Work Text:
Forget. The small patch on my arm tells me only one thing: I wanted to forget something. A small part of me didn't want to question it, to just accept that I had decided to forget. I wouldn't have used a feeling patch if there wasn't a good reason; I had never liked the things. Something seemed wrong about sticking a patch on your arm and then feeling completely different.
The forget patch is smart. It doesn't take away everything. It knows that you don't always want to forget everything. I still remember who I am, but something is missing, I can feel it and the evidence is on my arm. Something happened to me, something horrible, and I want to know what.
......
I found myself in my apartment. A fire added warmth and light to the dark of the room. I was alone. I couldn't remember how I'd gotten there or why I was alone. I remember having a housemate, a friend who lived with me, but he was nowhere to be found. Perhaps once he got back, somethings would be explained. He could tell me why I'd used the patch and what was going on. I struggled to remember his name, surely I couldn't have forgotten that. He was my best friend, I knew that. Sebastian, Stephen, no, Sherlock! That was it. We'd been living together for awhile so he would be able to help. I decided it'd be best if I didn't explore, so I stayed where I was sitting and waiting for his return.
I decided it probably wouldn't be the best approach to harass him with questions as soon as he got in, I don't recall him being too fond of people asking questions about anything really. So when he walked in, I waited for him to take off that ridiculously long coat and untie his blue scarf that went so perfectly well with his perfectly unruly black hair. Sherlock sauntered over to the chair across mine and jumped up, perching up on the chair like a bird. He studied me intently for a second then looked down at my arm. I started picking at the patch and Sherlock pursed his lips then drew a huge breath to begin the conversation.
"I suppose you're wondering about the forget patch?" He almost mumbles, looking down at my arm.
"Er, yeah, I am. Do you know why I did it?" I asked hesitantly. I continued to pick at the small patch on my arm that provokes so many questions. I wondered if anyone else who'd used the forget patch questioned it as much as I was.
"I'm not so sure you really want to know, John," Sherlock said, his mysterious attitude only increasing my curiosity.
"No, I want to know, I need to know. Did something happen to me? Was it something I did? You have to tell me, Sherlock," I pleaded with him, trying to elicit any information I could from him.
"If you insist," Sherlock said, giving in easily to my pleas. "Shall I make us a cup of tea?" He asked, obviously wanting to assuage the conversation we were about to have.
I nodded and he stood up to walk towards the kitchen. The brief hiatus in our conversation made my tensions spike. I ran my fingers through my cropped blonde hair as he walked back in the room with two mugs of tea.
"Thanks," I murmured into my cup.
"It's fine. I suppose I should start from the beginning. You'll want to know the whole story," he said, taking a deep breath. I nodded slightly, anxious for him to start.
"It all started about a two months ago. We had been dealing with a case, working with the police on a break in. This man had broken into many prestigious places and they wanted our help figuring out how they did it. We'd dealt with this man before, known how dangerous he was," he began his story and I recalled what he was talking about. I remember how much fun we'd have working on cases together with the police. I remembered the man, his crimes were well known, and so was the fact that Sherlock was working against him.
"The trial for his crimes happened, everyone assumed he'd be guilty, but the jury found him innocent. He walked free. He and I spoke, many times, he was so interested in us, particularly me. He began to look into my past, he wanted to know how I solved crimes so quickly. He dug too deep," Sherlock recalled softly, as if it pained him to remember.
"He spread a story, that I had faked all those crimes, invented them just so I could solve them to impress people, but you wouldn't hear a word of it. Everyone started to believe it, I was crushed," he said sadly. I remembered the papers and denying them all. As he spoke, I began to remember more, his words opening my mind, taking away the effects of the patch.
"One day, during the hight of the scandal, you and I were at the hospital and we got a call. Our landlady had been shot. You raced over to the flat to see her, but I remained at the hospital. You arrived at the flat to find her in perfect health. You came back to the hospital and I was on the roof," he said. The memories of that day came rushing back. I remembered the horror I'd felt when I heard that Mrs. Hudson had been shot and the relief when I found her okay. I remembered the confusion I felt when I saw him on the roof.
"I called you. I told you to stay where you were, where I could see you. I told you how all the stories were true, all they said about me being a fake. Even as I was telling you they were true, you still didn't believe them. I told you that the phone call was my note, my last words to the world; My last words to you," he said, looking down at the ground, almost ashamed. I remembered the call, but I still couldn't grasp what had happened. What did he mean by his note and what did he mean by his last words?
"'Goodbye John,' those were my last words. I hung up the phone, threw it to the ground, than jumped," Sherlock said, looking me straight in the eyes. The memories came flooding back all at once, the lurid sight of him on the ground. I remembered being angry at him for jumping, upset with myself for not stopping it, and horribly depressed at the fact that he was gone. My best friend, gone forever. I remembered the funeral, how I couldn't even choke out a goodbye until I was alone at his grave, how I'd begged him not to be dead, but how no pleading could change that fact that he was gone.
And then I realized the problem. He was gone, but if he was gone, than how did he just tell me that story.
"How are you here than?" I said quietly, scared for the reply. "Are you just in my head? Was any of it real?"
"Of course it's all in your head, because I'm still real in there," he replied sincerely.
"I want it to go away, I don't want to remember anymore," I said like a scared child because that was how I felt. I understood why I'd used the patch. These feelings covered you like a blanket, made you feel like you were drowning in them, the patch was an easy solution. I needed relief, an escape from the harsh reality of what had happened so I stood up and headed for the door.
"John, you don't need to do it again, you're strong, you can handle this. The patch is a crutch, but you don't need it to run," he sighed, weakly trying to convince me not to go.
I ignored him and made my way out the door. I hailed a cab on the street and told them to take me to the nearest place that sold the forget patch. The whole ride there I was holding it together, simulating serenity when on the inside I was crumbling down, but when I went up to pay the cashier, my voice broke when I told her to have a nice day. I decided it was best to use the patch back at the flat so I hailed another cab. Sherlock was not there when I got back. I sat down on my armchair, pulling off the old patch to make room for the new one.
I looked down at my bare arm, wondering if this was the right decision, than I remembered Sherlock's last phone call and the funeral and the sadness swept over me and I made my choice. I opened the package. And slapped it on my arm.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock." I said before I forgot.