I can't see you. I can't see you anymore and it scares me. Once, all I could see were your eyes staring
back into mine. Once you were everything, every atom just you. I thought I would drown, and it's
over and I keep drowning. I can't breathe, my chest won't move, the simple reflex in and out stops.
There's a weight there, crushing the air from my lungs and they burn and you're not there to fill
them. I'm awake and I just can't move, paralysed and awake – fucking terrifying. Muscles twitch as I
force the movement. I don't know how to fix this. Not anymore. When I close my eyes you're not
there. Where are you? Where have you gone?
Three Months Earlier:
'Are you sure about this?'
'Yes', says Sherlock curtly, and because this patently isn't enough, he adds, 'Very sure, most
definitely, just do it for god's sake.'
The needle slides home and he lets out a sigh, wincing only slightly as the plunger depresses and the
bright yellow liquid flows into his vein. It stings worse than any injection that he's ever had before
but considering what this is and what it does, he welcomes the pain. A cotton pad is pressed to his
skin as the doctor slides the needle out again.
"Press here," he instructs and Sherlock does as he's told, holding the cotton in place with two fingers
to stop the blood from welling up through the puncture wound. The needle is larger than he thought
and his stomach swoops in panic ; but that could just be the drug.
The doctor turns to face him clipboard in hand, "It may take a day or two for maximum
effectiveness, until then we recommend you avoid the um, subject".
Sherlock rolls his eyes. How very articulate. The advice is wholly unnecessary of course, he already
has a room booked at a small boutique hotel on the east coast. His bags are already there waiting
and he knows a black sedan will be idling at the kerb outside the clinic doors. Mycroft has been very
thorough even though this time, he doesn't approve.
"You understand," the doctor continues, "The procedure is still in the experimental stage, there is no
guarantee the memory sweep will be entirely successful, there may be some residual memories,
flashbacks for a while, but the frequency should fade in the coming weeks, until the um, subject no
longer produces an emotional response."
"How long?" Sherlock snaps.
"A week, two at most."
"And then I'll…..forget?"
"Certainly," the doctor smiles, "It will be like he never existed at all."
His heart begins to thud at those words, so hard he thinks he can see it through the thin material of
the hospital gown. The rush of blood pulses loud in his ears, making it hard to hear the doctor's next
words. Is this really what he wants, how this ends after all this time? Yes, he thinks, it's time to move
on, this is the only way forward for both of them.
After thirty minutes the nausea subsides, after an hour he is dressed again. He drapes the gown
carefully over the back of the chair by the bed, looks in the mirror and ruffles his hair, and satisfied,
fastens the button on his jacket. The car waits as expected, and the gentle motion as they exit the
city and head off along the coastal roads lulls him into a fitful sleep.
Mycroft rings the minute he arrives, and he fumbles for the phone in his pocket while trying to open
the door with a key card.
"And how are we feeling?"
"Absolutely fine," he says, with the phone clamped under his chin while he struggles. Isn't there
normally someone who helps him with things like this?
"That's….good," Mycroft says in his customary drawl. "But I thought you might like to know, Dr
Watson has been in touch and would very much like to see you, I politely informed him you have no
wish to remain in contact at this difficult time."
Sherlock rolls his eyes, why does Mycroft insist on being so insufferably cryptic? He has a headache,
a small creature has apparently died in his mouth and his hands are trembling inexplicably. Sherlock
does not have time or the patience for this. "I just left the damn place four hours ago Mycroft, tell
Dr….Whatshisface, or whoever he is I'll make an appointment at the clinic next week….and what do
you mean this difficult time, I'm on holiday Mycroft, nobody died for god's sake."
"Ah," Mycroft pauses, "That's not what I….never mind." Sherlock can hear his brother breathing
deeply on the other end of the line. He hangs up in annoyance.
OoO
"Where the hell is he and what has he done?"
John stands in the kitchen of 221B, hands gripping the back of a kitchen chair so hard his knuckles
are white. Mycroft sits in Sherlock's chair legs crossed at the knee, the tip of his umbrella digs into
the bare wooden floorboards. John's pulse kicks at the look on Mycroft's face, confusion and
sadness and regret all combined.
"I'm sorry John," Mycroft says, and the words ring true for once as he pushes himself to his feet,
crosses the room and hands John an embossed white card.
Lacuna Inc.
Neuro-Cleanse Specialists.
"He thinks it will be better for both of you this way…like you never met at all."
"He….He….Erased me?" John drops the card like it burns, closes his eyes and tries to concentrate on
just breathing, in and out. "Where?" He gets the words out finally, and Mycroft to his credit doesn't
attempt to argue with him.
"John?" Mycroft calls as John bolts for the door, phone number and address of the hotel in hand,
"Perhaps you should tell him this time?"