Note: On LJ, speccygeekgirl's headerimage thingy is an image of Sherlock at the pool, with his back to the camera and the pool at his side and it says "I dream these days about the sea" which always ...mesmerizes me for a bit. But this time it gave me an idea, and, well... I have no self-control.
Disclaimer: The quote, including the title itself, is from Alexi Murdoch's 'Wait'
There is a planet, they say, and that planet is Earth, and upon that Earth there is an Institute, and there is Sherlock, and therapists, and the other patients.
That is what they say.
Slowly he adds pieces to this Earth. There is his room, and the group room, and the cafeteria. There are the trees outside, lining the drive, and there are little things he knows about the other patients that he adds to his knowledge of the outside world.
Then, later, there is maths, and grammar, and logic. There is chemistry and riddles and technology.
They say those things are part of what he had learned in the past, before 'The Accident'. That is what they say, but he cannot remember accumulating the knowledge, and therefore he doesn't always believe them.
There are three pieces that he added to his Earth early on, three visitors that watch him with varying degrees of hope and sadness:
Mrs. Hudson brings him food that he is not allowed to eat, and hugs him and grabs his hand and says, over and over, "I'm your landlady, Sherlock, your landlady."
Mycroft always sits stiffly in his chair, umbrella propped against his legs. He asks Sherlock questions, and his face becomes stiffer the more Sherlock answers wrong.
Last there is John, who sidles into the room like he expects to be attacked and always uses a cane and tries to talk to Sherlock about phones and messages and stupid things he has, reportedly, done (and if John cries when he talks about that, Sherlock tries not to notice).
Everyone tells him that he is supposed to remember these three people, that they have been an integral part of his life. And sometimes he almost thinks he does, that there are little snatches of time hidden in the shadows of his brain, but he can search and search (and he does, endlessly, as he stares up at the ceiling of his room and wishes for something that he cannot define) but he can never quite grasp them, never quite make the images sharpen.
He is supposed to talk to his doctor, though it is difficult to do so when he has nothing to talk about.
Eventually, the doctor tires of his silence, and starts writing questions on a piece of paper that he will pull out of his pocket and smooth out when faced with Sherlock's evident boredom.
"What do you dream about?" he asks, and Sherlock curls up in his chair and steeples his fingers under his chin and stares out of the window.
"I dream," he says, slowly, drawing his period of thought out, "these days, about the sea."
"You're a fan of Alexi Murdoch?" the doctor asks.
Sherlock turns his head toward the man and raises a mocking eyebrow.
"It's a quote," the man explains. "From a song."
Sherlock turns back toward the window. "I dream about a stretch of water," he says softly, "it seems endless, but I know it isn't." Sherlock pauses, considers. "I dream that there are people with me...two people, one a warm presence beside me, the other...farther away. I try to turn, to see the person beside me, because I need to...check something. With him. But when I finally manage to turn my head, there is no one there."
The doctor has pursed his lips. "Good," he says. He leans forward. "Now, can you remember what you were doing at the time of The Accident?"
Sherlock continues to look out the window. He considers (searching, searching) and then shakes his head. "No," he answers.
When next John visits him, none of his paranoia is visible. He strides, without his cane, into the room, and grabs Sherlock's face between his hands.
"Sherlock," he says urgently. "Your doctor told me about the dream."
John pauses here, as if waiting for Sherlock to reply, so he dutifully frowns.
"Because it's important." John says, as if meaning to reassure Sherlock that liberties have not been taken with his privacy. "Sherlock, in your dream...am I there?"
"No one's there," Sherlock says. "I can't see the faces."
John's face falls, and he drops his hands and turns away.
"What did you say to the doctor," he says, voice oddly hoarse, "when he asked what you dream?"
Sherlock frowns. "I dream these days about the sea." he answers. "What is the -"
But John interrupts him before Sherlock can expound upon his confusion. "I dream these days about the sea," he says softly. "Always wake up feeling blue, wishing I could dream of you."
John turns around, eyes red. "It's a song. I used to play it in the flat. You hated it."
"Did I?" Sherlock says. "Did I always like -"
But John stops him again, by striding forward and once more grabbing Sherlock's face. "Do you have any memories of me at all?" he asks desperately. "Anything? Even an...an idea of a memory."
Sherlock frowns. "No, John, of course not, I have bloody-"
"But you do of the others?" John asks. "Of Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson?"
"Not really," Sherlock says.
"But something?"
"Sometimes, I think I do, but I can never fully remember." Sherlock shakes his head, frustrated, and John's face breaks out into a wide smile.
"Sherlock," he whispers, "Sherlock. I'm alright, I'm not hurt, you don't have to hide your memories just so you don't have to remember loosing me. I'm right here, I'm alright." He presses a kiss to Sherlock's forehead, and then his cheek, stroking Sherlock's cheekbones with his thumbs.
Sherlock pulls away. "What on earth?" he asks, and John smiles shakily.
"I'm not dead," he says.
"Obviously," Sherlock replies, and John's expression shifts into something hopeless and hungry, as if he has lost something he held dear.
"It was...just a foolish idea. Quixotic. Silly." he turns away quickly, but Sherlock sees his shoulders shake. "I'll see you tomorrow, Sherlock." he says, and leaves Sherlock alone, in his room, which is in the Institute, which is on the Earth (of which he knows much, but does not know how he came to be in possession of that knowledge). There are three people who are important on this planet, and many who are not, and there is Sherlock, who has no memories and only knowledge, and who stays in a white room surrounded by other white rooms in a white building surrounded by trees.
Cause everywhere I seem to be
I am only passing through
I dream these days about the sea
Always wake up feeling blue
Wishing I could dream of you
So if I stumble
And if I fall
And if I slip now
And loose it all
And if I can't be all that I could be
Will you, will you wait for me
-Alexi Murdoch, "Wait"