Chapter Eleven
More Dreams
-.-
Sherlock has been dreaming vividly lately, nightmares and voices, feelings and whispers. The ghosts he once knew plague him in his troubled sleep, every night, endlessly tormenting him. There is Mrs Hudson, calling out to him, pleading to him not to take cocaine, asking why he didn't look out for a friend on the night she was killed. There are his parents, and both are always sorely disappointed in him, shouting at him, voicing their worries. There is Moriarty, mocking him, stabbing him over and over again, a huge manic grin plastered on his face.
Until tonight, he has never been in direct contact with John Watson. Now, as he lies in bed, three weeks after that fateful shooting, he dreams, standing in that alleyway – always that alleyway – listening to the muted whispers and the frantic beating of his own heart.
"Sherlock…"
"W-Who is it? John Watson?" He realises he is shaking. He feels as if he is starting to remember little fragments of information and this unnerves him. He is no longer sure if remembering is a good idea. He doesn't know what it will do to him. "Are you there?"
"I'm behind you." Sherlock whips around, but all he can see is fog.
"Where?!" He cries. He feels the touch of an invisible hand on his shoulder and flinches.
"Don't be afraid, Sherlock."
"Who are you?" He asks, tense. His voice echoes unnaturally and suddenly everything around appears to loom up before him.
"I'm a figment of your imagination." The voice is a sad whisper, but the sound surrounds him, filling his ears, paralysing him. "I'm John Watson. The small parts you can remember, anyway."
"But I can't remember you! I can't remember any part of you!"
"Try. Please." The voice begs, suddenly distraught. "I loved you, Sherlock. And you loved me. Please. Remember me."
The mist fades, the light brightens. A silhouette stands in front of him, the hand still on his shoulder. But… it is so blurred.
"John?" It is the first time Sherlock has called John by his first name since waking up in hospital. Before now, it was always 'John Watson' or 'Dr Watson'. But he needs to understand. He craves for the truth. He needs to know what his flatmate means to him.
The blurred figure begins to fade, and Sherlock can see the alleyway focusing behind the shape.
"John! Don't go! I need to know more!"
"Remember me." The familiar yet not-so-familiar voice repeats. And then it is gone.
-.-
Sherlock wakes up and lies still in his bed. He has been crying in his sleep – again – and the pillow is damp. I need to remember. He sits up at last and turns the light on. The sun has not risen, yet he finds that cannot go back to sleep. He is afraid of what dreams he might have. As an alternative, he takes a long cold shower, which refreshes him a little and clears his mind.
Monday. Today his therapy starts.
He groans. Do I want to remember? Mycroft's words of warning ring in his ear – "The truth will hurt". Emotions have never affected him before. But still his brother has taken the unusual precaution of telling him bluntly what will happen. Mycroft is not one to state mere opinions. What if I can't handle the truth? Deleting this Dr Watson was obviously a coping mechanism. I couldn't bear it the first time. What if I still can't?
Sherlock knows that he needs to make a decision.
He can move on with his life, forget John Watson forever, start afresh. Or he can pursue the truth. He knows before even considering the outcomes of both choices that he would never be able to live not knowing what really happened.
Stepping out of the shower, Sherlock makes up his mind. He occupies himself for a couple of hours, reading through a pile of unsolved cases – and subsequently working out a few of them – before stepping out into the rain and hailing a taxi.
His first session with the hypnotist is about to begin.
I'm really really sorry about how late this update is.. I promise I'll be quicker with the next one! Thanks for bearing with me!