Title: Ctrl Alt Delete (Format J: /U)
Author: PerfectingSilence
Rating: T
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters within Sherlock. The original characters, plot, and ideas belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss.
Summary: Sherlock remembers John the way he was, when he was his. And Sherlock does his best not to remember John the way he became. And eventually, Sherlock tries his hardest to not remember him at all.
A/N: Hello! This is the first chapter to the new story/project I've taken up. I have most of this story already outlined, and so I'm hoping updates will happen more often than with the other stories of mine that do not have any plot outlines. Thanks for reading!~
Chapter 1
Gleaming lights, vows exchanged, dancing with a woman made of lies. This is not how Sherlock remembers him. No. He remembers the midnight mysteries, the thrill of their finished cases, the sound of a matching pair of feet running with him across pavement.
Before, that sound meant little to Sherlock, simply an indication he was being chased or chasing someone else. After that pivotal encounter at St. Bart's however, the sound of extra shoes became something so much more; they became a sign of much greater things to come. Now, he recalls the sound with something akin to bitter-sweetness. Of course the same can be said for oh so much.
He remembers blond hair reflecting street lights and the morning sunshine in their flat, fuzzy jumpers pulled on in cold London fashion. How he loved those jumpers, always believing they would be itchy, and yet, somehow they looked impossibly soft on his flatmate. Remembers the praise he received (it had come as such a shock at first), the small smiles meant only for him, and the feeling of not being so alone.
Sherlock thinks back to the way his ex. army doctor would make tea (perfect in ways he will never be able to replicate) and forced him to eat out of worry. He hated the act in itself, but god, did he crave the sentiment attached to it. of course, that was the type of thing he'd never allow himself to say aloud. It would have been obvious to anyone that paid enough attention. One could tell simply by the fact that when John put a plate of toast in front of him with the instruction to eat, Sherlock would do as he was told, albeit usually begrudgingly. He recalls the way he would treat the other and how the bold always knew how Sherlock really felt (about almost everything).
Sherlock remembers John the way he was, when he was his.
And Sherlock does his best not to remember John the way he became.
His smile as he glanced at her. The look on his face as he said, "I do." Feet moving in a dance Sherlock taught him. Bodies swaying to a waltz that should have been theirs.
And that was how he'd composed it, originally: to be theirs. It seemed so long ago now, a much different time. He scolded himself for doing something so childish as to dream of a life where they stayed together. A life where they would always have what they used to, and so much more as well. He stopped dreaming of his unobtainable future and instead focused on the past. Back when they'd been happy, both of them. Or, at the very least, as close as one had been to the feeling since early childhood. Looking back now, he missed the feeling he'd learn to be happiness.
Happiness. noun. The state of being happy
Happy. adjective. Feeling or showing pleasure or contentment.
He wished he didn't remember the feeling.
~Line~
Thick ropes bind his ankles together as chains attach his shirtless form to the stone wall by his metal-bitten, bloody wrists. His mind has begun to shut itself off, refusing to calculate the extreme things it normally should. In result, he does not know how long he has been in the dark. closed off room. His vision is compromised from being in the darkness for so long and he's lost the majority of feeling in his arms. Earlier, the blood was cold as it dripped down his skin, but now it has formed a crust on his arms and wrists.
Presently, he is very glad that he has no irrational fears such as achluophobia or claustrophobia. The mix of light and space that the confined room lacks surely would have driven him insane if he had, and for other reasons, it still might. Of course, as anyone who had met him could tell you, he was already insane. Still, he had reason to worry. You see, his fear had already begun a while ago, with the early constrictions of his mind. He dreaded that this room would drive him paralyzingly, unbearably, sane.
And it would destroy him. For if it took over, and drowned his brilliant mind, he would lose his control. The pain would swallow him, crushing him in its great jaws. It wouldn't end there, because besides that, the things he would do to himself if he lost the one thing that gave him worth would be unspeakable. Combined agony would consume him. Sanity would be his end.
~Line~
Unsurprisingly, the lack of food does nothing but remind him of the fact that he now has no one taking care of him. Sleep deprivation isn't affecting him much either. He still enters his mind palace, as much as he can. Walking through the halls relaxes him. It's become a habit to check and make sure each room is still organized, and to assure that every piece of information is in its proper place. There are times when he can't quite enter his mind palace, and those rare instances have become his living hell.
The scent of earth fills his senses, though he's been in the closed off space long enough that his brain is accustom to the scent. Drugged long before he arrived, he has no way to deduce where he is apart from what of the musky smell he remembers, which admittedly, isn't much. It's much too dark to tell anything besides the size of the room. Though it should give him a decent amount of information to work with, Sherlock hasn't been able to tell much from the dirt like smell around him. It's obvious the room is at least partially submerged beneath a rich quality soil. The walls separating him from said soil have prevented him from getting a good enough idea of what area he's dealing with. A part of him wonders if it's better he not know where he will quite likely die.
~Line~
More time passes. He does not know how long he has been there, but he does know that it has been long enough for every major muscle in his body to have begun begging him to move. And if he had the ability to, he would have done so a while ago, but instead he settles for willing his mind to focus on anything else. Naturally, it chooses John Watson from all of the viable options.
It chooses his smile, his eyes, his jumpers, his breathing pattern, his voice, his everything. It chooses the shared late nights, the wonder, the mystery, the life that suddenly blossomed before him.
The beautiful John Watson.
This is how Sherlock remembers him.