A/N: Thank you so much for your reviews, Ayno23! I like hearing your input. Gives me ideas where I should go with my story =) You're an awesome person and a great writer! Never stop reviewing!

Chapter Twelve: Hope

.o.o.

.o.

Sometimes I feel so happy

Sometimes I feel so sad

Sometimes I feel so happy

But mostly you just make me mad

Baby you just make me mad

Linger on, your pale blue eyes

Linger on, your pale blue eyes

The Velvet Underground – Pale Blue Eyes

.o.o.

.o.

The days passed in a blur for Sherlock Holmes. There had been times, much to John's worry, that the consulting detective couldn't remember. Apparently the doctor had been talking to him for nearly two hours, clients had come and went, and Sherlock couldn't remember any of it. True, it wasn't out of the ordinary for Sherlock to forget chunks of time and the events that occurred but it seemed to be getting out of control.

Sherlock opened his eyes to see John's concerned eyes staring at him. He winced a bit and then looked around in confusion where he lay on the couch. Usually, John's worried stare annoyed him but he had more pressing matters than that at the moment.

"What time is it?"

John searched his companion's face. "It's nearly half six. Isn't Mycroft supposed to come to talk with you about your depression and such?"

Sherlock thought for a moment and shook his head. "No, of course not. It's not Friday yet…"

The doctor straightened up, swallowing hard. "What day do you think it is, Sherlock?"

"It's… it's Thursday, isn't it? Yesterday was Wednesday."

John shook his head in disagreement. "No, it's not. It's Friday evening. Your brother's coming today. I'm getting worried about you, Sherlock, more so than usual. You usually talk for days on end, even after I've left the flat, but you haven't said a single word since Wednesday night. Is it your depression? Is that why you're so quiet?"

Sherlock put his hands in front of his chest, just touching his chin, holding them together in a praying motion. A part of him felt embarrassed but another part of him felt like this just couldn't be true. He tried to think of the last thing he had said to John, and he only came up with "deal," when they had been discussing about each other never leaving the other.

"Don't be ridiculous, John. Maybe you're just not around when I've been talking. I know what day it is, by the way. You're just putting me on. It's Thursday; I know it is! You can drop this joke because it's simply not amusing," Sherlock scowled.

John sighed, running his hands through his hair. "I agree, it's not amusing. I promise you though, I'm not putting you on. It's really Friday. After your brother talks to you, I'd like to take you into Bart's for testing. Maybe it's the medication that's causing you to lose track of time."

Sherlock sat upright now and turned to look at him. "Everyone loses track of time, John. It's nothing serious. I don't have a brain injury or anything of that sort. I just simply forgot what day it is. It happens…"

John shook his head and smiled with humor. "No, not with Sherlock Holmes, it doesn't! You have every fact under the sun memorized and you never forget what day it is, whether you deduce it from noises out on the street or the candles Mrs Hudson burns! You always know what day it is, and what time it is, exactly. It's not like you to forget these things. You lose whole blocks of time as well! Not just hours or minutes. You're losing days, Sherlock… this is something we need to look into."

The detective sighed heavily in annoyance and pursed his lips just as the doorbell rang. "That must be Mycroft. Would you mind disappearing for a couple hours, John?"

The doctor looked almost hurt at first but then nodded reluctantly. "Right, okay then. I'll leave you two to talk. I have errands I can run. If you need anything, send me a text. I'll have my phone on me."

Sherlock nodded once and then watched as he grabbed his coat on and then opened the door, welcoming Mycroft in before saying his goodbyes and disappearing from sight. He stood up now gave a curt nod to Mycroft.

"Have a seat. I'll make us some tea."

"As you wish," he walked over to John's armchair and sat down in it before he crossed a leg over to rest on the other one. "How have you been since the last time we talked two days ago?"

Sherlock remained quiet as he dropped teabags into two cups and watched the flames flicker underneath the kettle. "Never better. And yourself? Have you overthrown any tyrannical governments or caught any more terrorists?"

Mycroft chuckled softly. "The criminal world's been somewhat quiet this week. I suspect there's some planning going on but no one knows anything to speak of."

Sherlock poured the boiling water into the mugs before steeping them and putting sugar in his brother's cup. He walked over and gave Mycroft his cup and saucer before sitting in his usual chair across from him. He took a sip of his tea and set it down on the nearby table before casting his eyes towards the fireplace. John must have built a fire earlier.

Funny, he didn't remember that either.

"Tell me truthfully, Sherlock. How are you?" Mycroft looked at his younger brother with analytical eyes.

"I told you, Mycroft. I've never been better. I'm fine," he replied tartly, not taking his eyes off the flames.

Mycroft took a sip of his tea before he also placed it on his table next to the chair. "I may not live with you anymore but I'm still your brother and I can tell when you're lying. You really do give so much away. Stop wasting my time, Sherlock. You wanted to talk; let's talk."

The detective chewed on his lower lip and finally forced himself to look at Mycroft. He was quiet for several moments, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair restlessly. "Well, I'm on day… two, I believe, of taking my new antidepressants. Not as nauseous, still feeling slightly fatigued. Oh, and I've started to black out days."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow in surprise and leaned forward to rest on his knee, searching Sherlock's face for answers. "I'm sorry? You've started to… black out days? How do you mean, exactly?"

"I mean," Sherlock started, already becoming impatient with his brother. "I'm losing track of huge amounts of time. I thought it was Thursday today. John so kindly pointed out that it's very unlike me to forget what day it is, nonetheless the time. What do you make of this?"

Mycroft sat upright again and scrunched his face up in thought. "It is, indeed, puzzling. Could it be an effect from your antidepressants?"

"I'm not sure. John wants me to get testing done at St. Bart's hospital to see if my memory loss and the new medication could be related…"

Mycroft nodded in acknowledgement. "That's certainly a good idea. I would have to agree with John. He is the doctor, after all. How much sleep are you getting, Sherlock?"

Sherlock sighed and shrugged, shaking his head. "Little to none. If I sleep, I don't remember sleeping. I usually never sleep though. I'm usually always awake at night. That's just how I've always been."

"Oh, well I beg to differ. You seemed to sleep just fine when we were children. In fact, your insomnia only started in your teenage years, if I recall correctly," Mycroft remarked. "I honestly don't understand how you can function properly without sleep. I always thought a person could die of insomnia. Does John know about that?"

"Maybe I do sleep. I really don't know, Mycroft," Sherlock rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. "Like I said, if I do take intermittent naps, then I don't remember them. John knows I'm awake at night."

Mycroft gave his younger brother an interested look. It was a puzzle and being a Holmes brother, he liked to solve puzzles, just as much as Sherlock did. "I see. Are you… taking any recreational drugs alongside your antidepressants?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his brother's suggestion and lolled his head to the side before looking back at him. "No, Mycroft. I'm not getting high. For God's sake… I haven't used in months. I wish I was high, though. Maybe I'd be able to get some sleep if that were the case."

"Sherlock," his older brother warned.

"Kidding!" Sherlock put his hands up.

Mycroft sighed but it was obvious he was still trying to come up with possibilities for Sherlock's blackouts. "Honestly, dear brother, I cannot think of any other reason for your time lapse. I would have to conclude that the cause of it is either the new antidepressants or… your depression."

"Thank you, dear brother. As always, you've been such a fantastic help," Sherlock replied bitterly. He suddenly let out a yell of anguish. "God! What good are you?!"

Mycroft's eyes widened in surprise and he blinked, his mouth agape. Finally, he found his words. "Excuse me, Sherlock, but I'm not your doctor or psychiatrist! I'm part of the British government! I find assassins, trained killers, terrorists, threats to the country. I'm not licensed or trained to diagnose every little problem that goes on in your brilliant brain!"

Sherlock knew he was being unfair to Mycroft but he felt angry and frustrated. "In case you've forgotten, this isn't a 'little problem!' This is my memory! I'm losing days, Mycroft! Not just minutes or hours. What if I lose my entire memory altogether? I'll be no use to anyone! Not even John."

"Ah, yes. Everything comes down to John Watson, doesn't it? Sherlock, it occurs to me that you have a Mind Palace that you place facts and people in, correct?" When his brother nodded, Mycroft continued. "Right then, why don't you try taking walks around in this… Palace of yours? Walk around in it every day, mark the day and time before you do it, and then afterwards. I'm not all that familiar with your Mind Palace, but I believe it might aid you in remembering the days."

Sherlock pondered Mycroft's suggestion and seeing no fault in it, he calmed himself down. "Very well. I'll try this experiment tonight after you leave and see if it works." Then, after several minutes of silence between the two brothers, he added, "T-Thank you."

The prolonged gratitude after all the silence took Mycroft aback. "I'm sorry? For what?"

"For… your suggestion."

Mycroft smirked ever so slightly. "My God, you must be ill if you're thanking me. In any case, consider yourself welcome. Are you planning on going to St. Bart's soon and getting the tests done?"

Sherlock considered the question, chewing on his bottom lip anxiously. "Possibly. I know that I won't have any say in the matter if John has his way. It might not be such a horrible idea anyway. At least then we'll all known for sure what's causing it."

"I agree. I think it is a good idea. It wouldn't hurt, anyway. Are you still having your… thoughts?" Mycroft asked, obviously feeling a bit uncomfortable.

Sherlock didn't even have to ask what he meant by 'thoughts.' He wouldn't ask about any other thoughts his brother had. "I've only started taking the new medication a day ago. I'm on my second day on them and the average time it kicks in is anywhere from one to three weeks."

"That's not what I asked," Mycroft replied almost icily.

The detective wasn't sure what to say. If he was having suicidal thoughts, he might not be remembering them. The very notion that he could forget about them in the first place was beyond him but then again, he never thought he'd forget what day it was either. "No. I haven't had them."

Mycroft nodded optimistically and smiled a small smile. "That's good then!"

"I wouldn't get too excited, Mycroft. Just because I haven't had the thoughts in two days doesn't mean they won't return…"

"Interesting. You talk as if you want the thoughts to return, as if you do not wish to get better…" Mycroft drawled.

Sherlock met his eyes with cold ones. "I don't know what you're talking about. Of course I want to get better. I don't want to feel this miserable for no reason whatsoever. I don't want John to have to see me lying around, being painfully unproductive. I'm not sure how much more idleness he can stand."

The light lit up in Mycroft's eyes now. "Haven't you gotten any cases recently?"

Sherlock shrugged half-heartedly. "Only menial ones, nothing more than a two or three. I don't leave the flat for anything less than a seven. I was hoping for a decent case that could help distract me from this… misery, something to excite John again, like the old days. I would even welcome Moriarty at this point."

Mycroft took another drink of his tea. "I wouldn't fret, dear brother mine. I have confidence you'll receive a lively case soon. In the meantime, do try and take it easy." He stood up now, straightening his tux. "Oh, and try and remember to do the exercise I told you about earlier."

Sherlock looked up at him. "You're leaving? You've only been here for maybe forty-five minutes."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow again at his younger sibling. "And…?"

"And you told me you were free until eight. I have at least two more hours to talk."

His brother let out a low, cold chuckle before walking towards the front door. "As I've reminded you several times, Sherlock. I'm not a psychiatrist and you're not paying me to stay the whole time. Even if you were paying me, I wouldn't stay. I have other matters to attend to. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to be off. Good evening, Sherlock."

The younger man watched as his brother left and left in alone. He leaned forward and put his face in his hands before he sucked in a breath and then straightened up again. He glanced over at the clock and observed the time was seven-oh-five.

He closed his eyes and started walking through his Mind Palace. Sherlock opened all the doors on all four floors, walking into visual how-to manuals, species of animals, history from long ago, chemicals found in nearly everything that contained atoms, books and authors, all the roads in London, including shortcuts, and common food allergies.

He walked through corridors before getting to other rooms that held information he had memorized like hotwiring a car, defusing and creating bombs, and classical music. He walked through all these rooms, making sure everything was in its place and nothing was missing before he finally opened his eyes. When he looked back at the clock again, he made a mental note that it was seven-thirty.

"Oh good, you're back. How did it go with Mycroft then?" a familiar voice asked him.

Sherlock looked over to see John. "It was… helpful, actually. What did you mean when you said I was 'back?'"

John walked over to him, seemingly out of breath. He must have gotten groceries and been forced to climb up the staircase. "O-Oh, umm… well, I know that when you're… like how you were, you're usually in your… Mind Palace thing. Do you remember going there?"

Sherlock nodded and looked at him curiously. "Mycroft believes my blackouts are either caused by the depression or the medication. Could it be the antidepressants causing me to forget days?"

John sat down in his armchair, seeing how concerned the detective was. "I'm not sure. It's possible, I suppose. Perhaps a rare side effect from it. When you usually have your depression, do you forget days? I mean, before you were put on antidepressants. Did you forget whole days?"

Sherlock thought for a split second and then shook his head. "No. I didn't forget anything."

"Ah, right. Well, then it could just be the antidepressants. Maybe… we could do the testing tomorrow morning and if it turns out that it is them causing it, we could find you different ones. How does that sound?"

The idea of hopping from one antidepressant to the next without any luck and only horrible side effects depressed Sherlock even more, except it was about to come out in anger instead of sorrow. He clenched his jaw and then stood up before he began to pace.

"I'm sick of this! I'm sick of taking medications that only make me feel worse! They're useless!" he yelled as he continued to pace.

John didn't seem surprised at the younger man's sudden outburst but his eyes showed disapproval. "Sherlock, just… calm down. We'll find the right one for you eventually."

"Eventually?" Sherlock snarled. "I don't have eventually! What do I do once we get cases? Peoples' lives will be on the line and if I can't even get out of bed, then what good am I? This is ridiculous, John! I don't have time to wait!"

John looked up at Sherlock now. "Oh really? You don't have time? What are you planning on doing, Sherlock? Tell me, should I be worried about this?"

"I don't know, John! I don't know. I'm losing days in my memory! Maybe I'll kill myself and I won't even be around to remember doing it! What if I try to off myself in one of my blackouts? Now do you see how serious the situation is?" Sherlock remarked coldly.

John stood up and searched Sherlock's eyes. "I never said the situation wasn't serious! I know how serious this is, Sherlock! You don't see me dancing around and having a good laugh about your blacking out and your depression, do you? You don't even know how serious this is for me!"

Sherlock looked over at him, cocking head slightly. "What are you talking about?"

The doctor let out a huff of air before putting his hands on his hips, his own frustration biting back now. "I mean… with how you are! Half the time I'm afraid to leave you alone because I don't know if I'm going to come home to find that you've slit your wrists or… hanged yourself! I don't know what I'm going to come home to, and that scares me, Sherlock! Do you… have any idea at all how your illness affects me?"

"That's right, John! Go ahead! Make this all about you because God knows that's what you always do anyway! The second there's an issue with me, you somehow turn it around to make this about you! Go ahead, John! Tell me. Tell me how my illness affects you!"

The doctor tongued his cheek before he shook his head. "No. No… I'm not going to do that, actually. I don't want to do this, Sherlock! I don't want to fight with you! I just want to help you any way that I can."

Sherlock was so angry that he felt hot tears prickling his eyes. He pushed them back as he also pushed down the urge to hit something. He didn't deserve John. All he did was make his life a living hell. That's what the doctor was going to say to him; he knew it. It had to be. "You just want to leave! You're sick of looking at me every day, lying around! You're sick of making sure I take the medication and making sure that I shower and eat!"

John shook his head but then stopped it midway before he took a deep breath before he put his fingers on the bridge of his nose. When he didn't say anything, Sherlock nodded and continued.

"Go ahead, John. Say it! You know it's true! You know that you've grown tired of taking care of me for worse, in sickness! Just tell the truth! You're sick of me!" Sherlock nearly screamed, tears forcefully making trails down his pale face.

"No, no… that's not true! I'm not sick of you! Just stop this! Stop it, Sherlock!"

The detective shook his head again but his anger was quickly turning into despair and unbelievable sadness as he took a step away from John, towards the kitchen. He continued backing up, unsure what all these feelings were that had begun to hit him at once. He never felt feelings before. Maybe the medications were making him into something more human, less of a mechanical cold machine. Could they do that?

"You don't want to be here anymore," Sherlock cried suddenly. "You don't love me and I don't deserve you! That's the worst part in this whole situation is that I don't even deserve you, John!" He wiped away the tears on his face with his hands and sniffled, his chest feeling tight. "You… y-you don't want to d-deal with me anymore! Y-You're only going to leave me a-anyway…" he gasped for air, feeling like his lungs had been punctured.

"Sherlock…" John hurried over to him and watched as Sherlock started to hyperventilate. His skin had grown paler and he was still gasping for air. "Shhh… shh…. You need to try and calm down, Sherlock… you're having a panic attack. Breathe…"

The younger detective shook his head as he collapsed against the wall, grabbing at the closest thing to keep him from falling which, incidentally, ending up being John. "I-I can't… I can't, J-John… I can't b-breathe…"

He saw the room spinning around him and he closed his eyes to try and concentrate.

John gently massaged Sherlock's broad shoulder that was closest to him before moving his hand to his back, soothingly caressing it. "Shhh…. Breathe, Sherlock! In through your nose slowly, out through your mouth. Can you do that for me?"

The detective nodded, desperate to be able to breathe again. He inhaled slowly through his nose and exhaled again through his mouth. He did this four times before he found that oxygen was beginning to come back to him more easily.

John smiled now, relaxing. "Good… that's it. See? You're able to breathe again. You just needed to relax. You're okay, and I'm not going anywhere. You make me so… furious sometimes but I'm not leaving you, Sherlock. I already promised you I wasn't going to, and I wasn't lying."

Sherlock nodded feebly in understanding as he continued to do the breathing exercise, still feeling lightheaded but relieved once the room stopped spinning. "I'm sorry…John…"

The doctor gave him a small smile and then leaned in, kissing his temple softly and lingering there. "Don't worry about it. I know you're beyond frustrated but we're going to do the testing tomorrow and we'll know if the antidepressants are the cause. I have a feeling they are but at least the tests can confirm it for us. Then we'll talk about other options if you want. It's going to be all right. Yes, I get frustrated sometimes with your depression, but… not with you."

Sherlock nodded again but didn't feeling entirely convinced. To avoid further arguments in his physical and mentally exhausted state, however, he decided to give John the benefit of the doubt this time. The two men stayed there until the younger man was able to walk into the bedroom.

"I don't think I'll be able to sleep. I haven't gotten much sleep. I never sleep," Sherlock corrected his statements with each pause, whispering to John in the dark.

John gently caressed Sherlock's sweat-matted curls. "I know. I know you don't. We'll fix that tomorrow as well. Just close your eyes and try to relax. We'll figure everything out tomorrow."

The promise in John's voice gave Sherlock hope, and hope was what he needed more than anything. He needed to believe that things could get better. He needed to believe the memory lapsing was only temporary.

He needed to believe he could have control of his depression, even if he didn't have control over anything else.