully.
He stares.
Who is Sherlock?
"I brought you something," he says, grabbing something from his bag. He holds it up with an 'aha!', and places it on the table. "It's a sweater. I made it myself."
It's... yellow and has black stripes. When he puts it on, he feels warm and safe.
"Do you like it?"
He nods hesitantly.
"I'm glad."
And he doesn't really understand, but it doesn't really matter. The stranger comes back every day and talks to him before eventually leaving. Sherlock wonders where he goes, if the man is happier when he's away from him. The seasons change and he sees grey hair peeking out of the blond and a face get wrinkled with lines. Sometimes, a girl with mousey brown hair talks to him and tells him that he looks the same as ever with a fond smile. There are other people, but he can't remember all of them.
He wishes he could, if it'd make 'John' happier.
There are moments where the world becomes sharp and clear, and Sherlock simply waits for it to be over. And no matter how many times Sherlock tells himself, 'remember Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Molly and John. Remember John', he can't.
He cannot remember.