The memory faded out yet again and in came the next; this one was more reluctant.

A pit of darkness. Well, more of a shallow ditch, but close enough. Everything was so...dark. So alone. He was so alone in the dark. Cold, yet strangely warm. Ah, the blood, yes, how many times was he struck? Five, six times? Maybe, he'd lost count. It has been pouring in London since 6pm (it should be about nine by now), but Sherlock had been laying there for only half an hour. It almost felt...comfortable. The cool, slight trickle of rainwater flowing around and against his feverish body. He could stay here forever, just drift off to a peaceful sleep. And so he did.

Sherlock was still half asleep when his mind became conscious again, but he could faintly hear two distinct voices of a woman and a man.

"So how did you find him again?" said the woman. There was a scribbling sound coming from her direction; she must have been a police officer or a nurse. Probably the latter.

"I got a call from an anonymous witness saying he saw four college guys beating up a bloke and dragging him away. When I got there, there was no one in sight, so I walked around and found him laying in the ditch, all battered up and unconscious." the man replied.

"Do you know anything about him?"

"No."

"Thank you for your time, Sergeant Lestrade."

The room was bright, too bright. Sherlock was blinded the illumination, even with his eyes close. This place, it felt so sharp, so sterilized, much like a...hospital! He sat up, eyes finally wide opened, and felt a sharp pain in his head. Sherlock grimaced and looked around. He was not hooked up to an intravenous catheter (thank god), so he must not have loss too much blood or broken any bones, but every part of his body was aching as if he had run a marathon without warming up. What happened? Sherlock was in a ditch, yes, but before...ah. He had been cornered in the university hallway by several thick-headed blighters who were drunk and looking for a fight. Two of the blokes were his classmates and Sherlock had very bad experiences with them before, due to his "sociopathic" behaviors. Being slower-minded and less coordinated due to their intoxication, Sherlock managed to outwit them and run away, but they soon caught up to him and starting beating him up. Although Sherlock was not weak back then, it was him against four large football jocks, so the odds were not looking good for him. Realizing that there was no way out, Sherlock gave one last witty insult that sent him right into the ditch. The rest was history.

"Take it easy, chap, you've taken quite a hard hit, several actually," Lestrade came over when he saw Sherlock sat up.

"Really now?" Sherlock replied, voice dripping in sarcasm. He didn't care if he had offended the sergeant. All he wanted was to get out of this hospital (St Bartholomew's Hospital, he presumed) and go back to his dorm. "How long do I have to stay here?"

"About three days." Surprisingly, the sergeant did not look upset by his previous remark. "Better make yourself comfortable."

"I can't stay here! It's too long," Sherlock protested and started to get up, but not before Lestrade took hold of him and forced him back.

"Now where do you think you're going?" he said, "especially while you're still dressed in that."

Sherlock stopped and looked down at his garments, which were replaced by a hospital gown that was loosely tied at the back. "I'll just walk back to the university."

They stared at each other for a moment before Lestrade finally believed that he really would. He sighed, left the room, and came back with a pair of trousers and shoes, a shirt, and a jacket.

"I'm not supposed to do this and I don't even know why I am, but take these and go before the nurse come back for another check-up. I'll cover for you," Lestrade said as he threw the garments to Sherlock. He caught them with surprise and slight suspicion. No one has ever tried to help him with anything in a very long time.

"Thanks," Sherlock replied cautiously as he changed and started heading towards the door.

"By the way, do you perchance know who assaulted you?" Lestrade asked before he left.

"Two of them are in my class: James Davies and Cole Stuarts. As for the other two, I don't know them, but I know that they're on the football team, have grades ranging between high D's and low C's, took a Chemistry class last year together, have known each other since high school, and one of them was born in Newport while the other in Manchester. Good day." And with that, he strolled off, leaving a gaping sergeant standing in the room. As he stood outside the hospital, Sherlock placed a hand in his pocket and pulled out a business card.

"Sergeant Gregory Lestrade. Scotland Yard," he read and noticed the contact information at the bottom of the pearl white slip, "I might need this someday."

Sherlock reappeared in front of Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard ten years later for the first time since their unexpected encounter.

Morning came and John realized that he had fallen asleep through the night entwined in dreams and memories of Sherlock's past. He had a newly found respect for the detective in a way that he never had before. The knowledge of what Sherlock went through was very emotional, but not surprising. Sherlock was not the sociopath he tried to convince everyone he was, including himself, and John had already knew that by the end of the Study in Pink case. These lost feelings were just buried deep inside Sherlock, or more appropriately, chained and locked up in the basement of the Mind Palace to prevent anything from hurting him and his work.

To feel love or pain or sadness was a sign of weakness to the detective. They were the uncontrollable factors of experiments, the sources of errors. Whatever Sherlock didn't like, he got rid of them or hid them from his sight. However, these emotions were no longer mere shadows, for John had seen their true forms and freed them, even for a moment, from their prison. And for that one instance in time, they burst and soared and rode through each vein down to the capillary of Sherlock's iron heart, melting the silver coating with icy heat and releasing them throughout his body, finally imploding into his very core.

Morning certainly came, but the body and mind of the great Sherlock Holmes were no longer the same.

When John woke up, he did not feel any different. Granted, he was not expecting to feel anything as he did the day he woke up as Sherlock, but he thought that perhaps a sense of familiarity would wash over him. The first thing John decided to look at were his hands, as he had the day before. He glanced down expectantly and stopped breathing.

I am still...Sherlock.