Sherlock story
Deleted Memories, Chapter 44
Warning: post Reichenbach spoilers. Hope you enjoy
*As always thanks for reading, a special thanks to all of you who take the time to review, comment, and favorite. LoL
Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet. Only through experience of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened, vision cleared, ambition inspired, and success achieved. ~ Helen Keller
Sherlock prepared himself.
Mycroft explained to John quietly as Sherlock lay on the couch. "Sherlock has unique abilities and gifts. He can almost instantly connect the three realms of the mind at will…"
Sherlock's eyes rolled beneath his lids as he made short synchronized movements with his hands.
"… Think of it as three rooms connected by three doors," Mycroft continued quietly. "The first room is the conscious; it is the place where we are all aware of what is happening here, and now."
"The second room is the preconscious; it is the place where we can go to retrieve a memory. Something we do not think about all the time, but need to think about now."
"The last room is always locked and cannot be accessed; this last room is the unconscious. It influences the other two rooms but cannot be directly accessed by most people," Mycroft explained.
"Sherlock's mind is a key in a way. Sherlock has the ability to not only freely walk between all rooms, but he can rearrange items in the rooms, and throw away any item he considers useless."
"Sherlock is quite brilliant without the palace of course. Mummy had him tested; as a young child, he was placed off the charts. His mind naturally collects more information in one hour than most people do in one week. The palace simply helps him to organize, and store that information, and decide what to keep and what to delete."
"There are only five people recorded to have similar abilities."
"One died a year ago."
"One is in Russia; we monitor her closely, of course."
"One is I, although in this aspect my brother surpasses even me. Sherlock gift is in connecting the dots, seeing patterns. My gift is in moving and manipulating the dots." Mycroft looked grim.
"He has surpassed all of us in that he has taught himself how to do this with not only simple pieces of information, but also memories."
"Who is the fifth," John asked
"The fifth was an orphan of French immigrants, Josiah Lambert. You know him as Jim Moriarty," Mycroft answered.
John glanced at Sherlock and took in a deep lungful of air before continuing, "What happens if he cannot … repair the damage done?"
Mycroft swallowed, "Then the door closes with him trapped in his unconscious, permanently. You told me he was unresponsive for fifteen minutes earlier, it would become permanent. A self induced coma John."
"What do you mean permanently, an unending catatonic state?" John as a doctor knew what that meant; and he was not going to allow it!
John whispered with anger as he invaded Mycroft's permanent space. "I don't care what information the flipping government needs, I won't allow Sherlock to go through with this, I'm not risking him becoming some… vegetable in some hospital somewhere."
"John," Mycroft said with raised hands, "I don't think you understand; you're already losing him John, we both are. Sherlock created his world, his palace when he was younger down to the last detail. Every room. It is his world. However, every world has rules and his is no different. Sherlock has broken one of his own rules…"
Mycroft had to take a breath before continuing
"His mind is giving him warnings. He has deleted a memory that has some information some detail that he needs to restore. A small part of him realizes this. That is why he sees bits and pieces in the form of nightmares and flashbacks, but never a complete picture. Never a complete memory. The walls of his mind are shaking, soon they will collapse."
John asked Mycroft. "How long should this take?" A numb feeling had replaced the anger.
"An hour, but you have to understand, his mind has surpassed all researched material that is available," Mycroft answered.
"And…, if it is longer than an hour," John looked at Mycroft. Mycroft did not answer but looked grim.
John's face drained of color. He felt bile rise.
Sherlock opened his eyes blinked a few times and looked around. He looked at Mycroft and John. Sherlock looked both men up and down, and frowned. Sherlock, however, quickly covered the frown.
Mycroft studied his brother for a few seconds. "Ready Sherlock?"
Sherlock nodded closed his eyes and put his hands folded on his lap. He was fully dressed except he had taken off his suit jacket and shoes.
Both John and Mycroft sat opposite each other, but facing Sherlock on the sofa. They sat in the dining room chairs they had pulled up.
"What's your fail-safe," Mycroft asked Sherlock while pulling out his pocket watch.
Sherlock shrugged, slightly embarrassed. "Your voice."
"I see," Mycroft said as he cleared his throat.
John was confused, but too numb to ask any questions. John did not understand what a fail-safe was. In reality, it could have been anything, a place, an icon, music. Sherlock had chosen his brother's voice.
If the worse occurred and Sherlock was trapped in the third room, his unconsciousness; the fail-safe, which was his brother's voice, could be the guide to his return to reality, theoretically. John did not understand, and did not ask, already lost in his own misery.
Sherlock took a breath while opening his eyes. He turned toward his brother and spoke.
"If something should occur; please convey something sentimental to Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson and…" Sherlock did not finish but looked at Mycroft.
Mycroft thought for a moment, and then suddenly he knew.
"I see," Mycroft's suspicions were confirmed. So, she was alive after all.
"How will I contact her," Mycroft asked.
"She'll contact you," Sherlock said with a smirk. "In that event, I need for you to give her all the assistance she may require." Sherlock's face held a strange look now. Mycroft, noticed with some surprise.
"Oh, I see." Mycroft said again.
Sherlock then looked at John; faithful, loyal, John; and he … felt something. Sherlock struggled to identify the emotion. He accepted the fact that he cared for John, for all his… friends. However, this was something deeper. What was the sentiment?
Love?
Sherlock realized he did love John. He considered him as much a brother as Mycroft. He would never say this of course. John would understand. John knew, but maybe he should try to tell him. Sherlock began.
"John… um, I probably should say… I mean I want to say…"
"Stop Sherlock, just stop it. Whatever you have to tell me, you had better bloody well tell me yourself, in an hour." Then John, who never put on a mask in front of Sherlock, put one on now. He wore the same mask he wore as a soldier in Afghanistan.
The one that said he was calm and detached.
The one he wore when he had too many soldiers dying, and had to choose which one to save.
The one that said he was calm and professional, when the truth was, inside his heart was being torn apart.
Sherlock took one last look at his brother, and his eyes lingered on John for a moment.
Sherlock nodded.
Sometimes words were not necessary, other times, words were not enough.
A slight shudder ran through his body. Sherlock took a breath and closed his eyes.
Mycroft spoke quietly in a steady rhythm. After a minute, Sherlock's eyes rolled under closed lids. Barely noticeable, synchronized hand movements were taking place. And, Sherlock was gone.