Sherlock sat in Mycroft's office and twirled the card between his fingers.
"How long?"
Mycroft just looked weary. "I received the card about two months ago. It took a while to track you. I believe you were in Indonesia at the time."
"Why?"
Mycroft knew it wasn't a real question. He knew just as well as Sherlock did why John chose to erase his partner. Sherlock died.
John had made a genuine effort to move on. It lasted a year and had not worked. He woke up each day, took a shower, ate breakfast, went to work, ate lunch, worked some more, went home, and slept. It was a routine like clockwork. John hated it as much as he feared diverting from it.
oOo
Three Months Earlier
"John!" Mike called from down the hallway.
John stopped and turned, waiting for his mate to catch up.
"I'm glad I caught you," Mike said slightly out of breath, "I checked the surgery but they said you'd gone. I have a class tomorrow at 10 in the morning and I've got a train to go see my Mum at 9. I mixed up the times. It's a real good class. You won't need to give them any material. I told them you'd be a guest speaker for that period and they could just ask you about being a trauma surgeon."
John knew that wasn't why Mike wanted him to take the class. There were plenty of trauma surgeons who were better qualified to handle a classroom of hopeful doctors. Mike wanted John to have an audience. Give him a chance to be around people again and talk about whatever he wanted.
This was the first diversion from his schedule since After Reichenbach became a time period.
oOo
John walked into the lecture hall. It was smaller than some of the others Bart's has to offer. Still, though, it managed to be imposing and full. Depending on the professor, lectures for a class were open to any student wishing to attend. Mike was one such professor.
Mike had assured John that the class was only 48 students. The 100 seat lecture hall was full. John squared his shoulders and stepped up to the front.
There was a desk off to the right and a podium to the left just three feet away. John propped his computer up on the desk, plugged it in, and took a seat.
The noise began to die down as students realized that John was indeed ready and waiting to begin. Slowly, silence fell.
John stood, but stayed partially guarded by the solid wooden desk.
"Hello. My name is Dr John Watson. I understand that Professor Stamford has told you I will be running this class today. I was not aware that we would be having guests." John was not going to be some uni kid's dancing monkey. "Those of you who are not in the class, please leave."
About 20 people stood and exited. All 20 whispering loud enough to technically be yelling.
"Right. I have a roster of those who belong in the class. I will ask one more time, those of you not in this class, please leave. Either you go or I do."
The rest of the extras stood and trickled out. John gave a satisfied smile when the door clicked shut. He looked out at the remaining 48 faces. This was going to be a long day.
John moved to the podium and grabbed the sides. He had a few typed up notes in front of him and the sneaking suspicion that he wouldn't use them.
"As I've already told you, my name is Dr John Watson. You may all feel free to call me John. I am from Aldershot in Hampshire. I did two full tours of duty in Afghanistan as a doctor in the RAMC. Seven months into my third tour I was wounded in action and invalided home. Before that I achieved the rank of Captain. I, like some of you, trained here at Bart's before being deployed."
John paused and looked to make sure he hadn't lost anyone. Most of the students appeared to still be paying attention. He could tell already what ones would be glazed over by the end of the session. He had a fleeting bit of pride in his deduction. Then it hurt.
He continued, "I currently work for Bart's as a trauma surgeon. That is why Professor Stamford asked me to talk to you today."
He didn't want to open the floor to questions. He didn't want these people to ask him about Sherlock. They all had internet access and televisions. Please. Don't mention him. "Any questions?"
Hands shot in the air and John chose to go easy and pick a young girl who seemed to have been paying attention the entire time.
"Yes, there. What's your name?"
Her hand went down, "Kate, sir."
"And your question, Kate?"
"Did you know from an early age that you were going to be a military doctor? If so, what challenges did you face climbing the ladder both studying medicine and working in the field…or desert I should say."
Good. No mention of Sherlock.
John answered question after question about his time in Afghanistan. He discussed what his unit did in their free time and what it felt like to be shot. There was a round of questions related to being a trauma surgeon and "How does he deal with the pressure?" John managed to go a full 45 minutes without a single mention of Sherlock. Only 15 minutes left to go. You can do this, Watson.
The next question came from a bloke closer to the back.
"My name is Peter Trevor."
John kept a straight face. Trevor. "What is it you wanted to ask?"
"Why won't you say Sherlock was a hoax? I'm not sayin' I think he was, just that you never said he was a fake. You spent all that time wit' him and never realized he was having one over on ya."
John cleared his throat, "Because Sherlock was not a fake."
What else was there to say? He wasn't going to tell them that Sherlock was amazing. He sure as hell wasn't going to tell them that Sherlock saved him in every way a man could possibly need saving.
"That will be the end of class. I will be sure to give a positive report to Mik- Professor Stamford."
John began collecting his things. The papers listing statistics and comparisons in the military were never used. He didn't bother with the papers at all, really. He stuffed them into the bin and closed his laptop up. Slinging the bag over his shoulder, John noticed a girl lingering behind.
"Can I help you?"
Kate looked up, startled at being addressed, "Oh. I just wanted to talk to you about something."
"Go on," John set the bag back down and waved for her to speak.
"My roommate went through this rough break-up with this guy. He was real shite and she was better for it. Anyway, she was really torn up about it. Someone gave her this card for some place called Lacuna. So she went there and afterwards gave me a call asking if I'd stay over at another mate's that night."
"Sorry," John interrupted, "What part of this story did you want to talk to me about?" It seemed like the girl was just wasting his time.
"I'm getting to that, sir."
John waved again for her to continue.
"So I went and spent the night at this other mate's house. The next day I asked her why I had to stay over Andrea's, the other girl's house. Carrie, the mate who had the break-up, just sort of shrugged and asked me if I wanted to get lunch. I asked how she was doing after the break up Matt and she just looked at me and asked who Matt was. I wanted to know if it is really possible for just one person to be completely erased from another person's life? Because that's how it is with Carrie. And Lacuna sent me this card about it saying that Carrie had Matt erased from her memory and to never mention him to her again."
John thought about it for a minute and shook his head, "I'm not really the person to ask about that. I don't know much outside of the basics of brain and memory. Maybe Dr Carter in neurology can help you? I'm sorry I don't have anything to offer."
Kate nodded, "Thank you anyway." She turned to leave and paused at the door. "I believe in Sherlock Holmes, sir." Kate pushed through the door and was gone.
oOo
That night, John looked up Lacuna on the internet.
They claimed to be capable of erasing any one person or an event from a mind. Make it as though it never happened. There was a page on the website that showed a list of smiling doctors and associates. Another gave a rough outline of the procedure and the science behind what they do.
John's vision became sluggish from reading through all the pages. He got up and wandered upstairs. Sherlock's room was untouched. The sheets still rumpled on both sides of the bed.
John lay in bed staring at the ceiling. In the past, on nights that John couldn't sleep, Sherlock would curl up next to him and read from the nearest medical journal. If they were on a case, Sherlock would bring the file and read that instead.
Now the silence held no promises.
John rolled onto his side, ignoring the slight pull in his shoulder. He rested a palm across the bed where Sherlock would have been and began to contemplate a life without consulting detectives.
oOo
Two Months and One Week Earlier
John stared at his cell phone.
It was raining outside and the laughter from QI was pushed into the background.
He picked it up and dialled.
"Hello, Lacuna offices Mary speaking. How many I help you today?" Mary's voice was crisp and business like, despite sounding like she was slightly bored.
"My name is John Watson. I'd like to schedule an appointment."
"What is the nature of your visit, sir?"
"I want to forget Sherlock Holmes."
There was a pause at the other end of the line.
John panicked. She recognizes the name and my name. I wonder if she's going to tell the press. Oh they'd love that: Fraud Detective's Husband Shamed Into Forgetting.
There was a shuffle and then Mary's voice came back, "Sir that procedure will require a visit to Lacuna lasting around four to seven hours depending on how much material we need to cover. That same evening we will send a team of highly trained professionals to your residence so that they may complete the procedure. The following morning we will send out notice cards to whomever you choose. You will have no memory of requesting our services or the subject the procedure will remove. Will that be all?"
John took a deep breath. "Yes. When can I come in?"
"The next open appointment is at 10 in the morning on Monday. Will you be available?"
"Yes. That's fine. I'll take 10am Monday."
And just like that Sherlock could be gone.
John hung up the phone and sat quietly in his armchair. He would no longer remember their very first chase. He'd forget dinner at Angelo's. Would the limp be back? Would he be single again? Suppose so. Can't be married to someone if you don't know they exist. He'd forget his wedding day. John made a mental note to post his wedding band to Mycroft Monday morning on the way to Lacuna. He had nowhere else to send it. The feeling was strange. As though by making the appointment Sherlock was already slipping away from him. That was the point, though; to finally be able to let Sherlock go.
oOo
The last Monday of the month was John's appointment. He showed up to Lacuna five minutes early and waited in the uncomfortable chair. Shifting around, he observed the other people in the room.
Woman to the left: Holding a cluster of photos. All of a young man. Son, Sherlock's voice said. He was smiling in a playground in one. Beneath it, he salutes the camera. Soldier, Sherlock said again.
John closed his eyes and willed the voice louder, knowing that it would soon leave him and wanting to cling to the cadence of it. He used to love Sherlock's voice. The speed with which it gave a deduction and the slow taste of every syllable when giving away precious personal details to John and the midnight whirls of London.
His left hand was bare. There was a visible line where his wedding ring had once sat. He had never taken it off since the day Sherlock slid it on his finger. Not even to help with experiments or handle evidence. If the ring bore signs of his and Sherlock's work, so be it. He wanted it to fully represent their relationship. It couldn't do that if he took it off to handle something messy. Every scratch on it was a love letter.
John was half tempted to write a note and mail it to Mycroft with the wedding band. The two hadn't had much contact since Sherlock's death, but they were still technically family. Didn't Mycroft deserve an explanation? What was he to write in such a note though?
Dear Mycroft, Sorry I failed your brother. I still love him, and it hurts me more than I can bear. I'm sorry that I'm failing him again, but my life ended when he fell, and I see no other alternative barring following him off that ledge. Give my best to your mother, and forgive me my weaknesses. John
No. Such a note would be impossible to write, much less put in the post amidst anniversary cards, new-born baby announcements, birthday cards, and all other forms of mail that celebrate the lives their senders lead. No, his impossible letter did not belong in the post. Mycroft would get the ring. Later, he would receive the small, typed card. And if the man had any humanity, he would understand.
"John Watson," Mary called from the desk.
John stood and walked through the door to the back room.
"Hello, I'm Dr Mierzwiak," said a tall, aging man, "You must be Mr John Watson."
"Yes," John said extending his hand. He tried to remember the last time he met someone who called him mister. Everyone he knew or spoke to called him doctor. It made him realize how little he had actually gone outside to meet new people. Ever the girl at the café by the clinic called him Doc.
John shook the thought away and sat opposite Dr Mierzwiak at the rounded table. He began outlining the procedure to John, pausing every so often so John could keep up and stay focused on what was happening. After their discussion, Dr Mierzwiak stood.
"Are you ready to begin, John?" he asked.
John nodded. The first part was a basic interview about John and Sherlock's relationship. Dr Mierzwiak clicked on a microphone at the centre of the table.
oOo
Dr Meirzwiak: This is Dr Meirzwiak. Stage one of John Watson's procedure on Sherlock Holmes. Please state your name.
John: John Watson
Dr Meirzwiak: When did you first meet Sherlock Holmes?
John: I was introduced to him at St. Bartholomew's Hospital soon after moving back to London.
Dr Meirzwiak: And what was the catalyst of that meeting?
John: We both needed a flat share.
Dr Meirzwiak: Describe an average day with Mr Holmes.
John: There is no such thing as an average day with Sherlock Holmes. Some days we were working on a case and had to travel. Some days we spent entirely at the morgue. On one occasion he was arrested in Amsterdam and I had to go fetch him. The only days that every repeated were the ones after a case. He would get bored. The great idiot never ate properly, but it was especially bad when he was bored and being obstinate. He played the violin a lot; performed the odd experiment. Those were the things that repeated, not the daily routine.
The interview continued in much the same manner; following their chronology right up to their engagement.
Dr Meirzwiak: How did you become engaged to Mr Holmes?
John: We were sitting at breakfast and he asked me if I'd marry him. He didn't have a ring or anything fancy. Just sitting there in his blue dressing gown with this look on his face. It was as close to trepidation as I've ever seen him. I set my toast back on the plate and said yes. That was the end of it. We both returned to our breakfasts and carried on as though nothing had happened. It wasn't until a few hours later, when we first told people, that it struck us. We were to be married.
Dr Meirzwiak: Can you please describe your wedding?
John: It wasn't anything extravagant, though god knows his mother wanted it to be. We wore suits and had some friends come. Signed papers in a courthouse. We gave each other rings and promised to love one another for the rest of our lives.
John paused. He set his shoulders.
John: It was the happiest day of my life.
oOo
Six and a half hours later, John left Lacuna. He was given instructions to leave a spare key to his flat with Mary on the way out, and to make sure Mrs Hudson knew to not be alarmed later that night. He hung his head. There was so much about Sherlock that John had not thought about. Talking about him for such a long period of time brought it all back.
His mind no longer saw the crinkle Sherlock's nose got when John turned the telly on, or the little shift in his posture when John said something intelligent. Sherlock would give a slight nod whenever John was so exhausted he thought he'd fall over. That Sherlock yelled less if QI was on than if it was Top Gear. All these things about him that John hadn't had any need to think about.
John, of course, still thought daily about Sherlock's eyes and their expressiveness. He could shut down behind a mask, but John was always able to look in his eyes and just know. John thought about the violinists callouses on Sherlock's fingers and the way his curls fought against a comb. Sherlock liked certain kinds of biscuits with certain teas. John was so in the habit of buying what Sherlock liked, that he still did it. Even though his own personal choices would vary.
John unlocked the door to 221B and stepped inside. He had enough time for dinner and some telly before going to sleep. As John was getting ready, Mary at Lacuna was filling in the blanks of John's cards. It was a pre-written message that only required a few names to be added. She filled out one for Sarah Sawyer, Mrs Hudson, Mike Stamford, Gregory Lestrade, Sylvia Anderson, Sally Donovan, Dimmock, Molly Hooper, and finally, Mycroft Holmes.
oOo
Dear (insert name here)
John Watson has had Sherlock Holmes erased from his memory. Please never mention their relationship to him again.
Thank You.
oOo
Before going to sleep, John opened the door to Sherlock's room. He had told Mary to have all of Sherlock's things sent to a Mr Mycroft Holmes instead of Lacuna just storing it away. She had made a note in his file and assured John that it was a common request and would be carried out. John had tried to explain that it was quite a lot of stuff, but she only nodded and told him that they were prepared to deal with all the furnishings of a house if necessary. John had left, trusting that they would ship even Sherlock's skull, Billy, to Mycroft.
This was the last time John would look into the room and see Sherlock. His heart gave a painful pull. Part of him didn't want to forget. It was the small, hopeful part of John that desperately wanted Sherlock to come back. But that side was quickly losing, and John was realizing that Sherlock was never returning to him.
John closed the door.
oOo
Somewhere, Mary set John's cards in the outgoing post box. The next morning, Mycroft would get his card and all of Britain's available resources would be turned towards Indonesia in a desperate effort to bring Sherlock Holmes back to London.