Dying tasted a lot like cherries.
And to Sherlock Holmes, cherries were his childhood. He could distinctly pinpoint the exact day he scraped his knees trying to climb a tree. The dying man remembered being determined to observe the maternal bond between a mother bird and her chicks, something that he did not realize until years later that he wanted so badly for himself.
He lost his footing in the tangle of delicate branches, and fell with a thump to the ground. Tears had started blurring his vision when he discovered that the heap of twigs across from him were the remains of the nest, and the motionless bodies of the baby chicks. Their mother was no where to be found. His mouth tasted tart and bitter as he tried to put the nest back together in hopes that all would be well again. His attempts were all in vain.
When Mummy found him crying in the backyard, she picked him up— something she had not done in years— and carried him to the kitchen. There, Sherlock expected to be scolded and fully upbraided for conducting yet another one of his experiments, but no lectures came. Instead, he felt the sting of disinfectant on his wounds, and an endearing head stroke from a caring hand. His mother said nothing, yet her motherly magic was at work, and Sherlock had nearly stopped crying.
Father arrived home from work in the evening. Instead of their usual nightly row, they spoke in hushed voices. Sherlock heard mentions of his name throughout the conversation. He was so tempted to move closer to the conversation— his little feet shook with anticipation— but he could not bring himself to move from his seat in front of the window. He could not bring himself to break up the peaceful talk. So, he stared outside, past the groves of trees and manicured bushes, into the pink and orange horizon. He tried his hardest not to blink until the sky was mixture of bright yellows, burning oranges, and flamboyant pinks. When his stinging eyes couldn't take it anymore, he shut them, and was at peace in the cool the darkness, surrounded by the sound of his parent's voices— not fighting, nor yelling.
Sherlock felt a hand on his shoulder, and realized that the talking had ceased. He turned around to see his father, smiling and holding a bucket.
"Come on, Sherlock, we're going cherry-picking."
The rest of the memory was compacted into a little file to be stored at the back of his head, making way for the cases and experiments he would conduct in the years leading to his death. He would often see images of this memory as he was falling asleep, in glimpses and blurs.
And often in these blurs, little Sherlock would see his parents laughing together for the first time, Mycroft's lips stained red from eating too many cherries at one go, and the the majestic cherry tree that stood on their property for so many years. The taste of the cherries that day would change in his memories throughout the years. Sometimes they would simply taste sweet and juicy, but in his livid dreams they tasted like glorious sunshine, and delicious ambrosia.
But present day Sherlock despised the taste of cherries. He gagged at the thought of them. Even the people who were so closely acquainted, like John and Mrs. Hudson, could not explain why. It was simply a personal fact that Sherlock did not bother explaining. If one were to take a stroll about his mind palace, they might find the reason tucked into a tiny, tiny closet in the depths of the great halls. This reason was a memory, concealed with a mouldy shroud, never uncovered unless nightmares wreaked havoc upon his mind and released all his greatest fears from their prisons.
When Sherlock entered this memory, he would find himself as a small child again, shivering on the front steps of his house. His keen ears would hear the pitter-patter of rain on the roof, and thunder in the distance. The boy would hear the slam of a car trunk, and a man emerging from the vehicle. His father. The man would walk over to him, and Sherlock, no matter how many times he's tried, could not dare to look him the eye. He stared at his feet instead, and observed the tiny specks of dirt on his shoes, the wrinkles in the leather, and the pebbles crammed into the soles. The man would continue to loom over his son, as if he were searching for words to say, but he never could find them. When he turned to leave, Sherlock jumped up and ran past him as fast as his feet could go on the wet mud. He felt the cold rain water hitting his legs, and his shoes sinking in, but he persisted. The boy tore open the passenger door, and started tearing at the luggage. He threw a briefcase, and a box of chocolates out into the rain.
He heard someone screaming, "No, Sherlock!"
But he pretended not to, and continued throwing the contents of the car into nature. He was stopped by strong hands gripping his shoulders and throwing him aside. His father was picking up his briefcase and packing it back into the car, but Sherlock was quick to advance on the box of chocolates. Before his father could do anything, the packaging had been torn, and Sherlock was savagely shoving the chocolates in his mouth. He expected his father to react violently. He wanted his father to react violently. But, instead, he heard the slamming of the car door, and the engine starting.
Rain continued pouring over his head, drenching his clothes. The droplets slapped his face, but he could not tell if it was the rain, or his tears that stung his cheeks. He swallowed the mouthful of chocolate he still had in his mouth, and with an ironic epiphany realized that it was a box of cherry chocolates. They tasted acrid, and burned his mouth like acidic poison. Bitter like the painful realization that this would be the last time he would ever see his father.
These memories occurred to Sherlock in his last few moments. They made his mouth dry, and stabbed his tongue with a strong metallic taste. These were the flavours of regret and resentment.
But images of the cause he was dying for invaded his mind as quickly as the previous cowardice had invaded his system to make his head spin and palms sweat. He thought of John, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and Lestrade: the people who had made his world so sweet. And, once again, he was filled with hope. And, that tasted a lot like a wonderful sunset underneath a bountiful cherry tree with that nectarous fruit.
Cherries were the last thing Sherlock Holmes tasted before he died,