Sherlock story
Deleted Memories, Chapter three
It was four hours in; the dining room had been converted. Papers and pictures were scattered on the table, and maps and diagrams on the wall.
Sherlock went between his computer and his phone. He was slightly off by himself with Lestrade and John running interference. The Chief Superintendent left after the first hour, to John's relief. Two officers had joined.
One was familiar, Simon, John thought was his name. Sherlock had the same intense focus he always had when on a case. A faraway look was in his eyes; he noticed every small detail but would choose to remember only what was deemed important.
Lestrade had stopped supervising and now leaned on the wall in a corner looking at Sherlock.
Concerned etched on his face.
He caught John's eye and looked at him. John gave a slight nod and made his way into the kitchen. Greg followed.
"John."
"Greg."
John refreshed his own cup of tea first. He then poured the Inspector a fresh cup of coffee. He motioned for Lestrade to sit which he did.
"He is pushing too hard. He's still healing, when he is healthy these cases take a lot out of him, now…"
"I know, but he's got the scent…" Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade said as he dry wiped his face, "… and even though I don't like the idea of him coming back so soon, the truth is, we need him."
"Thanks," Lestrade said as he accepted the coffee handed to him by John.
"Oh thanks for the heads up earlier," John stated while sitting. Greg nodded.
Sherlock looked at all the pictures, crime reports and statistics. His eyes moved rapidly as information, facts and figures appeared in his mind, and was categorized, and arranged by importance. Everything not important would be deleted. He was close, he felt it. However, the usual eagerness, flair and excitement that accompanied these cases were waning, along with his physical strength.
He deduced that the child had only forty-four to forty-eight hours before she was killed. The promised made by the kidnapper to return her was false, since there was no obvious signs of struggle.
No sign of struggle meant the child knew and saw the kidnapper. If she was returned she could easily identify her kidnapper, and the other accomplices in turn would be identified.
That meant that... of course... obvious.
He needed to be there for the interview, and as much as he was not looking forward to seeing Anderson; he needed to see the actual crime scene for himself.
Sherlock drove the heels of his hands into his eyes and sighed. He was too slow today. He could not afford to be slow.
"Stay distant," he muttered to himself.
Sherlock always stayed emotionally distant from crime victims; emotions interfere. However, there had been a few, like Henry Knight. Toward the end, he felt a bond with him. After going through the emotional hell of the experimental drug in Dartmoor; He knew he would do whatever it took, to save him from the prison of insanity the drug would have eventually driven him to.
He would do the same with little Katie, although he would never admit it, and even went as far as considering it a weakness. No one, particularly a child should have to deal with being kidnapped and held against his or her will ….
Before he could finish his thought, flashes of memories came flooding into his mind; sights...sounds...smells...pain.
"Nooooo!" He forced the memories back. He concentrated on his breathing. In, four counts; out three counts repeat.
"Sherlock." It took a second to realize that John was kneeing by his chair with a hand on his shoulder, and another second to realize that he had spoken aloud.
"You OK mate?" John asked.
Sherlock gave a slight nod.
"He's pale as a ghost, and what does no mean; is the Freak OK?" Donovan asked.
"Don't you all have work to do, a case to solve?" Lestrade said a little bit more forcefully than he intended." Lestrade pinched his nose while taking in a calming breath. He continued with what he hoped was a casual tone, "Tell you what, how's about a working lunch?"
"Lunch can we order pizza?" one of the officer suggested, the volume suddenly increased as everyone debated possible toppings on their pizza. All attention shifted from Sherlock to their stomachs.
John looked at Lestrade gratefully. A slight nod from the Inspector was the only acknowledgement.
"Well, our lunch is in the back, Sherlock will you eat something?" Before waiting for a reply, he led Sherlock in the back.
The kitchen was passed as he led him to his bedroom. Sherlock did not argue but allowed himself to be lead to the chair in his room by the window. He sat stiffly. Beads of sweat had formed on his forehead. His hands had a death grip on the chair, as he made an effort to even out his breathing.
"Thought you might want a bit of privacy," John said casually, "I'll set up the eat off tray for you here with soup and a sandwich." After hesitating slightly he added, "You had a flashback." It was not really a question.
After waiting, John sighed, resigned to not being answered and turned to get his lunch.
"I can't delete it John," Sherlock stated in an unsteady voice. John turned around and walked back to where Sherlock was sitting. After a moment's hesitation, he sat on the edge of the bed facing Sherlock and waited for him to continue.
"It's… the way my mind works, John," he paused slightly, shifting in his chair and grimacing slightly. He moved his finger tips together they touched his chin. "Information that is not useful, outdated I just delete, making room for the useful, the necessary." A sad smile formed on his face. "Mycroft taught me how when I was twelve."
"Imagine being able to look at a person and see things that no one else can see, to be bored because the things that come with difficulty to most comes easily to you. Let's just say I was never good at social graces, or knowing when to shut up. Beatings were not uncommon."
"Mycroft had a similar mind, he understood me. He taught me the disadvantages and weaknesses of emotions. By fourteen, I surpassed even him in my ability to deduce. I could add and delete information in my mind at will"
"But memories… ah… that's a little bit trickier. I learned to put those in a sort of room in my mind. It's not that I truly forget the memories; but it's locked away, buried so deeply, they cannot affect me in any way."
"Imagine John, no emotions to influence you, no unwanted memories to cloud the intellect, to poison the mind." Sherlock closed his eyes, took a shaky breath, and then opened them blinking rapidly.
John noticed the fine tremor in Sherlock's hands and his general distress. Though they had gotten very close, Sherlock was still a very private man in many ways. He was not sure if he should try to show comfort, or if movement would spook Sherlock and cause him to shut down and stop talking.
John knew he needed to talk. He would wait for Sherlock to continue, and he did.
"I… cannot seem to… delete the … memories… John… the great Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock laughed at himself mockingly.
Anger rose up in John, he took a few breaths. He wanted to get his point across without Sherlock thinking that the anger was directed at him.
"Sherlock, you've been through a trauma. First, being put in the position of choosing your death or the death of your friends, taking down Moriarty's web, having the world think you're a criminal… then coming back to take down the last tie to Moriarty. You're recovering from injuries from your last go around, that almost killed you by the way."
John did not remember crossing the room but he now found himself to the side of Sherlock kneeling. Sherlock looked into John's eyes for the first time since entering the room, searching them for disgust or judgment but found none.
John continued trying to control the emotions in his voice, "Honestly, you're one of the strongest men I know but you do know you're human, right?"
"Vicious rumor," Sherlock replied with a small but genuine smile.
A moment of comfortable silence passed.
John could not help but smile back and chuckle, lifting himself to his feet.
"Right then. I'll get your soup and sandwich." At the look on Sherlock's face, he compromised. "Tea and biscuits?" John was rewarded with a slight nod and smile.
John walked toward the door.
Sherlock's voice stopped his steps, "I need to see the crime scene for myself."
"I know" John sighed. Without turning back he added, "The flashbacks will get worse if you don't deal with what happened … all of it." John received no reply, he did not expect to.