A/N: Before we start, this story is not intended to be a fix-it, but rather just filling in the gap of what happened before the final montage. (This may not be relevant but I happen to be one of the few who kind of liked Series 4. Whee.)
This story is also not intended to be romantic Johnlock. Regardless, I think the series already established that the both of them reaaally love each other, so that's the point of relationship I'm starting this story from. Of course, you may read this whichever way you like.
Enjoy.
It had been four days since the incident at Musgrave Hall. Between settling matters within the Holmes family and arranging renovations for 221B, both Sherlock and John had been barely able to get a break. John had insisted that Sherlock stay at his place while 221B was being reconstructed. Well, the flat being reconstructed was one reason. The other more important reason was that the both of them still weren't ready to face the wreck that was once their beloved home.
When night fell and Rosie was fast asleep, John was granted mercy as Sherlock too finally surrendered to sleep in the spare room. The aftermath of the whole ordeal was still lingering heavily that John had to look after a restless Sherlock. Tonight, John decided, he was finally going to have a proper rest.
However, the peace didn't last long as John woke up to distressed noises from the spare room. The exhaustion and heaviness in his head told him he hadn't really slept for that long. It took his brain a few seconds to remember that Sherlock was there and a few more to actually get off his bed and out of his room. A quick check at the baby monitor confirmed Rosie was still blessedly asleep.
"Redbeard!"
He was running through the fields, vast and never ending fields. He was going somewhere, away from his home, where was he going?
A loud bark echoed, and a voice, "Please let me out! Please! Someone help me!"
"Redbeard!" He ran as fast as his little legs could carry him. A well came into view and he was suddenly gripped in terror, his heart plummeting into his stomach. What was he doing? "Redbeard!"
He reached the well and warily peered down, gripping the edges tight enough to hurt his round fingernails. He ignored the pain and his shallow breaths, then braved himself to slightly bend inside. His voice echoed shakily in the depths, "Redbeard?"
The next thing he knew he was yanked down and fell into the bottom with a splash. Water rushed past his ears, he was sinking in deep water and gasping for air…
A gurgled shout. "Help! Help me please!" He was terrified. The shouting didn't stop, the shout of a young boy. He couldn't tell if it was him, or if it was…
"Victor…"
When John found him, Sherlock was whimpering and tangled around the sheets on his bed. John felt his heart clench in his chest. Wasn't everything that they just went through more than enough?
John cautiously approached the bed and gently squeezed his shoulder, trying to rouse him. "Sherlock."
There was a choked sob, "I'm sorry… Please…"
"You're alright," John whispered, ignoring the tugging at his heart. His other hand reached to caress Sherlock's tear-streaked cheek, then to run through his damp curls. "Shh... Just a dream. Wake up now."
As if hearing him through the haze of nightmare, Sherlock's snapped his eyes open and gasped for air. John kept stroking his hair, anchoring him to reality. "I'm here, it's alright."
Sherlock looked over to John, only realizing he was there. He wasn't used to this, not since he lived alone in Baker Street. It felt like long ago since he last had someone to wake him from his nightmares. Sherlock let out a breath and closed his eyes, sinking into the mattress. "Sorry, John."
"Don't be," John murmured. "You had it rough. It's okay."
It's not okay, Sherlock wanted to say. It's not, and what it is, is never going to be okay. His memories haven't stopped flooding him and he was now the one lost. "I don't… I don't know how to…" he croaked out, trying to stop from crying again.
"You don't have to," John interrupted gently. "Deep breaths, Sherlock…"
Sherlock took a few deep, stuttered breaths and willed himself to calm down. A minute later when he got his breath back, he opened his weary, red-rimmed eyes and gave John a weak smile. "Go back to sleep, I'll be fine."
John looked down at him and was reminded of himself, when he pretended to be strong after Mary's death, when he broke down in Sherlock's arms, when Sherlock took care of him after.
He still didn't understand the entirety of what exactly Sherlock remembered, but he understood enough to know it was still hurting him. After all, John held the skull of that little child himself.
John felt a surge of affection rush through him. "Yeah, right. Budge over."
The smile faded from Sherlock's face. He snuggled under his covers to give an impression that he was comfortable enough to let sleep come back to him. "I'm alright, John."
"Let me stay for a bit and make sure of that?" John said and squeezed his arm, encouraging him to move. At this gesture, Sherlock finally gave up and moved to make space for John. John offered a tentative smile and sat atop the covers with his back on the headboard as Sherlock rolled over to face John and shut his eyes with a sigh, burying his face in the pillow.
"Aren't you going to sleep?" Sherlock's muffled voice asked.
"You first," John ordered, running his hand again gently through Sherlock's curls. Sherlock shuddered at the touch and buried his face deeper, hoping John doesn't notice the tears still leaking from his eyes. Of course, John noticed anyway, but didn't say anything about it. "I'll be here. Sleep tight."
Miraculously, the rest of the night passed on quietly.
John awoke in the spare room to the sound of whistling kettle. He didn't remember settling down with a pillow under his head or a cover pulled up to his neck, but such was the state he found himself in, and he chastised himself for never giving Sherlock enough credits for his heart.
He got up groggily and headed to the kitchen, chuckling at Sherlock as he scrambled with a baby bottle. "Good morning," John greeted.
Sherlock turned around with a brief smile. "'Morning." He gestured at his mess in the kitchen. "Rosie's awake. I'm making milk."
"Yeah, I can see that, thanks," John replied as he stepped around Sherlock and took over. "You feeling better?"
Sherlock's features hardened in the instant of recollecting last night's memories, already loathing himself for having to be pitied. "Yes. I apologize. I'm trying to sort it all out."
"Well, stop trying too hard for now. It'll come to you in its own time. And if you need me I'll—"
"Stop looking at me like I'm about to break any second, John," Sherlock spat out.
"I'll be here," John continued, not even taken aback, "Whenever you're ready." The last thing he needed was Sherlock shutting him out as he fought his own battle in his mind, because God knows the last time he let him off alone was one of the worst moments of his life.
Sherlock sighed and looked down. "I know. I'm sorry, I didn't mean… I'm sorry." Sherlock understood that the both of them were at a stage where emotions were no longer hidden behind masks and one's heart was trusted within the other's hands, but it didn't mean he wouldn't stumble around it every now and then.
John took the baby bottle with him and patted Sherlock's back. "Be right back. Go and eat something, we're due at Baker Street in a few hours."
Sherlock nodded and watched John as he disappeared into Rosie's room. They had a daily schedule finally set to help get 221B back up again, but he wasn't sure he was up for it today. He knew he wasn't just dealing with newfound memories, but also newfound emotions that he buried deep enough to forget.
Sherlock listened as Rosie giggled and John made cooing noises all the way from Rosie's room. Something in his chest grew warm, something he had recognized long ago as love. He realized that whatever had changed inside him, the thing that made him undeniably human, was going to stay with him for the rest of his life. Therefore, he couldn't keep ignoring the grief that was threatening to swallow him whole. The longer he delayed it, the worse it would get.
The only way he could do this, Sherlock realized, was to go back to where it all started and go through it properly. He had to do it soon before his mind could even get the chance of convoluting itself even further.
John returned from Rosie's room, glancing at Sherlock with an inquisitive look. "Something on your mind?"
He should know, Sherlock thought. He could help. "I was wondering if I can skip renovations just for today," Sherlock asked, hands clasped behind him.
John quirked an eyebrow. "I guess that's fine. Any plans?"
"I'm going back to visit Musgrave Hall for a bit."
"Oh," John muttered in slight surprise. He didn't think Sherlock would be ready so soon. "Well… That's alright. I'll handle the flat."
Sherlock fidgeted. John hesitantly continued, "Unless you want some company?"
Sherlock let his lips twitch in a small smile. "Please?"
John regarded him with a fond look. This was family, he remembered. This was why he stayed. "Of course. Yeah, of course. Let me call someone for Rosie and grab a few things, then we'll go."
Sherlock exhaled and nodded gratefully. Ever since he had remembered about Victor Trevor, his heart couldn't find peace. He felt that something was missing, like he was still forgetting and there was nothing he could do. The guilt was eating him up. He was anxious and he despised himself. He couldn't fix this by himself. Having Mycroft with him might help him with facts from the past, but it would not help with the growing void in his chest. Having John with him, he decided, would surely get him there.
The ride to Musgrave Hall was a quiet one, but John knew better. He looked to his best friend, whose eyes were staring out stormily into the passing fields. John found himself wishing, not for the first time, that he could understand the way Sherlock's mind worked. He couldn't quite say if it was more of a blessing or a curse, with the way it had been guiding Sherlock to become the man he was today. After all, regardless of other possible scenarios, John was sure they would not be where they were right now had he gone some other way at some point in his life. Now, Sherlock Holmes had found his way back to humanity and indeed became a good man. With that, he must come into terms with the resurfacing turmoil from his heart.
Musgrave Hall looked rather wonderful during the day, John thought, standing in all its ashen glory against the midday sky like a sacred monument. The tall, yellowing grasses and sparkling sunlight made it look all the more like a living painting.
John fell into step next to Sherlock. From their languid pace and lack of direction, John somehow knew that Sherlock was currently unsure of himself. "So, what would you like to do?"
Sherlock grunted lightly, his eyes roaming and his mind struggling desperately.
"Are we looking for something in particular?"
"Not yet. In a moment," Sherlock said, trying to hide his uncertainty. Before he arrived he was sure it would all immediately come to him. But until now, there was nothing.
"Take your time," John said. "We're not in a hurry."
The pair spent a few hours strolling around the estate, past the funny gravestones and the old beech tree. The warm wind blew past them, gently ruffling their hairs. They walked past the small bridge, all the way near the woods, and finally rounding back to the pond – his favorite spot to play pirates.
"Come on Redbeard!"
"Play with me, Sherlock, play with me!"
Sherlock startled at the little girl's voice. He gazed guiltily at the pond.
He remembered a glimpse of Eurus' face that night, on the screen at Musgrave Hall. The moment Sherlock had remembered the gravestones, the moment he had remembered Nemo Holmes and found his determination, Eurus' mask had crumbled. There was a passing desperation on her expression, a slight widening of her eyes in relief, and a subtle nod as if encouraging him, as if saying, "Please, hurry."
How was he supposed to know that her sister's Musgrave Ritual was a cry for help? How was he supposed to know that her sister had been so lonely and yearning for the littlest bit of love her own brother could offer her?
What a good-for-nothing fool, Sherlock scolded himself. Slowest among his siblings, useless in times of emotional crisis.
He looked at John, who was standing under a tall tree, his silhouette stark against the blinding sunlight. John, whom almost died where Victor died, whom he almost failed to save, whom he would do his best to love and protect with everything that he was.
"You look sad when you think he can't see you."
John was the reason he could save Eurus. He showed her the welcoming arms of humanity, he taught her how to stay grounded, and he loved her despite everything she was.
"John Watson, you keep me right."
He still loved her, despite Victor's death.
"You didn't kill Mary."
He had forgiven her, despite the all bloodshed.
"This time get it right."
Sherlock was disappointed to find that regardless of forgiveness, he was still upset.
"You were upset, so you told yourself a better story… But we never had a dog."
It had hit him like a shockwave. The first thing that had unfurled then from Sherlock's gut was horror – heart-stopping, gut-clenching horror at the realization that he had wiped out an actual human being from his memories. The next one had been disgust, disgust that poisonously whispered, "How could you?" and took its time to bubble sickeningly inside Sherlock. The last and the most revolting one was humiliation. Humiliation crumbled him, it wouldn't stop hissing and making him shrink from the inside.
It would be selfish to wish he hadn't remembered, to wish that he could just settle with the memory of an Irish Setter.
This was his punishment. He would have to live with it.
They found themselves sitting by the entrance of Musgrave Hall, staring at the old beech tree from afar.
"Memory repression and confabulation," Sherlock suddenly spoke up after a long silence.
John looked at him. "Sorry?"
"That was what happened. I repressed my memories about Eurus and with it my memories of what happened to Victor. It left a gap and my mind tried to make sense of what was supposed to be there. As a result, it struggled in maintaining any sort of coherence and was motivated to fabricate false memories, using other scraps of memories as a scaffold to create a complete confabulation. For some related reasons these scraps happened to make up the one thing I've always wanted but could never have, the one thing I was certain could complete me but never really knew because I never really had it, leaving it to my traitorous imagination."
Sherlock rattled off his self-analysis as if reading from a scientific journal, void of any emotion. He spoke out the next words cautiously, as if still trying to believe it. Humiliation sneered at Sherlock again, making him grimace. "I made up a dog in place of my best friend."
In all honesty, John was indeed still stunned at the tragic nature of what happened four days ago. But the complexity of human mind was something beyond its owner's controls and full understanding – something that Sherlock seemed to choose to ignore.
"I know you won't believe me, but none of this is your fault," John said slowly. "And I know it's easier to blame yourself, because you learned a lot about not being self-righteous, but Sherlock – your mind was trying to cope. It needed to cope. There was nothing you could've done."
"Then if there's anything I can do now, John, I can surely remember," Sherlock said decisively. "I couldn't remember before. I couldn't tell if what I do remember was even real. It felt as if I was tarnishing his memory. As if he didn't matter. As if he wasn't worthy of remembrance."
"Sherlock…"
"I thought that if I can remember, it would be easier to move on. I could just face it already and get it over with."
"That's not how it works, Sherlock."
"Yes I know that now," Sherlock retorted, barely holding back his desperation. "I'm remembering and it's only making me feel worse. It doesn't help at all!"
John thought about reprimanding him for being so hard on himself, but instead, John guided him. "What was he like?"
Sherlock parted his lips and closed it, finding himself at loss of words. How could he have so much in his chest, yet no words to them justice? He looked away, struggling to find the right words. John waited patiently.
"He was my whole world, John," Sherlock finally whispered. "Oh, God. He was my whole world and I didn't even know until he was gone."
John looked at him in admiration. Mycroft did say that Sherlock was emotional when he was a child, but to witness the depth of Sherlock's heart like this was a different experience entirely. He was capable of all kinds of emotions that not even John was sure he was capable of them himself.
John felt pricking behind his eyes. He swallowed, waiting for Sherlock to continue.
"When I was a child, Victor was the only friend I made," Sherlock began. "It was astonishing how anyone could put up with me when I was only beginning to learn how to control and filter my senses."
"Only when you were a child?" John asked in an attempt to lighten the mood.
Sherlock's lips curled in a small smile. "I was much worse then. His father would drop him off here for the summer and there was nothing else I would look forward to more. There were days when I would do nothing but sit by the window waiting for him to arrive. Playing with him was different compared to Mycroft or… or Eurus."
"Different how?"
"Well he really liked pirates and he always let me play Captain Yellowbeard," Sherlock chuckled, vividly remembering the blond little boy wearing an eyepatch and brandishing his wooden sword. "We would go treasure hunting near the pond or by the woods. Sometimes when we were too tired, we would sit by the gravestones and I would read him my favorite stories. When that ran out too, I would read him and tell him where he had been and what he had for breakfast. He really liked it."
John smirked at him. "Of course he did. How else would you have gotten along?"
Sherlock acknowledged him with a thoughtful hum. "But it wasn't just that. Mycroft was right – I was very emotional when I was a child. Even then I had bad days, John. Mycroft could never pull me out of it. I would rot in my room for ages and the only person who could draw me out… was Victor. Because he was… he mattered. He would listen to me, he would tell me it was okay to not feel okay because he felt it too sometimes, and he would wait for me to play pirates again," Sherlock finished mournfully. He rubbed his face and continued, "I really looked at him. When I was at my most… emotional and furthest from my siblings, he would have me. When I was at my most unreachable and unsociable to the other children, he would still have me."
John understood. Sherlock was the most human out of the Holmes children and he never really had Mycroft or Eurus, not entirely. Mycroft, being seven years older and a teenager during those years, probably finished detaching himself from emotions when Sherlock was only beginning to discover his. Eurus, being "incandescent" and younger than Sherlock, most likely wasn't much help to Sherlock either, especially when she was the one in higher need of attention most of the time.
Being the most loving out of his siblings was what made Sherlock special, John thought. It was his power, and he had lived his life being told that caring was not an advantage. It was only sensible that Victor became an important figure in his childhood. In a strange way, John was relieved that the two boys had each other.
"When he disappeared I was desperate," Sherlock continued with a wince, remembering the pain in the bones of his fingers and the wet brown dirt under his fingernails. "Eurus wouldn't stop teasing me with her song and I wasn't clever enough to figure it out. I spent days digging the grounds by the beech tree and calling out for him. I never found him. I kept screaming at her. By the time he was "drowned Redbeard", it was too late to do anything of worth."
They were both lost in a moment of silence.
"After that I shut him out of my mind palace. I forced myself to forget and forget just forget about him but I couldn't do it entirely. The sheer joy and warmth and comfort of him wouldn't leave me be," Sherlock muttered with a bitter laugh. The bark of an Irish Setter echoed in his ears. "In my mind, I suppose, that was all that was left of him. Those were the scraps, John, the scraps that made the quilt of my confabulation. My subconscious apparently took care of the rest to make it… easier."
"It changed you."
"I decided that Mycroft was right about getting involved. I decided to solve cases as if it could make up for never solving Victor's," Sherlock said tiredly. "Eurus was right. I've dreamed of deep waters all my life. I took Carl Powers' case then without knowing why I was so drawn to it. Not that it mattered back then because the police wouldn't listen to me. I continued with other cases until they did."
"And did it help you?" John asked softly.
Sherlock shook his head. "It made me forget even more. I settled myself so comfortably in the illusion I made for myself – God, why did I…"
Sherlock drew up his knees and sunk his face on them, hands gripping tightly on his curls. John risked a glance at Sherlock and, sure enough, Sherlock hunched into himself further as if it would stop John's stare from burning into him.
John reached out to ease Sherlock's grip. "Sherlock—"
"I should've done better."
"You were only a child," John insisted, rubbing his thumb on Sherlock's knuckles.
Sherlock loosened his grip and murmured brokenly, "So was he."
John sighed and cursed his inability to comfort his friend. He opted to squeeze Sherlock's knuckles gently.
Sherlock looked up and took the sight of the vast grounds, suddenly swept by a tidal wave of grief. He felt his breath catching and shook his head. "This was a mistake. I shouldn't have come here."
"No— Sherlock," John muttered and scooted closer to his friend. "You've come a long way. And I don't just mean being here, but also… being the person you are right now."
John laid his palm gently on Sherlock's chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart right underneath. Sherlock discreetly latched on to the comfort it provided and closed his eyes. "You've kept this shut away for too long now," John whispered kindly. "It's not your weakness anymore. Take all the time you need to grieve, but remember that you'll come into closure and you'll come out stronger."
Sherlock's felt his face crumple. That was it, Sherlock thought, he needed closure. He needed to know who Victor really was, what he had given for Sherlock, and how his presence could grace an overwhelming amount of comfort and fear throughout Sherlock's entire life. He needed to know if there was anything he could've done to keep him alive.
Would it be cruel to wish that things had turned out differently, to wish that Eurus had been normal so she wouldn't have had suffered, to wish that he had discovered his heart earlier so Victor wouldn't be the victim of his own ignorance?
He wanted to fight his own darkness. He needed to know if he was going to face this for the rest of his life, remembering and regretting, trapped alone in his treacherous, volatile heart.
"You aren't alone anymore," John murmured to his ear as if reading his mind. He gave Sherlock a sad smile and gathered him close. "Come here."
Sherlock trembled and all but collapsed into John's welcoming arms. He stayed there, face buried in the crook of John's neck. There was a warm breeze and Sherlock could have sworn he felt little Victor, playing Redbeard, patting his arm and smiling at him.
"It's okay, Yellowbeard," he said cheerfully. "Pirates can feel a bit sad too."
Sherlock didn't bother to wipe his tears, letting them trail down John's neck.
"But you'll feel better soon! Then we can go treasure hunting again!" he said with a pirate growl that dissolved into giggles.
Sherlock choked a watery laugh and wrapped his arms around John. "Okay," Sherlock whispered to the wind.
John brushed his lips on Sherlock's hair and held him tighter.
Before night fell upon them, Sherlock and John made a visit to Victor's grave, placed beside his mother's. The day after Victor's remains had been discovered in the abandoned well, Sherlock had gotten in touch with Victor's father to tell him of what became of his son and, with much more courage, why Sherlock hadn't been in touch for so long. After a long heartfelt conversation, he helped arranged for a positive identification by the forensics and a proper burial of his remains.
"I'm so sorry," Sherlock had told him.
"Oh, son," Victor's father had whispered gruffly before wrapping Sherlock in a strong embrace. "He couldn't have had a better friend."
Sherlock brushed away the memory of his encounter with Victor's father and laid down a bouquet of flowers along with his own wooden sword and pirate hat, fished out of his old room in Musgrave. He stepped back and swallowed the lump in his throat. He would remember Victor, even if it hurt. He would also believe that one day, it would stop hurting, and he would be able to live with this memory without feeling his gut twist in longing and guilt.
John stood beside him and waited. He couldn't help but think, rather morbidly, if Sherlock was ever going to forget him one day, if he was ever going to be the one that would hurt too much to be remembered, if Sherlock loved him this much that his loss would hurt Sherlock this badly.
He shouldn't think this, John thought, because the both of them already had everything they could ever ask for. They had come too close to losing it all before and he didn't want to feel anything near that ever again.
Sherlock's heart had finally grown to become as great as his mind. John couldn't have been more proud. He promised to himself to look after Sherlock better then, just as the Mary in his head kept telling him to do, just as he should. They could do this, John thought, with Rosie, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and Greg. They could find home again.
"Thank you."
Sherlock's quiet voice startled John out of his reverie. John glanced at the man before him and wanted to give everything he had to protect his best friend.
John would do better, because they had both learned in the most painful way that they wouldn't survive without each other. Sherlock's blood on his knuckles, the bruises he had to tend to, and his own sickening guilt were still burned into his memory. He had sat on the bathroom floor and cleaned Sherlock's wounds carefully then, as if afraid that Sherlock would shatter if he pressed harder. He had laid his forehead on Sherlock's knees and cried softly then, murmured his apologies brokenly on Sherlock's bruised skin, murmured guiltily how he didn't deserve his best friend.
If Sherlock wasn't human then he would certainly be an angel, John thought. Sherlock had hushed him softly and looked at him tenderly, had brushed away the tears on John's cheeks, had told him shakily, "I have forgiven you long ago, John. Now it's your turn to forgive yourself."
Sherlock had helped John to find himself again. John promised to himself that he would return the favor.
John was still staring at Sherlock before he smiled. "Home?" John finally asked and held out his hand.
Sherlock huffed a laugh at his own luck of having John Watson by his side. He took his hand. "Home."
Later, they would sleep away their exhaustion with lighter hearts. The next day, they would be ready to face 221B and rebuild again from what was left. For the rest of their lives, they would take every step knowing they would always have each other with more than enough compassion to last them both.
"…with the two people that I love and care about most in the world…"
"…in short, the two people who love you most in all this world…"
"…you need to know about the man we both love…"
For the present, they decided to simply be grateful.
A/N: More about memory repression and confabulation at: www dot inquiriesjournal dot com /articles/300/confabulation-repression-and-memory-replacement-remembering-creatively
Thanks for reading.