Chapter Ten
The Missing Room

-.-

Sherlock lies on the sofa, eyes closed, thinking.

The syringe rests on the coffee table within his reach; the drug it once enclosed now circulates around his body, energising him, freeing his thoughts. He enters his mind palace through the front gates and glides through the reception.

His earliest memories swim past. "Does little Sherly want some ice cream?" Mummy. "Myky, I want to play pirates now!" Mycroft. "Ungrateful boy. Apologise at once." Father. And then pockets of information whizz past. Mount Everest is 8848 metres high… The capital of Honduras is Tegucigalpa... William Winwood Reade wrote that man as an aggregate of society becomes highly predictable… Useless! He doesn't need any of this clutter.

Making a mental note to revisit some of the earlier rooms at a later date and delete a couple of the least important memories, he continues down the corridor. The smell of wet grass and tobacco overpowers him as he opens the maze of doors in his mind. Childhood flashes past him, university, St Bart's, Mrs Hudson –

He halts in the room containing his memories of Mrs Hudson. There isn't much. The soothing sound of her voice. Her constant fussing. The way she looked the first time they met - in complete fear of her husband. The way she had looked at her tenant after the verdict... Sherlock feels a stab of grief in his heart, an emotion he has generally learnt to block out. Feeling sick, he leaves quietly.

He stands for a moment, composing himself, then makes his way to the main room, central to all his thoughts. He hasn't been in there for a while and he wants to refresh his memory on the most important parts of his life.

Mainly though, he wants to see if he can find out anything further about that John Watson person. Mrs Hudson being killed has made him sad – and the very concept seems alien to him – but he hasn't deleted her completely. So this John must have meant a lot.

Sherlock opens the grand doors that he knows will lead to the most focal area in the whole of his palace and steps inside…

… And sits up on the sofa, back in reality, gasping.

Lestrade is sitting at the opposite end of the room, looking at him, tired. He raises a questioning eyebrow, concerned, but Sherlock ignores him and tries to focus on his breathing instead. He can barely believe what is going on. It terrifies him, the very notion that… that…

"Sherlock?" He blinks and looks up, shaken. Lestrade is kneeling next to him, a hand on his shoulder, worried. "Are you alright?"

"I… It's gone… the whole room… I deleted it… I… what do I do?" He is in a panic. Normally, he would never show Lestrade any form of weakness, sentiment, emotion, but now he can't think straight.

"What room…?"

"The one… The one in my mind palace… The whole… The main room."

"You remember Mrs Hudson, don't you?" Lestrade asks, hesitantly. Sherlock nods wordlessly. "Then maybe that's the place you held John's memories in?"

The younger man frowns. "How could I delete someone like that?" He puts his head in his hands, trying to compose himself. "I can't… I can't imagine ever becoming so attached to someone." His breathing levels slowly and his pulse starts returning to normal.

"Um, listen mate… I'm sorry, I really am. If we had anticipated where he was going to go we could have stopped him and… you know… If only you could remember him."

"I don't think my mind has a 'recycling bin'." Sherlock points out. "If I delete something, I never remember it again."

"But you've never tried getting them back, have you?" Lestrade shoots back.

Sherlock is about to answer critically when he notices that Lestrade is looking pale and tired. His trained eye observes the shaking hand, uncombed hair and the faint whiff of alcohol. Something is wrong.

"Why are you here?" He asks. The detective inspector swallows slowly.

"I came to see how you were."

"Really? Oh… Right. Why now?"

"Since… Since Mrs Hudson's death, you haven't left the flat. It's been a week."

A week. I've been brooding here for a week. Lestrade is looking rather worriedly at the hypodermic syringe. How long have I been on cocaine for? He realises he barely cares. For some reason, the last six or so years of his life has been almost completely free from the drug. He can't remember why. Maybe it was that John Watson stopping me…

"Well," Lestrade continues. He a little irritated as he says: "Your brother asked me to tell you that he's booked a therapist for you. Best one he knows -"

"I don't need a therapist."

"Sherlock -"

"You've been drinking." Sherlock narrows his eyes, deep in thought. "This is Mycroft, isn't it? You've had an argument, haven't you?"

Lestrade narrows his own eyes and stands up, turning his back. "That's for me and him to sort out. Don't get involved, okay?"

"That doesn't interest me anyway. Anyway, I'll repeat what I said earlier - I don't need a therapist."

His friend shrugs his shoulders, defeated, and turns back to face him. "Listen, mate. I can tell that all of this is bugging you. I know you're desperate for answers and you're desperate to understand everything fully." Sherlock scowls. "But you can't do this on your own. Your case is unique and a professional will honestly help." Still, no answer save for an angry frown. "Well, I've got to go. Your first session with him is next Monday and Mycroft will text you the details."

Sherlock sighs theatrically. "Right." But inside, he trembles at the thought of finally remembering everything. "I doubt it'll work, but I'll play along."

With a smile, Lestrade leaves and Sherlock is left on his own once more.

Yes, sorry for such a late update. And sorry for any mistakes - I really am busy at the moment. But thanks for reading!