Chapter Six
The First Dream
-.-
Sherlock spends the rest of the day cooped up in his bedroom, on his laptop. Mrs Hudson comes upstairs, but he shoos her away, insisting that he is fine and busy with a case. In actual fact, his head is throbbing and he feels some kind of strange emotion that he cannot pin down.
It is dark when he finally decides to go to bed. Sleep might clear his mind. If not, tomorrow he can always take some of the coke. There are a lot of questions unanswered in his head. Certain parts of his life are blurred. For instance, he can't remember how he managed to end up affording the flat in the first place. He can't remember certain parts of almost all the cases he has been involved in over the course of seven years. Is that how long I knew him? He thinks. And is that how we met? Looking at this apartment together?
He wonders, as he pulls the covers up, exactly how well he had known this man. Dr Watson had slept in a different bedroom, so they probably hadn't been in that kind of relationship. But what kind of man would put up with him and his experiments and violin playing and gun firing habit for seven whole years? He wonders if he will ever remember, or if he will spend the rest of his life not caring about, but intrigued by, the mysterious identity of his forgotten flatmate.
Who were you, John Watson…?
His eyes grow heavy and the shouting in his head fades as his thoughts swirl into black…
-.-
"Sherlock… Sherlock…" He is standing, alone, in an alleyway – the same alleyway that he collapsed in – and it is late at night. The only source of light comes from a lamp post up ahead, but it is dim and he has to strain his eyes to make out even basic shapes. "Hello?" The sound reverberates. A bird screeches. He turns, but he can barely see two feet in front of him. And then he feels something by his side. "Sherlock…" It is a voice carried on the wind. He spins around, heart in his mouth, but no one is there. "Sherlock…" Now he is scared. He knows that there is something important that he needs to do, but he can't remember what it is. "Who are you?" His voice is a whisper. "Sherlock…" "I can't…" And then there is a terrible pain in his head.
I can't breathe. I can't breathe. I can't –
And someone is screaming in his ear that 'it's not okay' over and over again and he can't see a thing and he begins to run but he is too slow and something is coming up behind him and he trips and falls and is falling, falling, falling…
-.-
Sherlock wakes with a cry and falls off the bed onto the floor. He staggers up and sits back on the covers, breathing heavily, and droplets of sweat are dripping off his black locks like tears. Silently, he goes to the bathroom and takes a shower to cool down, unable to ignore the brands of shampoo he knows that John Watson would have used. Dripping, he steps out of the bath and convinces himself that he shivering out of coldness rather than fear.
John. John. John. That's such a dull name. Stupid name. Why's he giving me such grief? He's like Anderson. He won't stop. And I don't think he'll ever stop. The man shouting in his head raises his voice. Stop it! If you ever liked me in any way, John Watson, you will stop right now… Stop it… Stop it…
"SHUT UP!"
At once, the voice silences. Sherlock lies helplessly on the bath mat, in a foetal position, as naked as a newborn. The stillness all around booms out loudly. For the first time in days, Sherlock cannot hear a sound. The minutes pass unobserved as he stays motionless on the floor, unable to think coherently, only able to hear the strange hush quivering in the dry air.
Silence. Silence.
And then the voice in his mind tentatively starts up again, wanting to remind him of its presence. But it doesn't shout. Instead, it whispers delicately, words that Sherlock is unable to make out. But he knows that the voice is no longer angry. It is soothing him. And he feels strangely comforted. Maybe, he thinks, I'm becoming schizophrenic. But he doesn't mind, because right now, he just lies there and listens to the voice, knowing that this sound was once the one that he heard and responded to every day.
He wishes, achingly, that he could remember.