A/N: So! I'm back with another fic. I have a much longer and angsty-er and h/c-ier work in progress but this plot bunny decided to make a freakin' rabbit farm in my brain. This chapter isn't as dark as the next. I have a major plot twist on the way! Cyber High-Fives to anyone who gets the song reference in the title without the quote :P

Reviews: My policy on reviews is the same- Reviews are gladly accepted, even if it is only a word or two. I haven't posted in years? Please review anyway. You can always bring me back to a piece or fandom with a good review even if I've completely moved on

Warnings: It's T for a reason.

Memory Serves

Chapter 1- No Price to Pay

It would be no price to pay. I only ever lie to make you smile. All kinds of dust are gonna keep my occupied but only at you place. Tonight a special memory serves me and I'll wait to fly the wrong way. Tonight is special. Memory serves me and I'll wait to fly… And I'll play to find that I'm grey. I only memorize those fates I deny. ~Memory Serves, Interpol

Sherlock stared the clothes on the bed with vehemence that he didn't even give the vilest of killers. They taunted him. The red shirt with some trashy band logo on it was torn and stained with what looked like years of misuse. The jeans were far too baggy and soiled with mud and other disgusting yet unidentifiable substances, worn and ripped to the point of almost falling apart. Typical drug addict clothing that looked like it had been worn every day for weeks now.

In reality, John had just picked them up today at the ASDA to make a disguise for Sherlock after discovering that Sherlock owned nothing that cost less than a few hundred dollars, let alone a pair of jeans. He had spent all day trying to make the clothes look tatty and, frankly, he was quite proud of his work. But that sense of pride melted away the second he looked up at Sherlock's face.

"What's wrong?" His puzzlement was clear in his voice. "Please tell me I got the right size. I had to guess because you weren't replying to my texts as is usual and I don't want to have to do it again." Sherlock didn't respond, just stared at the clothes like John had told him to eat them. The silence fell long and tense on the room.

The empty arm and leg holes of the clothes stared up at Sherlock, tempting him, telling him to slip inside of them, to put on a new skin. For him they promised release. They swore that they would take his mind away and give it back when he wanted it, whispered words of comfort on gentle breezes and mended broken dreams. Promises for the world and the universe beyond presented themselves on silver platters. How many lies can be spun in the recesses of a sloppily repaired mind before it rebels? John scoffed in frustration.

"Okay. Whatever. I'll go put some more stains on them, alright?" Sherlock still didn't respond and John turned away from the clothes throwing his hands up in exasperation. "I give up! You're exhausting!" He began to walk out of the room, slipping behind Sherlock.

To his surprise Sherlock reached out and grabbed his wrist. Stunned, he stopped dead in his tracks.

Sherlock didn't know what overtook him as he stopped John from leaving and he immediately cursed his subconscious. Maybe deep down he knew he wasn't strong enough to resist the temptations, maybe he truly did wanted someone to hear his story. Either way, that was what he had done and now John was here and he wasn't leaving.

Slowly, John turned and walked back to his friend's side. Sherlock took a long, shuddery breath before speaking.

"John. I don't think I can do this." Suddenly he seemed very small. He was pulling his coat closer to his body as if to keep himself from falling apart and reforming in clothes on the bed. His voice was quiet as if talking any louder would awaken the beast. He hadn't moved his eyes from the offending clothes but now there was a touch of fear creeping up behind the hatred. John gave him a sad smile.

"Sorry, but I don't think you have much of a choice, Sherlock."

"But-"

"Oh come on Sherlock. Are you really complaining about having to wear clothes that are dirty and cheap like a normal person? I worked all day on these. The entire case hinges on you going to meet this drug dealer and being convincing." Sherlock lifted his head up from his chest. John immediately felt bad for talking so sharply to him and trying to undermine what Sherlock had said. He had to use an immense amount of power to keep from jumping back. The look in Sherlock's eyes was terrified but sad and resigned at the same time. "Sherlock? For the love of god tell me what's wrong. You're worrying me."

"I can't do this." He repeated, barely muttering loud enough to hear. John put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and was pleasantly surprised when the other man relaxed a bit under his touch. Ever since John came around, he was Sherlock's anchor. They understood each other better than anyone else ever had despite the monumental differences between them. His voice was soft when he spoke again leaving Sherlock to wonder how John knew him so well without ever asking.

"Why is that, Sherlock?"

"Because you did too good of a job."

"What do you mean?" Now John was genuinely confused; Sherlock's voice had become harsh but the pleading look in his eyes contradicted his steely personality.

"Have you ever wondered why I dress the way I do?" Of course Sherlock would avoid the question posed by asking another one. But honestly John had wondered.

"Yeah... I guess I have wondered why you would dress absurdly expensively when women would think you look good in a trash bag." John's joke didn't make Sherlock crack a smile.

"It is because of clothes exactly like these."

"Alright, you don't want to dress trashily. But seriously put them on already. The case relies on this."

"I can't John." Until now, John hadn't caught the gravity of the situation. It was when Sherlock's voice cracked and he crumpled like a paper onto the bed that John realized what Sherlock was at this moment in time: a man struggling with his past. "Can't you do it? I don't- I can't..." What Sherlock didn't say was, "Help me," even though that was what he meant.

"Sherlock, you know that I won't be a convincing enough drug addict to make the dealer believe me. And, honestly..." He faltered for a second but decided honesty was the best way to go, "You have experience with these types of people."

"That is my point exactly." He spoke intensely from behind the hands he had buried his face in, "These clothes are too good. They look just like the shit that I used to wear when I was as high as a kite all the time. That is why I don't wear regular people clothes. If I don't look the part then I can't be tempted" As a rule, Sherlock almost never cursed, only when the world was crashing down around him. "I don't want to be tempted because I don't want go back there. I don't want to be shaking and vomiting on the bathroom floor with withdrawal when I have to quit again. I don't want to be sleeping in a crack house with ten other people that only want to steal my stuff because it is better than a box outside. I don't want to have to mug people to get my next fix or kill a man for their money.

"John, I'm a murderer. I went too far when someone was trying to steal stuff and killed them. I jumped a schoolgirl because Mycroft wouldn't give me any more money and she was flaunting her cash a bit too much. That was the worst. That was when I was too far out of control. Once, I left a man in an alley to bleed to death.

"No one cared when I was lying on the bathroom of a disgusting flat, in clothes just like these, seizing with an overdose. For all they cared I could vomit my guts out as long as I gave them money. I've tried just about every drug known to man and I am a terrible person because of it.

"John if I go in there in these clothes and talk to that drug dealer that is exactly where I will end up. But, this time, I have someone that cares about me and it would hurt you more emotionally then it could ever hurt me physically. I don't want to do that you. I don't want you to have to see me out of control." Sherlock's voice was filled with pain and regret that rivaled none and his heart dropped even more when John turned and walked away. With anger he wiped away the tears that had unwillingly dripped from his eyes. John is right. I am a horrible person. I deserve to live and die alone.

He was shocked out of his dark reverie by the sound of drawers opening and closing behind him. Confused, he looked up to see John rifling through clothing.

"Hold on." John murmured, motioning for Sherlock to look away, "I'm changing." When Sherlock looked back up, John was standing before him, the clothes he had adjusted for Sherlock slightly sticking out of the small trash can in John's bedroom. With a sheepish smile on his face and old oil stained clothes jeans and a faded t-shirt on his body, he raised his arms a bit to show Sherlock better but also in a bit of a shrug. "I hope this works. It's all I kept from before the war, you know, for work clothes, 'cause I changed car oil in this for a friend when I was in med school and I know that it's not really dirty enough and you'll have to coach me a bit on talking to these guys..." Sherlock stopped John's incessant ramblings easily enough. With a small smile on his lips and an eternally grateful look in his eyes, he stood and pulled John into a hug.

"Thank you." he murmured into John's shoulder.

"There is no way I was gonna let you go back to that." The sadness was evident in John's voice. Sherlock repeated himself in reply.

"Thank you."

Dredges

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