The curly patient perked up from his bed, just a little bit in order to make his glance count. Nearly portraying his vibrant past self. John was impressed by the steadiness of his hand. Sherlock held up his dear crosswords book, for him to see; in the matter. "The numbers, John. Look at them. These must have been something important. On my worst days I've never even once written down nonsense. These must be coordinates to a certain place. Do you carry your cellphone, by any chance?"

And there it was. That familiar twinkle in the consultant Detective's eyes, one that John had misses for days. Sherlock was indeed getting better. The doctor heaved a sigh in relieve, wanting to encourage this normalcy, even though his overstimulated Sherlock needed rest. He started feeling in his robe pockets only then realizing Mycroft obviously must have taken it earlier from him, out of precaution. "Oh… sorry… I don't have it." John blinked as he asked himself carefully if this little puzzle would solve something important or make it worse on his friends behalf. Remembering the current blackouts, today. John should not be overstimulating Sherlock's senses more. The poor man already failed to see straight.

Sherlock was starting to look through him as his mind visibly wandered away. Probably for the best. Very swiftly, not getting another chance, John took it book from his hand while Sherlock grabbed his head. The long thin fingers gently touched around the stitches and stopped near a half healed bruise. John witnessed the consultant detective fade away slowly, as the poor man did frequently today; against his likings. "Google… maps," Sherlock answered then, to a question that no one asked. Like a deflating balloon, the patient flopped back on his pillow. "Never mind indeed, John. Something tells me it's very unwise to follow this up, now." John hidden the book under his pajama's as he cleared his throat. "Yeah… we are not up to it, at all, ay Sherlock?" Sherlock grunted annoyed at his own defeat before closing his eyes shut. His head wobbled to the side of his pillow like it weighted a ton. Weakened as he was, Sherlock Holmes wasn't stupid. "Good thinking, John. Take it to Mycroft. Before I forget to ask him about it next time I'll see him." Soon after saying this Sherlock grew very quiet. It appeared as if he had fallen asleep. John most certainly suspected nothing more of it.

But the blogging doctor was wrong.

…

If it was for John, he would of thought Sherlock probably dosed off in the midst of a conversation. But this wasn't the case unfortunately. It was that song again… totally consuming his scattered senses. It had pulled him away.

That song… those haunting words… that familiar tune… nothing made sense but something forced him back deep within his mind. Sherlock wasn't even able to stop himself from this forceful jolt. His body fell completely limp as his consciousness got rejected and swallowed into his mind palace… It was completely out of his own control.

…

Sherlock was finally here. He had tried for a while but only could get this far… standing in an empty hallway with none of the doors unlocked. This time it was different. Finally… something else.

At last… he was able to excess something. Just a few more steps away from the weirdly familiar door.

All doors waiting to be opened. Knowledge… memories… patterns… All waiting to be unveiled. But it was not of his interests now. He only wanted this one. As soon as Sherlock lifted his hand to proceed, the atmosphere around him went cold. "Don't do it…" he said to himself while staring at the gold plated doorknob. Letters appeared all over the place reminding him that he was going to make a terrible mistake if he followed up on his curiosity. The urge to ignore his own planted mind-wall was stronger this time.

"I think I might have to…" he said out loud. Because thinking inside his mind palace was in fact already existing vividly inside his brain; like a dream. A shiver went up his spine when the hall way turned a shade darker. It was a stern warning.

But it needed a face to go with it. Otherwise he wasn't able to stop himself from entering that forbidden room.

"Step away from that door, brother-mine," a voice boomed from behind him. Sherlock had to chuckle to himself, before letting his brother stop him from doing something stupid. He slowly lowered his hand and turned around to meet Mycroft's face. "Brother-dear… What a pleasant surprise… I was wondering when you would show up. Always looking out for me, are we?" Sherlock tilted an eyebrow with those chosen words. As suspected Mycroft chuckled and put his hands in his pockets. It was something he always did. Poor brother always so desperately trying to mask his nervousness. As if putting away your hands was something Sherlock would be fooled by. "Well… You thought I would. I am quite touched." There it was. The self-stabbing dagger. It was true after all. Sherlock wanted him to be the one saving him. "Right… well… at least tell me why I keep coming back to this door when knowing quite well I cannot open it?"

A sudden flashback interrupted them.

John's limp body was lying on the filthy wooden floor, covered in blood. Two men were still hitting him to pulp. There was no way John could have survive this horrific event. This cabin reeked of death meat. And he knew that smell very good by now. Sherlock had tried to scream but his voice was long gone by now… He wanted to look away but he couldn't. Something held him in place, maybe he was compelled to never look away. As John's extremities flail around with every stump he'd receive. Sherlock was frantically certain his best friend had already died. Everything turned red and black before his eyes. He could almost taste the copper in the thin sickening air. He was dripping blood and tears. And sweat. This was torture…

The hole in his head wasn't that important anymore. Anything could go to hell. What was life without his sweet blogger?

"Why do all my best friends go away?"

A sickening feeling nearly swept him off his feet. A harsh realization of the truth broke his soul in a thousand pieces. "No…" he whimpered. Another flashback stricken him.

It was about a fire. But he couldn't remember why he was upset. But he screamed "John!" on the top of his lungs.

"It was a mistake coming here…" Sherlock whimpered. His shoulder sought some support from the wall. Completely devastated by all of these emotions. Pain. Loss. Guilt." Sherlock. Stay with me. Don't fall asleep just yet. We're almost there. Keep on walking. You'll have to… Because I can't carry you around." Another memory of John Watson. Just after their escape. Or something like that. But it wasn't that far as he thought it was. Just a few steps. He slipped. Then puked then fainted again. But John had managed to get him inside the cab. John was not dead. He was talking to him while driving. Their trip had taken a couple of minutes. But John was getting tired as well. He stopped the cab. "Get out. The both of you," a voice had said. It was a woman's voice. Sherlock fainted again but when he came to John was talking through his cellphone.

All these flashes were a bit vague. But beside the point, John was doing his best to survive, while he couldn't do much. It was amazing. Terrifying… but amazing.

Again the memory, the portraying image build inside his brain… of John Watson lying on his stomach in a puddle of blood. Beaten dead. As a wall to prevent him from looking further. It had started to loose control. Because Sherlock was starting to remember some of it.

"A memory wall… I know how it works…" he whispered. Tears were already streaking down on his face. This was inside his mind after all. There were no secrets. Only if he wanted to forget.

"This all confuses me…" Since when did the ground move like ripple like shallow waters.

With staggering feet Sherlock walked away from the door. His hand hugging his own shivering body. "This is all about loss." Seeing the image of John again. "I…I can't take it…" A trauma that had struck him deeply. "I would never stomach another loss of a best friend…"

His own words had shock him. Suddenly Sherlock remembered Mycroft being there with him and looked up in tears to find him…

Knowing that what he had said out loud was the only answer he would get. About the forbidden door. The atmosphere around them turned yet a shade darker. Mycroft, still there, but patently waiting, smirked at him, arms now folded affront of him. "Deep waters… Sherlock… Leave it be. It's for your own good." Sherlock gulped. Knowingly that Mycroft had only said that because he wanted it to hear from him. It was the right thing to hear. The confirmation that this door might lead to a dark… dark and bitter memory that he desperately wanted to forget.

"All right, Brother dear. Let me go back. I…I won't give in…" The high ceilings of the hallway lighten up again. Daylight was coming from the long windows. It was getting so bright that Sherlock had to hide his tender eyes.

…

Before he knew it, his consciousness jolted back into reality. Back to his painfully weak and busted up body. A monstrous headache was welcoming him back home. "Uhg…" he moaned. As his trembling fingers traveled up to his throbbing skull a smaller but square-shaped strong hand smacked it away from the stitches.

"No… hands off, Sherlock." Just the voice he wanted to hear, Sherlock smirked while trying to focus onto the army doctor. "You're still here?" Sherlock sighed in relieve. The stern face, hovering above him, relaxed a bit. "Of course. It haven't been a long… erm… nap. You didn't sleep peaceful, though. Might be the buildup cranial pressure's fault." John was examining him and must have been displeased by something, because he kept looking back into his eyes. "I am fine, Watson… Was just a bad dream…" After a moment Sherlock put his headrest up to a sitting position. Only now noticing his damp pajamas. It didn't take long for John to find something to talk to.

"So… a dog," he said with a frown. "What about a French Bully." A smirk broke his stern features. Sherlock admired him for that. He chuckled softly while fighting the urge to touch his stitches. "Legs are too short. No nose, sad looking eyes. No real barks, just a whiny scream." Sherlock thought out loud, not really sold on the breed. "How about a bloodhound? Big… loyal…" But John was strongly against that. "My baby will never come and visit your place. Just to be clear." They both laughed. Until Sherlock felt a pang of guilt within his heart. "You're about to become a father… and yet you are here babysitting me, you should to go Marry." John gave him a look. "I can't, Sherlock… Remember? Tomorrow I'll be discharged." Sherlock nodded absently.

His bed wasn't comfortable anymore. Both legs started to get restless as his back ached nearly as much as his throbbing skull. John was still looking him over and started chuckling.

"Getting stiff? Maybe it's time for a walk? You up to it?" It actually sounded nice. Sherlock nodded again. He pulled his damp blanked away, excitedly. "You're the doctor, doctor."

…

The curly consultant Detective had no idea what John was up to. Sherlock was able to walk himself through the hallway, all vaguely familiar to him. Half way through he needed the wheelchair after all because of the ground getting liquidy. John was eager to push him towards a room. As soon as Sherlock looked inside he pulled the breaks but in a playful manner. "John... Sneaky bastard." John beamed at him knowing full well Sherlock wouldn't have agreed. "You'll thank me later, Sherlock. I promise."

"How dare you, Doctor Watson. Forcing me to eat." But he didn't actually mind. Sherlock knew all too well he was getting weak. The nausea was mostly gone so he could at least try to get something down. It was also a great opportunity to test his limits.

For John it was mostly about getting the patient healthy.

The wheelchair was placed at a table near the closest bathroom. In case the patient needed to flee. There was a slight blush on the patient's cheekbones but this might had to do with all the exercise. Sighing heavily Sherlock dropped his elbows on the table. Only to support his head in silent agony. John saw the sudden drop of energy. "You still good?" He monitored every movement to see how his friend was doing while being out of bed. Sherlock didn't answer him right away as he kept massaging his temples.

A sudden image of his friend brought him back to that day.

Sherlock was dully hanging forward in his chair. The chains around the bruised wrists were about the only thing that held the poor man in Its place. Blood was dripping from his flattened down curls and sides of his skull. Everything was swollen and covered in blood, tears and bruises. Hanging on by a tread the severely injured detective started slurring words to keep him from falling asleep. Just like John had asked. "Y-you can-not…d-d-die… Jawn… Baby…is coming."

Shooting back in reality, as Sherlock heaved a sigh, John tried to hide his frantic expression. But just before the soup for the two was brought to their table the detective noticed something was wrong. It had earned the blogger a sympathetic look. "You saw it again, did you?" John blinked his tears away but for the left corner of his eye it was already too late. A little salty streak traveled down. Sherlock struggled to find the right words. He wasn't good at this. Having trouble to digest all the scary memories himself didn't make him stronger either. Then he went for it and placed his trembling hand on the doctors'.

"It's okay, John. We'll get through this eventually." John swallowed hard and nodded in agreement. "I know… I know… Christ… Sorry."

As soon as the soup arrived Sherlock grabbed the spoon and started eating without a fuss. John sat there across from him, not even hungry…

Seeing the detective eat helped the doctor relax a bit. He started eating when Sherlock noticed the stare. "Stop it, John." He was trying to lighten the mood. With this John smirked. "How is it? The staff kept nagging me about the Holmes secret recipe." Sherlock downed another spoon full and shrugged. "Just regular union soup. Brother dear always has the urge to hype things up…" It made John relax even more. But then Sherlock stopped eating. "Where the Hell is he, by the way?" His eyes danced around the small canteen. John looked around for some of the staff. Sherlock deducted that John was worried about Mycroft too. "Is he still gone?" he had to ask. John briefly eyed him and shrugged. "I haven't got the chance to ask if he was back. Still need to ask about the written numbers, I know…"

Sherlock blinked at that. "Oh…" He nearly forgot about those. "Eh… Leave it be, John… the numbers… it's nothing." This made the doctor grimace confusingly. "Sorry what?" It was so not like him. Sherlock knew it sounded weird and oddly suspicious. He rolled his eyes to that and immediately regretted the eye-movements.

"Trust me, Watson… This is not the time to find out." John blinked again and started to get worried.

"Find out what?" There was something Sherlock knew. This could be the missing information everyone was looking for. It was kind of important. At least. John thought it was. Since he was there when Greg and Mycroft were talking. "Do you remember something? Has it come back?" Sherlock had stopped eating and struggled to remain eye contact. Feeling very uneasy about spilling something he desperately wanted to forget. "Eh… uh… It's nothing of importance. I eh… managed to get in touch with my mind palace again. And stumbled up on some things, regarding our recent events. I don't think I can… take more of this, John. Not yet." Sherlock shivered. "It will have to wait until Mycroft is back." There was no denying the concussed detective was scared.

John watched him suffer and decided to drop the lead. "Well.. I stole your crosswords…" Sherlock blinked up at him. "I remember." John nodded pleased by the fact Sherlock remembered that. "I was going to give it to Mycroft later." Sherlock was shifting on his chair. Some of his joints popped and crackled. The wheelchair was too big for his small frame. Leaving his bones vulnerable against the backrest. Sherlock secretly wanted a pillow to lean into, but would never admit his pain.

For John it was obvious that his friend had started to run empty again. As if his malnourished body needed all of its strength to digest the soup. Then Sherlock broke and had to say something. "John... we might be still infected by some sort of mind control technique. I know how to get rid of it but it will take a lot of… meditation… The flashbacks are put there for a reason. I fear that it has to do something with a secret the British nation desperately want to hide from us. Mycroft is hiding something. But.. I am not up for another adventure just yet." He spoke in total honesty. Something that was hard to get used to, for John. He watched the detective massage his head in agony. A moan escaped his pale lips.

"So… we're still a danger to the outside? Is that what you are trying to say?" This was not what John wanted to hear. But he also didn't like the fact that Sherlock was having a monstrous headache. Sherlock nodded quickly and regretted it immediately. Grunting the pain away Sherlock had the urge to push his bowl of soup as far as he could away from him. As if the thought of seeing food will help him keel over.

"Alright. Let's get you back to bed."

…

…

AN: hello again. I am not going to apologize for the late chapter. Because I thought the story wasn't working anymore. It wasn't a good time for me to work on stories because of my health. But now that everything has started to get better I wanted to follow up and deliver this chapter to you guys

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