February, 2012

"Let him go," I growled loud enough to be heard over the presentation on the solar system, "Or I will kill you,"

Sherlock was struggling against the grip of a known murderer, who enjoyed strangling his victims; his neck in the hands of the giant. His eyes told me to shoot.

I'd said that, the first time, before I even really realised I'd said it. It just came out, it was really spontaneous, but I realised it was one hundred percent true. I'd never said anything truer in my life, I was pretty sure. And it felt great to say.

Before I knew it, the gun was out of my hand, and the Golem was running away. Sherlock picked up my gun, still on the floor, and took a few pot-shots at him, but it was no use. He was gone. My friend was so angry, he punched the floor and cursed. I think he thought I couldn't hear him.

Why was he so angry? We never caught the Golem in the end, but that's life. I know Sherlock never thought like that, but just, for once . . . Just one time . . .

I crouched beside him, and put my hand on his face. He didn't react with shock, or fear, or surprise, because he wasn't actual Sherlock, I told myself. It was just my memory of him; of what he was like. I knew deep inside he wouldn't have leaned into my touch, or been instantly calmed by it, in real life. Had he been alive, I was sure this would have been a friendship-breaking moment.

Deviating from what actually happened in the memory – leaving the theatre, to go back to the flat, in a state of frustration at letting the murderer slip away – I scooped him up into a tight hug, because I didn't want him to be angry like he usually was. We were still sitting on the floor, but it didn't matter. One by one, the lights were going out. They were being erased.

I could feel his anger dissipate, or perhaps my memories of how angry he was be erased, as I held him tight. I found that I could just about remember what he smelt like, and the scent filled my nostrils, as I buried my face in his shoulder.

I didn't mean to say what I said next, but once it was out there, I realised it was completely true:
"I don't want you to go . . ."
"I have to, John," He whispered back.
"I know, but . . . It's – it's just so unfair,"
"As is life,"
"Why'd you have to be so rational about this?" I asked him, pulling away from the embrace to look him in the eye.
"Because that's who I am – you wouldn't want me if I wasn't like this,"
"I wouldn't . . ." I put my hand on his face again, just to feel it. He was a bit cold, but as his eyes looked at me, they were warm and bright, and I realised.
"I don't want this anymore," The tears began to well, again. "I can't forget you, Sherlock," I sobbed.
"Shh . . ." He comforted me again, rubbing my shoulder. "It's okay. It'll be okay," The real Sherlock would have trouble with even the slightest of comforting, but this one was a bit more accommodating. Of course he was – I was the one creating him, after all.
"No, it won't – I can't go back to living like I did before I knew you – I can't forget you – I can't live without you – but I can't live knowing you're dead-" I was becoming hysterical, when Sherlock's strong, sterner words hit me:
"Then you have to find me again,"
". . . What?" I asked, looking up at him through my tears. He appeared to be smiling at me, and he looked as if he pitied me.
"I'll be gone soon," He told me. Another wave of sadness washed through me, but then he finished his sentence, "But I promise – it's not forever,"
"What? – What does that mean?" I asked, suddenly alarmed. My hope had been painfully piqued, as he remained silent. I waited expectantly for an answer, gripping tightly to his arms.

But he'd begun to blown away, like a wisp of smoke, dissolving between my fingers.
"No, no – Sherlock! – no, please!" I tried to catch him, but it was no use. He smiled at me as he disappeared. "Please-" I begged, "Just –just let me keep this memory – just this one-"

March, 2015

Insufficient funds. Two words that blighted my life, even with a GP's salary and a reduced rent flat. Harry was always 'borrowing' money, and she was family, so how could I say no?
"Here," Holmes intervened, "I'll pay for that,"
"No, you can't-"
"It's my shopping too," He replied calmly. I dumbly let him move me aside, and inserted his card into the chip and pin machine of the self-service checkout.
"Thanks – I'll pay you back-"
"No, you won't. You've bought me enough tea these past few weeks," Holmes smirked a bit at that last comment, as if in on some private joke.

I made an unhappy face, but kept quiet.

When we left the supermarket, we walked home a different way than we'd come: not through the park, but down a posh-looking street, quite close to Baker Street, actually. Definitely NW1. With the two of us to carry the shopping, there was no need for the bus, and I enjoyed being a little out of my comfort zone.

However, abruptly, my neighbour stopped. He was staring up at a building we were about to pass by, still as a statue.
"You alright?" I asked cautiously.
"Yes, yes – actually, I need to stop for a bit. I have a bit of quick investigation to perform in this building. Will you be okay to carry this home, or do you want to wait?" He indicated the benches either side of the white, stone doorway and steps. The door was shining and dark blue-green, like the sea. I pursed my lips, looking at the amount of things I had to carry:
"I'll wait,"
"Ten minutes. Maximum," He promised, and then set his bags down, slipping into the building. The door was open, and there was a little bronze plaque next to the door that I only noticed when he'd disappeared.

Lacuna, Inc. Founding branch.

I sat down despondently on the nearest bench, pulling the huge amounts of shopping the PI had been carrying towards myself, and out of the path. There were a few spindly, leafless trees along this street; melting snow on the top of parked cars, and slush in the gutter. It was a bloody miracle that the bench was dry enough to sit on.

The sky looked like it might snow again, or rain on me. I consulted my watch, and wondered exactly what Holmes was doing in there. If they had the power to remove memories, then why would he go in there voluntarily? It all seemed a little dangerous to me.

I kind of wanted to go in myself. I knew it was wrong, but it was kind of thrilling. It didn't look like a criminal organisation, or a crime syndicate, but then again, did they ever?

But, as promised, he was back within the ten minute time frame. Shown out by a young woman with brown hair and very sharp, professional clothes, he smiled as he passed through the doorframe. "I'll see you on Sunday, then, Mr. Sigerson!"
"And I you!" He called back cheerfully, his face much lighter and happier than I had ever seen it. He didn't look at all cynical, for once.
"Oh – hello, Doctor Watson! Is everything alright?" She asked brightly, not sounding like she was in any way trying to disguise the fact she worked for the shady organisation.

I was a bit taken aback, until I looked at her for a little while longer. She looked vaguely familiar – I suspected maybe I'd seen her at the clinic a few times, or something. Actually . . . No, that was it. She must have been a medical student on placement at the clinic. I knew she was in the healthcare profession, definitely, just from looking at her. I was a bit puzzled as to why she was working for Lacuna. I couldn't quite remember her name, but she had a familiar face, so I played it safe.

"Yeah, everything's fine. Just waiting for Sigerson," I felt stupid using the fake name, but what else could I do? "He promised to help me carry all this home, and then buggered off. Typical,"
"Aww – you make a very cute couple," She replied, smiling sweetly.
"Oh no, we're not-"
"Afternoon," Holmes cut in, bidding her goodbye as he picked up most of the shopping and shuffled along the pavement. I cursed myself internally, as she shut the door with a wave, and I was left making corrections to thin air.

I caught Holmes up with some trouble.
"What did you say to her? – You used a fake name?"
"Indeed, I did. Frederic Sigerson is a Norwegian-born explorer wishing to forget his memories of a traumatic mugging in Paris two years ago. He still has nightmares," He told me, not looking down at me but grinning to himself.
"Is it true? Were you mugged?"
"Me? No. During my travelling I rarely went out by day, but when I did, not many people dared to approach me,"
"Right . . . But – what if it was dangerous? In there, I mean?"
"Not a problem. I had a full persona, I'd even booked ahead to get a very brief consultation. Sigerson is a very busy man, he's off to Montpellier at four o'clock," He told me.
"Are you going back then, on Sunday?" I asked, slightly aghast at the reams of detail he'd invented about this fictional character.
"No," He snorted gleefully, "Sigerson will be very ill on Sunday. He won't be able to attend. After all, I just needed to get inside, to see how it's all arranged in there,"
"Why did you need that?"
"All useful data for my investigation," He answered cryptically; or, perhaps, that was just his computer-like way of putting off telling the truth.

We kept walking, the wind picking up, as it began to spit slightly. The weather was miserable at the moment. The wind picked up slightly.

"She knew my name . . ." I muttered to myself.
"Hmm?" My neighbour replied. He hadn't heard me over the wind, I supposed.
"I said, 'she knew my name' – that woman from Lacuna. I think I might have seen her around at the clinic or something, but I never spoke to her. But she knew my name,"
"Oh yes," He replied thoughtfully, "I think I may have mentioned you at some point,"
"Ah,"

There was something else getting to me, though. A question left unanswered.

As we passed the bus stop I'd been waiting at earlier, I realised.
". . . your leg . . .?"

. . . I'd never mentioned that before.
Not to Holmes.
Not ever.

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