Chapter Six

After Sherlock's breakthrough, they noticed an ease settle into him. He was much more comfortable now that he had resolved that internal conflict of whether or not he could really trust them. He was also starting to talk more and show interest in mystery novels and movies, trying to solve them before the end (and most of the time, he did).

It was only two days later that they saw a break in Sherlock's improved mood.

John walked in the front door and made his way to the kitchen, depositing the shopping on the island. He had hardly put away the things in the first bag when Greg came in.

"John," he said as he grabbed some items to help, "I think you need to talk to him. I've tried, but he won't talk to me."

John frowned as he grew concerned. "What happened?"

"I don't know," said Greg. "He went up to his room to read or something; he was perfectly fine all morning. I called up to him to tell him lunch was ready, and he never came down. I went up to check on him, and he was lying in bed. He wouldn't talk to me."

"All right, I'll try," said John, abandoning Greg to the shopping and heading for the stairs.

When he opened the door to Sherlock's room, he saw Sherlock lying on top of the covers, turned away from the door. John walked over and sat on the edge of the bed.

"Greg tells me you skipped lunch," John began. "You wanna tell me what happened?"

Sherlock didn't respond or move.

"You know, if you share what's bothering you, I can probably help," John told him. "That's what friends do."

Sherlock eventually rolled over slightly so he could see John. The look in Sherlock's eyes was so miserable that John had to wonder if he was finally deciding to really face what had happened to him.

"I may not be the best at advice, but I can help you carry the pain," John told him.

Sherlock stared at him for a while before he put his hand under the pillow and pulled a computer tablet out. He powered it up and typed something on it before turning to face John and holding it out. John frowned as he took hold of the tablet; it was showing the webpage for his blog.

"Is all that true?" Sherlock asked.

John looked up at him, not quite sure yet why this had upset him. "Yes."

Sherlock's head dropped, and John glanced down at the tablet. Why had this gotten to him like this? While it was true that they hadn't told Sherlock too much about his detective work yet in an effort not to throw everything on him at once, suddenly stumbling onto John's blog should not have caused depression like this. John outlined Sherlock's deductive abilities in his blog—he praised them! Why wouldn't Sherlock want to know how amazing he had been?

"Then why can't I remember?" asked Sherlock.

John looked up at him.

Sherlock raised his head, his eyes red. "If I was this great of a detective, why can't I get my memories back?"

John's jaw dropped slightly in understanding, and he put the tablet aside on the bed.

"If I could take one look at a crime scene and deduce who the killer was, why am I still like this?" Sherlock asked as his eyes filled with tears.

John reached forward and pulled Sherlock into a hug. Sherlock sniffled in his ear a bit as John held him.

"You are not weak, Sherlock," John told him after a moment.

Sherlock began shaking his head over John's shoulder.

"You aren't," John insisted. He paused for a moment, summoning up his courage. "There's something I never told you about, even before you went away."

Sherlock sniffled a little before pulling back to look at him.

"When I was in Afghanistan, I was captured by insurgents," John told him.

Sherlock paused, surprise warring with confusion in his frown.

"The rest of my team had been killed by an attack on our convoy," John began, trying to push down his discomfort at the memories this was about to dredge up. "I thought I was going to be next, but when I woke up, I was in a cell inside a cave. They, um…" he took a deep breath that rattled in his throat, "they beat me…burned me…tortured me any way they could think of." He stopped as tears filled his eyes. "I was there for three months…and they didn't stop once."

Sherlock stared at him in shock as John wiped a few tears away.

"That's actually how I got back to London," said John. "They shot me in the shoulder, and because I didn't have proper medical attention, it ruined my nerves. My career in the army was over after I was rescued." He wiped away another tear as he took a calming breath. "I never told anyone that before because I was ashamed of the fact that I disconnected myself from everything. Not knowing if I would ever get out, I chose to forget."

Sherlock's jaw dropped slightly.

"I was held captive for three months and was about to lose my mind," said John. "But you were held captive for a year. In order to help you deal with the daily physical pain, you shut your memories up to avoid the emotional pain, just as I did. The difference is, I was a wreck after I was rescued. I was traumatized for weeks; I wouldn't let anyone near me, I wouldn't eat, I wouldn't talk. I even came back to London with a psychosomatic limp. But you…"

Tears started to fill Sherlock's eyes.

"Do you have any idea how strong you are, Sherlock?" said John, leaning forward and placing his hands on his friend's shoulders. "You have decided to trust us time and time again, starting with letting me look at your broken arm that night. You are becoming more and more yourself while I was still fighting off every doctor they sent my way."

Sherlock blinked a few times as the tears threatened to fall.

"You have been through something most people can only imagine," John told him. "It's okay to let your mind do whatever it needs to, to deal with it."

Sherlock nodded slightly, his throat working as a single tear fell.

"It's okay to think it's not fair," said John. "It's okay to hate them. It's okay to shut it all out until you've dealt with it." He lowered his head a little, making sure he had Sherlock's attention. "It's okay to cry like you're never going to stop."

And at long last, that impenetrable wall collapsed, and Sherlock began crying in earnest. John pulled him into his arms, and Sherlock's body shook as he let it all out. John held him tight, whispering soothing words as his own memories overwhelmed him. He had never had a friend to help him back to sanity; he'd had to do it all by himself. But Sherlock didn't have to go through this alone. John would be here as long as it took.

John looked up at Sherlock in surprise. "You've solved it? We've barely started the game."

"Well, I've solved it," said Sherlock. "At least, I think I have."

John sighed, wanting the game to last longer but also wanting to encourage Sherlock's interest in solving mysteries. "All right." He snatched up the small envelope from the Cluedo board and pulled the cards out: Mrs. White, Conservatory, Revolver. "What's the answer?"

"Dr. Black committed suicide in the Conservatory with a revolver," said Sherlock.

John closed his eyes. Oh, not again. "Sorry, mate." He opened his eyes and turned the suspect card around to show him.

Sherlock frowned. "But it wasn't her."

John sighed, tossing the cards to the tabletop. "Why not?"

"Mrs. White is the maid," Sherlock explained. "Dr. Black died shortly after dinner, which means Mrs. White was in the kitchen with the cook, cleaning up. She couldn't have done it."

Greg laughed. "You're thinking this through much too hard."

"Isn't that the point?" argued Sherlock. "It's a murder mystery."

"No, it's a game," said John. "It has set instructions for how to play it, and that's not it. You're supposed to rule things out as you go to see which cards are missing. You don't solve the actual murder."

"Well, that's just process of elimination," complained Sherlock. "That's no fun. Why can't we do it this way?"

"Because it's not possible for the victim to have done it," John argued.

"It's the only possible solution," Sherlock argued back.

"It's not in the rules," said John.

"Then the rules are wrong," said Sherlock with a shrug.

The familiarity of their words washed over him, and John found himself suddenly laughing.

Sherlock frowned, not seeing the humor in it. "What?"

John glanced at Greg and then back at Sherlock. "We've actually already had this argument before."

"Did I win?" Sherlock asked eagerly.

"I believe it was a draw."

"Then why did you suggest this game if you knew I would react like this?"

"I don't know. Nostalgia, I guess."

Sherlock stared at him for a moment. "You weren't testing me, were you?"

"No," John answered. "Just trying to have some fun."

Sherlock nodded and looked back at the board. "Fine, let's start again. I'll keep to the rules."

John stepped out of the house towards the car in the drive. "Molly, hey! What are you doing here this early?"

"Well, I called Greg last night, and he mentioned he was staying the night in London to catch up on his case load, and I asked if he would take me back with him in the morning," Molly explained. "You think Sherlock would mind if I stayed for a few days?"

"Actually, I think he might like that," John told her as Greg stepped up to them with Molly's bag and a small tote. "He's really warmed up to you." He took Molly's bag from Greg, nodding at the tote. "Big case load?"

"Actually, these are for Sherlock," Greg replied. "Some old cases that are already solved so we can tell if he's right or not."

"Oh, brilliant," John told him. "He'll love that." He started toward the front door. "Come on in. I was just about to make breakfast."

"Oh, good, I'm starving!" said Molly.

John stepped through the door, heading for the stairs. "Come on. Pick any room you want."

After John had settled Molly into a room, he stopped by Sherlock's room, knocking on the door. "Sherlock?"

When no answer came, John eased the door open and heard running water coming through the open bathroom door. As he entered, the water shut off. John rounded the bed and found Sherlock at the bathroom sink, dressed in one of his suits. John froze in his steps, stunned. Sherlock looked almost normal—apart from the fact that he was awkwardly brushing his teeth with his non-dominant left hand as the casted right arm rested on the counter, the sleeve of his navy dress shirt rolled up to the top of it.

Sherlock spotted John in the mirror, and he frowned at the look on his face. He quickly finished and cleaned his mouth out before turning towards him. "What is it?"

"You're…" John began, unable to shake the eerie feeling that had gripped him. He glanced down at Sherlock's clothes.

Sherlock followed his gaze, placing his hand on the shirt as he looked back at John. "Oh, sorry, was this your suit?"

And just like that, the spell was broken. John smiled and shook his head. "No, that is most definitely yours. It's just… For a moment there, you seemed so much like your old self."

"Oh," said Sherlock. "I wore suits a lot?"

"Only whenever you left the flat," John told him. He then cocked his head a little to the side. "Except for once."

"Once?" asked Sherlock, emerging from the bathroom. "What did I wear instead?"

"A sheet," John replied with a smile. He then laughed at Sherlock's confused frown. "Long story."

"Did I not own other clothes?" Sherlock asked as they headed for the hall.

"You just preferred your designer suits," said John.

"And let's not forget your Belstaff," Molly chimed in as she joined them in the hall.

Sherlock frowned at her as she stepped up next to him. "Belstaff? Aren't those expensive?"

John looked over at him. "Your brother set us up in a miniature mansion as a safehouse, and you want to know how you afforded a Belstaff coat?"

Sherlock gave a grimace as he looked at their luxurious surroundings. "You're right. That was a stupid question."

Molly and John both laughed as they started descending the stairs.

"Don't get me wrong," John went on. "It's not like you're filthy rich. Just wealthy enough that I wondered many times why you needed a flatmate."

"Well, I did apparently refuse money for cases many times, so that might explain a lot," muttered Sherlock.

John halted on the stairs as the other two continued another step or two before turning back to him.

"What?" asked Sherlock.

"How did you know about that?" asked John.

"Well, I read all your blog entries the other day," Sherlock explained. "What did you call it? 'The Blind Banker'? You had to take the check from the bank because I wouldn't."

John was now staring at Sherlock with wide eyes.

"John, what is it?" asked Molly.

"That wasn't in the blog," John told them.

Sherlock frowned. "What do you mean?"

"The fact that you were too stubborn to accept money from Sebastian? I never put that in the blog."

Sherlock's eyes now widened as well.

Molly looked up at him. "How did you know?"

"I don't know," said Sherlock, stunned. "It was just there."

"Have you remembered anything else?" asked John.

"How should I know?" countered Sherlock.

"I suggest we sit down after breakfast and go back through John's blog," said Molly. "We'll see if you remember anything extra that isn't in it."

John nodded. "That sounds like a good idea."