Author's Note: Monday morning, just before I have to dash out the door to the office after an early morning of home work assignments already...and I find time to post an update. Don't you guys just love me? ;) Seriously though, you really have to let me know what you think of this one. It's one of the most...controversial passages of the story, when I've let friends read it. (There's another controversial part, but it hasn't happened yet so I won't spoil it for you) And I think it might be one of my favorite parts of the story, as well. At any rate, it's one of the ones I can see the most, in my head. With the actors, and their voices and mannerisms, and the soft theme music in the background, and the style of the cinematography...anyway. I'm curious to hear what ya'll think, good or bad. I'm open! Don't be afraid to say you didn't like something. And most of all, enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own nothin'. So there.

Sherlock climbed out of the back of the police car in front of Old Bailey, taking a moment to straighten his tie. Despite the stripes, he found he actually liked it. At least, as John pointed out, it wasn't polka-dotted. He would probably never wear one again, just as a matter of principal, but now he knew how to do several different types of knots, (there was Windsor, Half-Windsor, Pratt Knot, and Four-In-Hand) and a memory filed away to replace one of the ones he'd lost.

The ones he'd lost. He'd have to do something about that. But not now; he and John practically had to fight their way through the reporters to get to the door of the building. The trial was not scheduled to start yet, and the courtroom doors were closed however, and so they were forced to wait in the airy atrium outside while the reporters swarmed around them, shouting over each other.

"Mr. Holmes, could you tell us the circumstances leading up to the kidnapping?"

"What are your hopes concerning the outcome of the trial?"

"No comment," Sherlock said, but the next reporter was already talking.

"Do you harbor resentment towards the accused for the alleged kidnapping?"

"Dr. Watson, is it true you were instrumental in the recovery of Mr. Holmes?"

"I really don't have any comment on that," John replied.

"Did you really travel to Honduras? What was the reason for that trip?"

John caught Sherlock's eye and shook his head with an exasperated half-grin. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Mr. Holmes, can you confirm the report that you were tortured during your captivity?"

John could feel Sherlock stiffen next to him.

"Are you still suffering any mental disturbances as an effect of Manson's experiments?"

"How do you think this will affect your career as a private detective?"

Bad.

"No comment at this time," John said, his voice loud and firm, in an attempt to stop the questions. They were obviously bothering Sherlock. The reporters weren't daunted. John wasn't the interesting one at the moment anyway.

"Mr. Holmes, are you apprehensive that your apparent inability to avoid instances like this, taken with the after affects of your alleged ordeal, might prove to the public that you're not as safe to be trusted with their problems as they thought?"

John glanced at Sherlock, who looked stunned.

"I…" was all he managed to say. The constant flashes of the cameras blinded him, the yelling hurt his head. You're not safe to be trusted. No, maybe he really wasn't. He couldn't even trust his own mind; the thing he'd had complete control over, the thing that gave him such power, had betrayed him. He'd lost some of the memories he'd been the most determined to hold on to. He'd acted like an idiot, too, he was sure. John hadn't said it, but he could guess well enough what he must have been like.

The reporters had fallen silent, now that they'd managed to shake him from behind his impenetrable front. Eagerly they stared at him, waiting. The click of the cameras still went on for a long moment as Sherlock looked around in bewilderment.

John's jaw tensed. He reached for a microphone, taking it out of the hand of an eager TV reporter.

"Shut up, all of you. We said. No. Comment. Any more questions will be counted as harassment and will be reported to the police as such." He was surprised by how calm his voice was, taking into account the trembling rage he felt inside. He handed back the mike and took Sherlock's elbow, guiding him away from the crowd. They noticeably didn't follow.

"…Are you okay?"

John's voice was apprehensive. Sherlock glanced up and saw the worry in his face. He looked away again. He was leaning against the wall in the stairwell, staring out the narrow bullet-proof window onto the back parking-lot.

John tried again.

"It was stupid of them; but you know they just like to get a rise out of people."

"…"

John sighed. He didn't know what to say now. So he just stood by his friend, waiting.

"How did they know?" Sherlock finally said.

"What?"

"Who talked to them about me?"

"Nurses, probably. From hospital. Mycroft wouldn't have, and I sure didn't."

Sherlock snorted, but didn't say anything.

"Listen, are you really okay? You've not been quite normal since-"

"Why? Because I might not be safe to be trusted anymore? Is that what you're worried about?" Sherlock's back was to John, but he could still read the anger in his voice.

"What? No! No, of course not!"

"Because that's what I'm worried about," Sherlock said, so quietly John could hardly hear him. He turned around to look John in the face for the first time since the confrontation with the reporters.

"I can't remember things. Important things. Things I should remember. Everything's wrong up there."

"Sherlock, it's just-"

But Sherlock charged ahead, not waiting for an answer.

"There's something to do with handcuffs…or something…and I know I should know what it means. But I don't. I sent stupid messages on CSI Baker Street, the texts I sent you were spelled atrociously, and I apparently ranted like a madman at the nurses, who in turn blabbed to everyone else in the world who wants something to gossip about. I can remember some of what I said. Why can I remember that and not what I need to remember?"

Sherlock paused. John wanted to interject something comforting, but he sensed Sherlock still had things to say. So he waited.

"I can't be trusted anymore. I can't trust myself, my own mind. My whole life, my mind was my greatest weapon, the only thing I could trust. And now it's gone. It's like that night on Dart-moor. But instead of just doubting my own eyes…I can't count on anything."

Sherlock turned away again and sat down heavily on the top step, his back to John. John watched Sherlock struggle a moment. He could imagine what Sherlock was feeling right now. And he wasn't sure exactly what to say. Sherlock hardly ever opened up like this; what was John supposed to do?

Sherlock looked up, startled, when John sat down next to him. He'd expected him to leave; to go find their seats in the courtroom and wait for Sherlock to compose himself and rejoin him. But there he was, sitting down beside Sherlock.

"You're still there, you know. You're not gone, Sherlock. And it might take awhile to get yourself sorted out; heaven knows you've been put through enough to give anyone trouble. But it will go away in time. All the doctors said there'd be no lasting damage. Psychological effects, maybe, for a bit…"

Sherlock was listening, but he didn't say anything.

"And listen," John went on, "You don't have to only rely on yourself. There are people who care about you, Sherlock; Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, and Molly, and even your brother, though you don't like to admit it. And me. We all trust you. This whole thing didn't change that at all. But you got to realize that you can trust us, too. You don't have to always go it alone."

Sherlock stared at him a long moment. This conversation was incredibly hard for him to have. But it sort of felt good, even through the awkwardness and confusion and pain. He took a deep breath.

"When I was trying to keep Manson out, I saw almost at once I couldn't do it by myself. My will wasn't enough. So I tried using facts and files of old cases I had up there against him. Those didn't do it, either. The only thing that kept me from going mad was the memories of the people. Those were the ones that counted."

"And those were the ones you lost?" John's voice was understanding.

Sherlock bit his lip and nodded, turning his face away a minute.

"What did it feel like, John," Sherlock said, after a pause, "when the war still bothered you?"

"It felt like this," John said, "But I survived. A friend helped me pull through it. And I'm gonna do the same for that friend when he needs me." He held his hand out. Sherlock gave a little hoarse half-laugh and shook it.

"Frederick Manson trial, commencing in five minutes. Participants and spectators to courtroom six." The intercom crackled the announcement throughout the building, alerting any stragglers.

Sherlock stood up, clearing his throat. He tugged crisply on his jacket to snap any imaginary wrinkles out.

"Right then, now that we've got all that taken care of; let's go see what will befall our friend Dr. Manson."

"I wish we had something to make us less noticeable. The vultures will be keeping their eyes sharp," John said, regretfully. Sherlock grinned.

"You do realize you can't report the sourcing of reporters as harassment, don't you?"

John shook his head, but he couldn't help grinning, too.

"Yeah. But apparently they didn't know that. I'm sure they've been on the phone with their lawyers or checked a website and found out it's a lie by now, though."

"We could change the knots in our ties," Sherlock suggested. John tittered his high-pitched giggly laugh, and Sherlock's smooth baritone joined in.

Author's Note: Yeah, so Sherlock might be a little uncharacteristically vulnerable in this scene. I just wanted to toy with the idea of a "Baskerville moment", except with something bigger and more important to him. In Baskerville it was only his eyes. Now it's his mind. I just wanted to see how he'd react to that. So just exploring here! Feel free to comment or suggest. I love hearing from you guys. 3