Bullet Shattered Memories
A/N: The scenario is based on a compilation of real clinical case notes.
Prompt is "Amnesia"
Warnings: Angst, Medical Terminology
He's not himself," Mycroft warned. "He's changed since you've been gone."
"Nonsense," Sherlock scoffed. "He couldn't forget me completely."
"You don't understand these things," Molly empathically declared when Sherlock persisted. "It's a neurological disease. A disconnect between the temporal lobe of his brain that deals with facial recognition and his amygdala that processes emotions. He can't reconcile the disconnect. His brain will deny your existence."
"Rubbish, I've made more of a lasting impression than that," Sherlock was far too narcissistic for Molly's taste. She shook her head sadly.
"Be nice. Just because he doesn't recognize you, he may still come to like you," Mrs Hudson cajoled.
"He'll recognize me," Sherlock strode into the flat.
"Who are you?" The fair-haired ex-army man in the chair lounging by the fire reading the paper asked with a curious stare. His ocean blue eyes examined the tall dark-haired man before him with clinical precision.
"Umm…Sherlock Holmes, of course," the detective tried unsuccessfully to disguise his momentary confusion. What was John saying? He was expecting an indignant outburst or a punch in the nose, but this? This was unimaginable.
"Look, John, I realize I've been away for 3 years and this must come as a bit of shock to you." His eyes suddenly looked down and studied the pattern on the rug intently, avoiding his former flat mate's troubled face. "I suppose leaving you like that, assuming me dead and all, might not have been ideal…" His voice trailed off. He looked back up as the man strode over to him for a better look.
"Please, let me explain," his initial confidence evaporated as he noted the other man's blank expression.
"You are not Sherlock Holmes," he slowly enunciated. "Sherlock Holmes was my best friend. He died. My best friend is dead." The blond man rolled his broad shoulders back and his voice took on a more confident ring. He looked steadily at the detective standing before him. He stared into the others steely gray eyes. For several moments the two remained, impassive, silent, locked in eyeful soul-searching.
Finally, John turned away. "No, you can't be him. You look like Sherlock. You speak like Sherlock. You wear his clothes even, though I can't imagine how. But you are an impostor."
"It's not true! No one can imitate me this well." Sherlock insisted. He grabbed John by the shoulders. "Look again."
John stared impassively at the man before him. He shook his head. "No, you look like him but you're not him."
Over and over, Sherlock tried to convince John. He showed him every scar. He told him every secret. Undisclosed facts he'd never even admitted to himself. John remained unconvinced.
"How can I persuade him it's really me?" Sherlock went to John's psychiatrist one day.
"It's not possible, Sherlock. He suffers from what's termed a delusion misidentification syndrome caused by an organic brain lesion. There's nothing anyone can do or say that will convince him otherwise. His brain simply cannot reconcile the fact that your familiar face is not associated with any emotional input from his severed amygdala and infero-temporal cortex."
But Sherlock couldn't rest. He was obsessed with forcing John to remember him. One day he gave John a gun.
"Why are you giving me this?" John asked with a quizzical face.
"John, somewhere, deep in your brain, I think you know that I'm not an impostor. I am the real Sherlock Holmes. The man you wept over at the cemetery and said was the bravest and wisest man. Somewhere, I believe, even though you might not be conscious of it, I think your brain knows that I'm alive and I'm back. I promise, John, I'll never do such a thing to you again. I'll never leave you. Believe me. Just this once, I beg." His eyes bore into John's troubled gaze.
John took the gun without comment.
"John," the detective continued, "I've given you this loaded firearm because I believe that deep in your heart you can remember me and you won't shoot. But, if you truly cannot remember me – you examine each fibre in your psyche and cannot ever imagine that I am really Sherlock Holmes, your friend, then you can pull the trigger. I don't believe you will but if you do, perhaps it's better that way."
"But, Mr Holmes," John stammered uncertainly. "What have you done to merit such a death? I don't execute innocent people. Only the guilty." No glimmer of recognition shone from his clear blue eyes as he spoke from true loyal soldier's integrity.
"If you truly cannot remember me. If I am just an impostor to you…" Sherlock's voice broke and tears threatened to spill. He bit his lower lip till it bled. "Then I am a murderer; for, I've killed my best friend."
Mrs Hudson heard the shot from downstairs.