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The room is full of things.
Once John Watson's room had nothing in it. A bed, a sink, a toilet; a light, not his to control; nothing more. This room has things, so many things – comfortable chairs, two of them. A table, with other chairs at it. A television. Books on the table. Shelves with more books. A wardrobe, filled with clothes – no boiler suits, but jeans and shirts and soft woolen jumpers. The bed is wide and soft, piled with blankets. He's never cold. There are lights, that he can turn on and off when he likes, and a small light that means the room is never plunged into blackness. The bathroom is separate, with a shower and warm water he can control. The taps work, always.
One of the chairs has a cushion, with a pattern in blue and red. Stripes and triangles. He can't remember why that's important, or why that cushion makes it his chair.
Windows. One door is in the wall with the windows. It leads out into a garden, filled with trees and living plants and sometimes birds. He doesn't go through that door, but sometimes he stands or sits in it and looks out.
There's another door, and a tall man with curly black hair comes through it. He brings food, or books, or just comes and sits in one of the chairs, never too close. He talks to John Watson in a soft voice. Even when he holds John, stopping him from doing something, he never shouts or strikes him. Only embraces him from behind, pinning his arms to his sides (John was strong, once), and murmurs, “It's all right, John. You don't have to do that. No one's going to hurt you, I promise. Not even you.”
There's another man with him today. Someone John Watson doesn't know, and he draws back in alarm. His fists clench, and he turns away, hunching his shoulders, watching them from the corner of his eye. But, “It's all right, John,” the black-haired man, Sherlock, tells him softly. “It's Lestrade, he's come to see us. Do you remember Greg Lestrade?”
He shakes his head, keeping his face averted. He doesn't know who this is. A strong man with gray hair. He wishes this man wasn't here. He wishes there wouldn't be other people.
He thinks that once there were people he could trust. People who laughed. People who didn't shout or cudgel or kick or electrocute. Now, “John,” the black-haired man says. “Lestrade won't hurt you. He's only come to visit. Do you remember what I've told you?”
Once there were words, enough words to fill a world fell out through his lips every day. Now there are only two sentences, and anything else has to force its way out, but he tries, he tries hard: “Nnnnn. N-noo,” he manages, struggling, and then, “Nno one. Nevv.”
“That's right,” Sherlock assures him. “No one will ever hurt you again. Never. I won't let them.” He lays something on the table. “I've brought you some magazines. Lestrade and I are going to talk, in the other room – is that all right? I'll leave the door open.”
John nods fractionally. He doesn't reach for the magazines, not while there's this stranger, this Lestrade. He waits, and after a moment Sherlock and the other leave.
Only then does he reach out and flip a magazine open, examining the bright pages. One of his eyes doesn't focus properly, but he squints until he can make out the photographs. There are printed words, too, but these are nothing, only marks on white. But the photographs – people, who can't hurt him. And places. There are places. Places that aren't here. Places that aren't this room.
Go to them?
His mind recoils at the thought. This is the only place he knows. Trying to remember anything else, trying to imagine any place that's not here, brings up only a barbed tangle of pain and blackness, beatings and thirst and electrical shocks and – no, no. He gropes blindly, clutching an edge of the blue-and-red cushion. He's here, and this is the only place there has to be.
He's safe here.
* * * * *
“He's improving, a little,” Sherlock said. “At least I tell myself so. The retrograde amnesia is intractable, I've accepted that. He'll never get his past back. But when he was – brought out, he seemed to have anterograde amnesia as well – ”
“Anterograde, that's where your brain can't lay down new memory tracks?” Lestrade said. “Long-term memory, I mean. There's something like two minutes or five minutes, and then it's gone? Saw a documentary once – guy'd been given a diary to keep, he'd write 'Now I'm really awake', and then a minute later scratch that out and write 'Now I'm actually awake', and then a minute after that scratch it out again and write 'This time I really am awake'. He recognized his own writing, but figured he must have written it in his sleep or something because he didn't remember writing it five minutes earlier.”
“I'm familiar with the case, yes – John seemed to be in a similar state. Every time I came into the room, it was as if he'd never seen me before. Now he remembers me from day to day, and I think he's even pleased to see me, a little at least. I've told him my name is Sherlock. I don't think he associates it with the Sherlock Holmes he knew … before, though, or with that sentence he says.
“For a time it was … as if every emotion except fear had been burnt out of him. I still don't dare touch him suddenly, or raise my voice, or approach him with something in my hand. When he first came here to the cottage, he spent nearly a week huddled in a corner of the ensuite before I could persuade him to come out here, to sleep in the bed. But gradually he's come to realise that the entire room is his, everything in it is his.”
“He doesn't come into the rest of the house?”
“I'm not certain that for him there is a 'rest of the house'. One room is all his mind has space for now.” He looked through the door. John was turning the pages of a magazine, looking almost like a healthy man. “But I think he's beginning to realise that he's in a safe place. Small things – He can eat what he likes, now, and leave what he doesn't want, or if he's not hungry he'll eat a few bites and turn away. For a time he seemed terrified of what might happen if he rejected food. Once I brought him two meals, to see which he preferred. He didn't seem to see any difference between them, he tried to force them both down. Ate until he was sick onto his plate, and then I had to hold him, restrain him from trying to – ”
There was a silence. “He likes the garden,” Sherlock offered. “He hasn't been out into it, not yet. The one time I led him out there, he was … almost catatonic with fear. Another thing I can never be forgiven – well, add it to the list. He crouched on the walkway, with his arms wrapped around his head, and when I said 'John, let's go inside', he was shaking too hard to stand. I tried to help him to his feet, but he – flinched from my touch. Cringed away from me, as if he were afraid I would –”
Sherlock stared down at his clenched hands. “I opened the door, left it standing open, and only whispered to him, 'Let's go inside, John. The door's open. We can go inside.' Eventually he … c-crept in, on hands and knees. Scrambled through the door, to get to the far side of the bed, and huddled there curled into the fetal position. It was an hour before he was able to move from there.
“And then … my God, the courage in him, as broken as he is. Only the next day, he was able to open the door himself. No more than a hand's breadth, and he drew back at once, but he left it open and was able to look out. And now he opens it every day, far enough that he could walk through it. He hasn't yet, but I hope in time he might learn that the garden is as much his as that room is.
“He likes books, too. The text is meaningless to him now, of course, but he likes to look at the photographs. There's an idea: the chrysanthemums will come into bloom soon. I can leave a book open to a picture of them.”
“He doesn't read?” Lestrade said
“Doesn't read, doesn't speak much beyond those two sentences – well, you heard. He's learning single words. He understands some of what I say to him.”
“What happened to his eye? I never found out.”
“The one that … sags, you mean? He was struck in the face, or perhaps kicked, hard enough to fracture his cheekbone. I don't know that his eyes focus well together, but he can see well enough to recognise me and to make out some pictures at least.”
“There's a television – does he understand that?”
“Not much, and I have to be very careful. The action films he used to watch I can't allow any more – he can't follow plots or dialogue, and the violence frightens him. He likes nature documentaries, anything about animals or wild places. Travelogues. Oddly, astronomy programmes; that old American show, Cosmos, he'll watch that endlessly, although I don't think he comprehends much of it.
“I have to monitor what he watches. It was television that made me realise he – ” Sherlock swallowed. “He does remember. Remembers what he was, or at least realises there's a difference between what he was and what he is now. We were watching one of his nature shows, and it went to a segment with interviews on a science topic. Interviews with doctors, white-coated doctors in a hospital setting – ”
His mouth tightened. “I would have turned it off at once if I'd thought about it, but I was so caught up in the programme I didn't realise. Until he shoved the table over. Screamed, threw books at the television, smashed everything he could reach. Shouted filthy words I didn't know he recalled, and then he began to – to beat his head with his fists. I had to hold him, put my arms around him, restrain him from – I really was afraid he would injure himself.
“Finally he stopped and I was able to release him. He cried for hours. I didn't know what to do. How do you comfort something like that? It was past midnight before he finally fell asleep. Two days before he got out of bed except to use the lavatory. He's never really recovered from that day. He knows, he'll never again be what he was – wait. Wait.”
Sherlock had been watching, through the half-open door. John was examining a page in his magazine, suddenly upright, alert. He glanced sidelong at the door, into the room where Sherlock and Lestrade sat, keeping his face turned away. “Chu'ock?” he said hesitantly.
Sherlock got to his feet. Slowly, like one approaching a wild bird, or some other fragile and easily frightened creature, he came towards John. “What is it, John?” he said softly. “Have you found something?”
He dropped to one knee beside John's chair, so his head was lower than John's, not looming over him. “Can you show it to me? I'd like to see it.”
John held the magazine up. The angle foreshortened the photograph, so Lestrade could barely make it out, but it looked like a panoramic shot – “L-luh,” John managed, touching it. “Lllluh? Luhn.”
“Yes! That's London,” Sherlock breathed. “You remember it. That's where we lived, you and I. Baker Street, in London.”
“Luhnn,” John agreed. His finger drew a circle on the page.
“That's the London Eye, yes. Would you like to go back to London, John?”
The reaction was immediate, and disturbing: John shrank away from him, curling up in the chair, arms wrapped around his knees. For the first time he looked at Sherlock the way he had at Lestrade – face turned away, fleeting sidelong glances as if terrified to meet his eyes. A tiny, barely audible whimper – “Nnnn” – forced its way through his teeth.
“No, you don't want to? You'd rather stay here, at the cottage?” Sherlock's voice was calm and reassuring. “We'll stay here, then, if that's what you want. Only what you want, can you remember that, John? Only ever what you want.”
His fingers barely brushed John's sleeve. “Finish your magazine. I'm going to talk with Lestrade a little longer, is that all right? I'll be right in there.”
He sighed a little as he sat down again, opposite Lestrade. “That was wrong of me to do – I know perfectly well that any suggestion of change frightens him. But I keep hoping. I wonder sometimes whether I should try and arrange a visit with Mrs Hudson, I do go and see her every week – ”
“She … doesn't travel any more, does she?” Lestrade said tentatively.
“No, so I'd have to bring John to her. I wonder whether it might be good for either or both of them – she has little more expressive language than he, since the stroke. But moving would upset him, and I doubt he remembers her. And seeing him … like this, would only distress her.”
Lestrade nodded. “Probably best to leave it alone.”
“But he does remember London. A little at least. That's a good sign, don't you think?” There was something in Sherlock's eyes, in his voice, that was almost pleading. “I didn't think he even had the word, but he does and he knows it's a place – he associated it with the photograph. Perhaps in time, in a year or more, he might be able to tell me – even if not in words – Yes, I know that's London, I know what London is and I want to go there. Do you think?”
“Who's to know?” Lestrade said diplomatically. “Maybe, in time.”
“Don't patronise me, Lestrade, you're nowhere near intelligent enough to be condescending. I'm allowed a little hope, even if it's unreasonable. It's – difficult for me to judge my own actions, my own behaviors,” he said suddenly. “Am I treating him properly? It's not always easy to remember to treat him as an adult – a man, even if one with impaired cognition – ”
Lestrade shrugged. “Far as I can tell, you're doing great. You talk in ways he can understand, you respect what he wants. You ask him things instead of telling him. Seems good to me.”
“That was one reason I wanted badly to be appointed his deputy, over his sister. He had no more memory of me than of her, but I saw them together, while he was still in hospital, and she wasn't able to treat him as an adult. She behaved as if she were dealing with a small child.” His lips twitched with disgust. “Baby talk. Pats on the head. He's forty, not four.”
“Well, yeah – but when the decision was made, the sister was alive, and she was his nearest relative. Usually the management of his affairs would automatically go to her.”
“Of course, usually. But even if I hadn't had Mycroft on my side, the judgment can't have been difficult to make. I have no compunction about capitalizing on what my brother would call 'socio-economic advantages' – ”
“That you're richer than shit and your accent's so posh it causes altitude sickness,” Lestrade translated.
“Mm, tidily put, although the accent might have worked against me. But Harriet was working full time, and would have had to arrange custodial care for him. Probably some institutional arrangement. I made clear that I could, and would, be his full-time … carer, God I hate that word. Also – ” A hint of color rose in Sherlock's face. “I've been clean for a number of years. Thanks to your testimony, the Court of Protection counted me as a recovering addict. They couldn't say the same for Harry, not after she showed up for a hearing in a perceptibly impaired state – and before you ask, no, I did not arrange it. Although I would have if necessary.”
“Best thing for him, but it can't have been easy for her. Any of it.”
Sherlock's mouth tightened. “I made her a fair offer by any standards – she could visit him during the day, any time I was here, so long as she didn't alarm him and came sober. She couldn't live up to either condition. After the third time she showed up thoroughly drunk, and seeming to think she could make him remember her if only she screamed at him loudly enough, I had to obtain an order forbidding her to come on the property.”
“Shit.”
“Perhaps I should pity her. As you say, it must have been difficult. But I had to concern myself with what was best for John.”
Lestrade sighed a little. “Well, no longer an issue. This isn't nice for a copper to say, but at least she managed not to kill anyone else, which is more than you can say for a lot of drink drivers. Sherlock, have you – ” He hesitated. “Shit, this is a hard question to ask. Have you made any – arrangements for him? If something happens to you? You wouldn't want him to be left alone, or put in some institution. You know I'll do whatever I can, but – ”
Sherlock's mouth twisted with distaste. “You know how I dislike euphemisms. Yes, I've made arrangements. The same as the arrangement if anything happens to him, so to speak.”
Lestrade frowned. “Meaning?”
Sherlock turned away, watching John through the door. “This … experience has affected his physical health quite severely,” he said after a moment. “Last winter when he had pneumonia, I wasn't certain he'd survive. Possibly the biggest health issue is the damage to his heart muscle, from repeated electrical shocks. The drugs he was given have weakened his liver and kidneys, as well.
“Twice a year I put a mild sedative into his tea, so he won't be too frightened, and have a doctor come and examine him. I know that someday I'll be told it can't be too much longer. My hope is that it will be something painless.
“So yes, I've made the arrangements. There are tablets, I've put them in a safe place and told Mycroft where they are. The moment I think he might be in any pain I'll grind them to a powder. Mix them into something with a strong flavour, a curry perhaps, or Italian, he likes those. And if someday I'm not able to come, if something's happened, Mycroft has agreed to handle it. I made him promise, if I'm not able to return, it has to be done at once. John's not to be left alone. No one will be able to explain to him why Sherlock isn't coming back, and I don't want him to be afraid.
“It won't be painful, that's the most important thing, above all else. I'll give him a light lunch, only a snack really, so he's hungry in the evening. He'll be so eager for his dinner then, he'll enjoy it, and he won't taste the dose. Then he'll go to bed, or perhaps doze off in his chair. I'll p-play for him, as he goes to sleep. And within an hour or so, he'll be dead. Then – ”
For the first time, Sherlock almost looked happy. “Then I can die too. That's the only thing I want for myself any more – I never imagined it possible to want anything as badly as I want to be dead. I never even wanted cocaine the way I want this. I would have died long since, except that I can't leave him, and as long as he's capable of anything like contentment or enjoyment or the smallest pleasure, I can't deprive him of that.
“But as soon as he's gone. What I deserve is a death as agonizing and protracted as his will be easy and painless. Vikings used to burn their warrior dead,” he mused. “Perhaps I'll set fire to this cottage, make it his funeral pyre and stay in here until my body is covered in second- and third-degree burns, until my eyes are gone and my hands gone and my face melted to a ruin, and only then make my way out – oh, don't look like that, Lestrade, it's just a thought, I'm far too much of a coward to actually do it. What I'll probably do is take the same pills I'll give to him – ”
“And what good will that do him?” Lestrade demanded, his voice rising. “What in hell is that going to accomplish? I understand you wanting to – atone for this, but for God's sake, atone for it in the world! Do what you can for him, as long as you can, but then – ”
He broke off. A small figure, fragile and too thin, was standing in the doorway. “It's all right, John,” Sherlock said reassuringly, getting to his feet.
John ignored him, trembling, fists doubled at his sides. His face was turned away, not looking directly at Lestrade's. His breathing was uneven, tiny whimpering sounds forcing their way through clenched teeth, almost sobbing with fear.
But he interposed himself between Lestrade and Sherlock.
“John,” Sherlock said again. “Everything's all right. Lestrade's not angry. No one is angry – ”
John put out a hand, reaching back, clumsily nudging Sherlock towards the door. “My God,” Lestrade breathed.
He remembered how Sherlock had knelt to keep his head lower than John's. Deliberately he bent his own head, turning away in his chair, keeping his hands relaxed on his knees, palms up. “Hello, John,” he said quietly. “It's good to see you. I'm sorry if I startled you.”
“There, you see?” Sherlock said from the other room, John's room. “It's all right, no one's upset. Won't you come and finish your magazine?”
After a long moment, John backed away from Lestrade, towards the door, finally joining Sherlock at the table. “Yes,” Sherlock told him reassuringly. “Everything's all right. I just need to talk with Lestrade for a few more minutes, then he'll be leaving.”
Sherlock's face was smooth and closed when he rejoined Lestrade. His voice was soft, uninflected, icy in its near-tonelessness. “Did I somehow fail to make it sufficiently clear that anything like a raised voice disturbs him?”
Lestrade held up a hand in protest. “No. That was my fault, and I'm sorry – but think about what I said, Sherlock. Improve the world, as best you can, don't run from it.”
“I have ceased to give a fuck about the world, or anything or anyone in it. Except him. And before you suggest it, no, I am not going to deal with his death by – what, donning a little silicone What would John want bracelet? No.”
Lestrade sighed. “Just think about it, is all I'm saying.”
He glanced through the door at John, who was pacing agitatedly around the room with his awkward leg-dragging step. “I should go. He's still upset, and my being here bothers him.”
Sherlock had followed his gaze. “His schedule's disrupted. Usually I play for him after lunch.”
Lestrade hesitated. “When he – came in here, just now. Was he as frightened as he seemed to be?”
The two men's eyes met, and Sherlock nodded. “You see what I mean, about his courage?”
“What I see is that you're never allowed to say anything again about how maybe he remembers you one day to the next, or maybe he trusts you a little bit. As terrified as he was, he was ready to take whatever he thought might be coming, for you. The man you said had had everything but fear burnt out of him, was putting himself between you and a damn near pants-pissing terror. Sherlock … ” He searched for words. “Deserve that. Be the man worthy of it.”
Sherlock's eyes drifted from his. There was a silence.
Lestrade got to his feet. “Well, I'd better be off, then. You go play for him – what do you play?”
Sherlock rose as well. “He enjoys Strauss waltzes, of all things. He likes the rhythm, and the melodies aren't too complex. Tunes from classic rock songs. Memory is an odd thing,” he said thoughtfully. “He always enjoyed Playford's tunes, from the English Dancing Master, and he remembers those. You'll – come again?” Sherlock said suddenly. “Next week, perhaps? I'd like him to learn that visitors are a good thing. Today week, about three?”
Lestrade blinked, surprised. “Sure, if you like.”
“Good. I'll start telling him in the morning, so he's prepared.”
Sherlock walked with Lestrade to the cottage door. Uncharacteristic for him: once he would have remained in his place, letting a visitor find his own way out. “Through here,” he said, pointing between the trees to the great house in the distance. “Then if you cut through the shrubbery on the south side, that's the left, you should be able to find your car without going through the house – and you'll only deal with the minimum number of servants.”
“Thank you,” Lestrade murmured dryly, meaning it.
Sherlock gazed up towards the mass of grey stone. “I had him in the house for a few days, after the hospital, but before the cottage was ready. I even thought of letting him live there, fixing up a room with an outside door – but twice the maids came into his room and disturbed him. So I brought him down here. He's comfortable here.”
“It's nice,” Lestrade agreed, looking around him. “Peaceful. – Don't be surprised if a lot of gardening catalogues start arriving in the post, addressed to him not you.”
Sherlock's lips parted. “Lestrade … you are less of an idiot than I have sometimes thought,” he breathed. “Of course! Let him choose, then encourage him to come outside and help with the planting – brilliant.”
Lestrade grinned. “See you both next week, then.”
He started to turn away, but Sherlock spoke hesitantly: “I've decided … what I'll do.”
Lestrade waited.
“I hope no such … measures, as I described, are ever necessary. God, we humans do need our circumlocutions, don't we? I hope he can die quietly, perhaps in his sleep. Never know pain. But if it's necessary, I'll give him the dosage and wait until it's … done. Then I'll text you, just the two words 'Come over'. When you get that message and nothing more, you'll know to bring your handcuffs.”
Lestrade stared at him. “Handcuffs?”
Sherlock faced the trees, his profile towards Lestrade. He swallowed. “To … arrest the m-murderer, of course. The sociopath who's just ruthlessly poisoned the helpless brain-injured man under his care.”
Lestrade kept his own voice flat. “And who's that, then? Can't be anybody around here, because I've just spent half the afternoon talking with a man who can't speak or think about anything other than what's best for John, what makes John happy, ways to make things good for John – Jesus, Sherlock, do you listen to yourself? He likes the garden. He likes some programmes and we don't ever watch anything he doesn't. He likes books with photographs. I hope he'll learn to like going places. You've even planned his last meal around what he likes to eat. You give him a violin concert every afternoon, because that's what he likes. So who's this sociopath?” He nodded briefly – “See you next week” – and turned away.
As he made his way to his car, he found himself remembering something he'd said to John years before: that someday, he hoped, Sherlock Holmes might become a good man as well as a great one.
If they were very, very lucky.
* * * * *
There's a holy place in this room, and a sacred thing, or nearly so. The closest thing to a holy place is near the door where Sherlock comes in. There's a small table, and a music stand. The sacred thing is the violin that rests on the table.
John Watson never touches it. Would never dare. His hands are clumsy now, and he would be afraid of breaking it. If he broke it he would have to die and he doesn't know how to do that. So he only waits, and every day, nearly – sometimes twice in a day – Sherlock plays for him.
Music. When there's the music, he can rest in its comfort, can ride on its dancing rhythms. He can forget pain and fear. Cold, electric shocks, glaring light and sudden darkness, thirst, blows and kicks and a tube through his nose into his stomach, cease ever to have existed. He doesn't have to think, and he doesn't have to want. He can just listen.
Sometimes Sherlock even smiles.
He's not smiling now, but his face is calm. The music is soft, melancholy. Suddenly John wonders whether Sherlock ever wants. And if he does … what? He can do anything. He goes out to places. He speaks quickly and easily, moves without pain or clumsiness. He's not afraid of anything in the world. He picks up the violin and music comes out of his hands.
What could he want?
Once John himself could do nothing but want. Want someone to care what he wanted, and Sherlock does. Want someone to exist who wouldn't hurt him, and Sherlock never has. Want not to be afraid, and now he's not, when he's alone with Sherlock. Want to be with someone who was happy –
Sherlock isn't happy. Even when he smiles he's not happy, and John Watson doesn't know why.
The music slows, and then breaks off in a sudden discord that makes John jump. Sherlock stands still for a moment, then slowly he puts the violin back into its case. “I'm – sorry, John,” he says quietly. “Perhaps later. Will that be all right?”
John nods, but this is wrong. Not because Sherlock isn't playing, but because of his face. His eyes are avoiding John's. His lips are slightly parted, uncertain, trembling –
There are tears on his face.
No. That's not right. That shouldn't be.
John gets to his feet. He's trembling with fear – touch is dangerous, touch only causes pain, touch is fists and boots and cudgels – but he comes close to Sherlock. Extends a shaking hand and with his palm wipes the tears from the pale cheeks.
Once words spilled from John Watson's mouth as easily as water from a tap. Now he speaks the two sentences, the only words that come without struggle: “My name is John Watson,” he says. “I believe in Sherlock Holmes.”
Sherlock Holmes. Only a series of sounds. Maybe once it meant someone, but he doesn't know who.