Hey, guys!

I'm speeding up the updating, because I have the text finished and already edited, so I'll finish posting everything this week! More 3 chapters to go!

As always, I have to thank my lovely beta foreverwholocked. And thanks for following this story (:

Some slightly uncomfortable memories for Sherlock ahead!

CHAPTER 5

The next day, John arrived home from the clinic after a boring day of several cases of flu. Sherlock was sprawled on the floor, studying what looked like a hundred case files spread around him. Only a dweller of 221B Baker Street could see the beauty in that scene. John smiled to himself before returning to his doctor mode. He knew he couldn't ease his attention on Sherlock's health at the moment, even if that would mean being the boring John.

"How did you get those files?" he asked. "And can't you just solve one crime at a time? You ought to start slowly, you know? And yesterday you got pretty worked up," he said, even if he knew it wouldn't make any damn difference.

"Hm? Lestrade had them sent to me. I didn't leave the flat," Sherlock answered, annoyed beyond words, in that particular petulant way that only he could sustain. "You agreed I could start solving cold cases."

"Me? Oh, let me guess: Hardly your fault if I wasn't at home when you decided to talk to me."

Sherlock finally looked up from the files and smiled one of those smiles. Damn him. "Indeed."

"I'm starting to think you do this on purpose. I'll have to ask Mycroft to send me the surveillance footage he has on us," he snorted. "Is there audio on them?" He asked, clearly disturbed, making Sherlock let out a chuckle. "Oh, my God! Your brother is evil," he finally said, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Oh, please, as if you would dismiss the chance to spy on me to know if I'm eating or some dull thing like that," Sherlock replied.

"I have Mrs Hudson, she spies for me and forces you to eat. More efficient than any of your brother's minions," John said, heading for the kitchen. "I'm ordering takeaway, and you are eating something, in case you have some delusional doubt about it," he smiled.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Really, sometimes John's mother hen behaviour was maddening.

When the food arrived, Sherlock was still on the floor, with his back leaned on the sofa, where John sat with his plate. He placed Sherlock's on the coffee table, with a solid 'eat', and ate while peeking at some of the files and crime scene photos spread on the floor. With a smirk he saw Sherlock let out a heavy sigh and text someone – probably Lestrade, telling him how utterly boring all that hundred of crimes were and how he had solved them in one afternoon. John's smirk turned into a full grin while he watched Sherlock eating without any complaint. Out of nowhere, Sherlock spoke.

"Sebastian Wilkes."

"Sorry?" John asked, confused.

"Sebastian Wilkes, John, do keep up," Sherlock snapped, with a mouthful of noodles.

"You know that I can't actually read your thoughts, right?" John thought about it for a moment. The name was familiar. Maybe a case. Oh. "That arrogant bastard from the Blind Banker case? What about him?"

"Yes, that arrogant bastard. You never asked me about our acquaintance. Why?"

"Dunno," John shrugged. "He is an arse, I didn't think you would tell me anything."

"He was one of my dealers in Cambridge," Sherlock said, matter-of-factly.

John dropped his fork on his plate and waited for the story. That couldn't be the end of it.

"When Mycroft cut off my funds, I decided to blackmail Sebastian so I wouldn't have to pay for my supplies," the detective started. "I would have told you this much If you had asked me then. Maybe. Possibly. Probably not."

"Thanks? I guess," John said, uncertain. "What happened?"

"Ah," Sherlock sighed. "See, what I wouldn't have told you is that it didn't end up at all as I expected. I was not at my best shape, to say the least. And the blackmail wasn't efficient. Rich people have the incredible power of making all kind of things go away."

"Right," John said, just to get rid of the knot that was forming in his throat. He wished he didn't knew where this was going. Abuse, probably. Violence. He knew the type of bloke Wilkes was – rich and feared –, thinking he could order people around. And he could only imagine the anger of a bloke like that being played by an even more arrogant twenty-something-year-old Sherlock Holmes. "So,..."

"Sex," Sherlock answered the question that hadn't been asked. "That was our new... agreement."

"Agreement?" John asked, startled. He had already placed his plate of unfinished food on the coffee table. It would have been too much to expect that Sherlock would wait until he had finished eating before saying something like that. And John frankly didn't know when he would be able to eat again.

"I don't remember much," Sherlock said, looking straight down at his own empty (to John's silent relief) plate.

"Did you delete it?" Or were you high and that bastard had sex with you anyway? John knew that Sherlock didn't need complete sentences to understand anything.

"No, I didn't. I've never remembered enough to be deleted," he answered, surprisingly quietly.

"Physical evidence can't be deleted," John said, very low, more to himself than to Sherlock, just to help his own thoughts. "Jesus...," he stood up, without having any clear idea of what to do. He was angry. He knew it was irrational, but he was angry. He knew that it wasn't about him, it was about Sherlock, something he was saying and that couldn't be easy, but John couldn't help the sudden reaction he was having. "I hope he never crosses my way again," he said, very calm and steady, looking through the window.

"It's fine," Sherlock said, more collected than a minute before.

"Yeah, I know you think it is," the doctor said. "But I won't think twice if I see him again," he sighed quietly, not confessing anything, just stating the obvious.

"Well, I'll bail you out. Try not to kill him. But if you can't help it, I know plenty of foolproof ways to dispose a body," Sherlock chuckled.

"I know." Finally looking at Sherlock eyes, he asked: "Why are you telling me now?"

"I...," the detective frowned. "I really don't know. That small box had much more than needles and a picture in it."

"Memories," John concluded and Sherlock nodded. "That's why you are confused. I'm sorry if the trunk wasn't the best idea. We can send it back."

"No," Sherlock said, looking vaguely to the fireplace. "Yesterday I could store many memories again, they made sense. If I can make sense of everything, I'll be able to organize my Mind Palace again."

John nodded. "So, you didn't forget anything."

"I'm finding that it's quite the opposite, actually. I didn't lose the memories, at least not in the way you were thinking. They just aren't in their right places," he explained. "I thought maybe I could think to organize it alone, but these memories...," he trailed off. "I don't know how to..."

"I understand," John said. And he did. John could understand that memories weren't just facts jammed in Sherlock's brain like all the scientific and practical data he had. When they were revealed, they revealed not only the facts that had happened, but also all the emotions included. And John knew Sherlock wasn't good at that.

"I have to do this; I can't have my brain disorganized and risk being hit with sudden unwanted memories, John," Sherlock seemed quite small and afraid, and it made John's chest suddenly tight. "When I tell you it's easier, so if you could... help me..."

John actually rolled his eyes and walked over Sherlock, offering one hand to help him stand up. "Can you think of any time that you needed my help and I refused to?"

Sherlock stood up and smiled, throwing himself on his back on the couch. "Well, there was that time you didn't want to observe the larvae of that queen bee in its cell with me," he pointed. He most definitely wasn't pouting.

John sighed. "I wasn't with you that day, you were in your family house, you nutter."

Sherlock seemed annoyed. "That's exactly what I said."

"Just shut up," John said, leaving Sherlock sprawled on the sofa and heading to his room. "I'm going to change, than make some tea, so we can go through the trunk of memories."

"I hope that's not a title for a post on that inaccurate blog of yours", Sherlock shouted from the sofa.

"Oh, piss off!"

John closed the door and sat on the bed for a moment. He was still trying to suppress his anger after discovering the truth about Sebastian Wilkes. He tried very hard not to let his imagination come up with scenarios in which Sherlock might have been so high that he wouldn't be able the defend himself from anything. He tried very hard not to think about rape, and he tried even harder not to think about the helplessness that Sherlock might have felt after regaining his senses.

Who would believe him? And even worse: who would care? Not for the first time, John thought about how Mycroft must feel out of his depth dealing with Sherlock.

John couldn't shake these thoughts easily. He knew he had grown quite protective of Sherlock, that wasn't news to him, nor to Sherlock himself, but he often felt surprised with how ill those kind of things made him feel.

Sherlock was a difficult man – no doubt there – but extraordinary, and John didn't know how to deal with the idea of someone trying to hurt him. Actually, he knew very well how to deal with it. He wanted to hurt every single one of them back, even if he had to die doing this. Moriarty and the pool had been enough to prove this to him and to Sherlock.

After discovering so much in those past two days, John could almost understand Sherlock's behaviour toward sex and relationships. John himself couldn't say he had had the best experiences, but all Sherlock had told him helped to make sense of a guy that gave up feeling sexual pleasure because his last experiences had to do with cocaine and Sebastian Wilkes.

John knew that everything in Sherlock's life was focused on the Work; the Work in which he wasn't only good, he was the best and the only one in the world. The Work that had allowed him to sit in front of Sebastian years later and maintain his dignity while that arrogant sod babbled about how much of a freak Sherlock was in Uni and how much everyone hated him.

'Friend'.

'Friend?' - And John wished now he had thrown a punch to wipe off that mocking expression from that bloke's face.

'Colleague'.

Friend! I should have said. Bodyguard, if he needs. I buy him milk and beans and honey, if he asks. Yes, friend. I should have said. He's capable of having a friend. In fact, he's capable of having much more than that. You, Mr. Wilkes, couldn't know less about Sherlock.

And to think that not much time ago, John had nearly punched Sherlock in the face when the detective had said that he didn't have friends. And he was drugged and afraid.

I just stood there and denied the most clear truth in the world. Sherlock had said it himself: I'm an idiot.

Why did Sherlock accepted that stupid job anyway? He couldn't have known it would be so interesting from the email.

Oh.

Because you, John, had been nagging about money all that morning. Damn it.

John couldn't really help feeling responsible. It was something that filled him constantly, it had to do with the helplessness of living with Sherlock, but being so far away of his mind. Sherlock was an island, he always would be, partly because he behaved like that, but mostly because nobody could understand completely the amount of knowledge a single man could store.

For the first time, John felt relieved that Sherlock was able to delete things. Not because things were useless – frankly, he could have made an effort to remember the fucking solar system! - but because probably remembering it all with the scrutiny that was natural to him would be overwhelming.

Certainly deleting things wasn't only a process to sharpen his Work, but also a mean Sherlock had to protect his own self.

And certainly, if this time John could help him to protect his mind, than he would gladly do it.

Not for the first time since John had moved in to Baker Street, Sherlock felt relieved that his friend was such a quiet and understanding man. When they first met, even if Sherlock could deduce all the facts about his life, he couldn't have foreseen that John would fit so perfectly in his every day life.

Sherlock wasn't used to it; he was used to being alone. And even if John pitied him for being alone through adolescence and twenties, Sherlock hadn't mind that much. People were so awfully boring and infuriatingly loud – Sherlock couldn't stand many of them. In fact, for some time, he couldn't stand anyone.

But then John happened.

John that wasn't at all loud, nor a babbler. John, who could fully help without saying a single word. John, who never forced him into chit chat. Sherlock knew that was the reason why John was so soothing to him. That's why one day, out of nowhere, Sherlock found himself babbling to John even when he wasn't there. And it wasn't as if he didn't notice. Oh, he did. He did notice very well. But the flat had John's presence all around, even when he wasn't in it. And sometimes, only talking to him would help Sherlock to think properly.

That's what John really was. A conductor of light allowing Sherlock to be even more brilliant.

The eye of the hurricane that was his mind most of the time.

The touchstone.