Chapter Sixteen
One Missing Piece
-.-
"What happened on the night that John Watson died?"
"I can't remember." Sherlock repeats, drumming his fingers on his thigh, irritated. "I've already told you. It's the hardest memory to reach. I know what we did the night before –" He shuts his eyes, visualising the most recent memory of John. They had sat in his – their – flat, watching some documentary. John had ended up falling asleep, resting against him. Even now it surprises the detective how he had tolerated that. There is something missing from these recollections and it makes him feel sick.
Not once has he felt an emotional connection to his former flatmate. Not once.
"Mr Holmes." He opens his eyes reluctantly, finding reality once more. Lying down on Doctor Fisher's Freudian style sofa, he looks at the hypnotist disdainfully. This is his twelfth session now and he is appalled by how slow progress is. Dr Fisher senses this and tailors his words accordingly. "Considering the unusualness of this case and the fact that you have recovered nearly every memory, I can safely tell you that your recall level is far better than expected."
Sherlock sighs loudly.
His therapist's voice has been gentle, but nevertheless it takes on a commanding quality as he changes the subject. "You still haven't been eating." This is a man not used to being disobeyed and last week he had ordered his patient to 'increase his intake of food'.
"I'm never hungry." Sherlock scowls.
"But you're getting thinner each time we meet."
"Well I can't eat, alright? It's complicated. I might be remembering stuff, but I can't exactly control everything."
"Could you elaborate?"
"My mind… it's… like a machine. It needs fuel, and that doesn't always mean food. It's getting all of these new pieces of information and it's so much for it that – that I'm just not hungry anymore. I don't need food."
Dr Fisher is intrigued. "Is there anything else you would like to tell me?"
"No."
"You're hiding something. Tell me, please."
Sherlock grimaces. This man can read him like a book. No wonder he's acquainted with Mycroft. "Well, if you want to know the truth, it's that my brain has never recovered deleted memories before and now that it is, it's a wholly new experience. And I find it very difficult to master this technique. Hypnosis is like squeezing the memories out and there are bound to be side effects."
"Such as?"
"I don't know yet. I'm pretty sure they'll make themselves clear in due course. At the moment, I'm getting severe headaches. And John Watson's voice has been… um… speaking to me endlessly ever since I woke up in hospital three months ago."
"Really? What does he talk about?" Dr Fisher scribbles furiously in his notebook.
"Nothing. I mean, it's the same thing over and over but I can't hear it. His voice sounds…" But Sherlock can't finish the sentence because he can't describe that emotion. Not out loud.
"What?"
"Nothing." And he finds that there are more tears in his eyes and he wipes them away, angry, balling his hands into tight fists. "What's wrong with me?"
"There's nothing wrong, Mr Holmes. It's all repressed. These feelings will make sense in time."
Feelings. The one missing piece coupled with that final memory. How did John Watson die? Did they talk beforehand? And most importantly:
What did John mean to him?
If you have time, please check out an amazing Sherlock story by my friend, GirlsInGlassCages, entitled 'Seven Devils'. It's extremely well-written and a link to it is available on my profile page :D
Thanks for reading this far!