Fic: Mind Palace (2/13)
Rated: PG-13
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, [name removed].
Keywords: House of Leaves (crossover), Horror, Memory Loss, Friendship.
Summary: Sherlock would never admit it to John, but his Mind Palace was not actually a palace. It was a house1.
Mind Palace - Part One
Mind Palace
Part Two
"One need not be a chamber to be haunted;
One need not be a house;
The brain has corridors surpassing
Material place."
Emily Dickinson - "Time and Eternity"
If Sherlock wanted to remember, for instance, the exact wording on a newspaper he read once on his way to Uni 8, he'd have to search deep within the house's confines. He would still find it. If he wanted to remember what colour the dress his mother wore on her 50th birthday, all he had to do was peek into her wardrobe 9.
His short term memory on the other hand, was a different matter. Sherlock did not need to search the house to recall the scent of Mrs. Hudson's favourite perfume or to remember details from last month's double homicide (/suicide) case (The Met had it all wrong). Sherlock could hold a stupendous amount of data on the surface. It was the reason he did not need to disappear into his mind that often. What Sherlock saw, he remembered, and what he heard, he retained.
And so, Sherlock should have remembered the conversation word for word. The fact that he almost could, well, that was quite worrisome.
He did not realise that at the time.
He did remember that as soon as he had spoken, John and the neurologist both became very quiet. 10 It was the sort of silence that was filled with a hundred burning questions, only consumed by the curious' need to stop, rearrange, and action.
"Sherlock," John said in a joking tone. His smile was all wrong. 11 "Tell me you haven't deleted -------?"
"Deleted?" The female neurologist injected.
"Why, is he important?" Sherlock asked with a raised eyebrow. "John, who is -------?"
"Your brother." John had said with that odd, worried expression.
"Brother?" Sherlock said, incredulously. "I don't have a brother."
"Excuse me," the neurologist said. "I need to ask you a few more questions. What did you mean-"
"Piss off." Sherlock snarled, loudly. She took a few steps back, alarmed. John graced her with smile no. 9.
"Would you give us a moment?" John asked.
She shook her head. "It's vital we determine the extent of Mr. Holmes' memory loss right away, Dr. Watson."
"Memory loss?" Sherlock demanded. John held up one hand, signalling: wait.
"I know, I promise I won't say anything he won't come up with on his own. Will that be all right, Doctor?" John said.
Her lips thinned, but then she nodded.
"Thank you." John said before she left the room.
"What is going on, John?" Sherlock asked. "Is this a, 'oh, Sherlock will believe anything I say right now' situation?" He had wondered if it really was. John was usually his Go To person when it came to appropriate behaviour.
"Sherlock," John said, no longer smiling. "You really can't remember your brother?"
"I'm an only child. You know that." Sherlock exclaimed. He was starting to feel the beginning of a truly magnificent headache. "Are you trying to be clever?" Sherlock asked. "Because I don't believe it's really the time to make jokes."
"I'm not trying to be clever," John had said, reassuringly, like he was trying to placate a small child.
"Well, thank God for that." Sherlock snapped.
John hadn't reacted to the insult. "Calm down." He stressed. "Look, you just got out of a coma. You're bound to be a little confused-"
"Confused?" Sherlock cried out. "I'm perfectly all right. What's wrong with you?"
John's mouth set in a thin line. He rubbed his forehead tiredly. "Let me ask you something. Remember when we first met, you told me you had an archenemy?"
"Moriarty?" Sherlock asked, brow crinkling in his confusion. "Is he somehow involved?"
"No, not Moriarty." John sighed. "Okay, how about this: do you remember when we were called to Buckingham Palace?"
"Obviously, but I don’t the see the relevancy." Sherlock said.
"Just humour me. Please, Sherlock."
"Yes, of course I remember. I was wearing my best sheet." Sherlock said with a glare.
"Okay," John said, newly christened smile no. 13 making a tentative appearance. "And can you tell me who had us brought there?"
"The Queen."
"The Queen?" John asked. "Can you be a little more specific?"
Sherlock exhaled sharply. "Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Second. Dei Gratia Britanniarum Regnorumque Suorum Ceterorum Regina, Consortionis Populorum Princeps, Fidei Defensor 12. We were hired to retrieve a set of incriminating photographs from Miss Irene Adler. Her Majesty wore a grey pinstripe dress and a yellow hat. She stepped on my sheet. We had tea. Would you like to know what kind?"
John was very pale. Sherlock should probably have made note of that at the time. As it was, he had been too angry to care.
He continued, "As you can see, my memory is perfectly intact. I have no idea what's got into you, but I swear, if this is just some sort of childish prank-"
"Sherlock," John said quietly.
"I will seriously begin to reconsider our friendship, Dr. Watson, because it isn't-"
"------------------------------," 13 A new voice had said.
"-very funny…" Sherlock clamped his mouth shut. He glanced at the newcomer and snapped. "What the hell do you want?"
"----------------------------------------------------------."
"Oh I see. So you're… You're…" Sherlock trailed off. A terrible understanding washed over him as he realised: he could not remember the man's name. 14 The same name John had told him only minutes before.
Sherlock studied the newcomer intently for a few long moments. He then closed his eyes, and pressed his fingertips to his temples. He concentrated on the man's image. He managed to hold it in his mind's eye for about a minute-
"Sherlock?" John asked. His voice was full of worry.
-And then, much to his horror, the image began to dissolve. Sherlock couldn't even recall what went away first. He opened his eyes to look at the stranger again, and discovered that the sight of him was entirely new.
"Oh," Sherlock said.
"-------," John spoke over Sherlock's head. "Can I talk to you outside for a minute?"
That was then.
Now, they were sitting outside some specialist's office. In the past month Sherlock had seen countless experts and pseudo-experts. His brain had been scanned in various fashions, methods and manners. All of the specialists agreed that he probably didn't have a brain tumour. Or a B12 deficiency. Besides that, they had no definite answers to give him, but were more than happy to direct him to the next expert in line.
"This is ridiculous," Sherlock's voice broke the tense silence. The plump armchair he was sitting on should not have been uncomfortable, yet Sherlock could not stop fidgeting. He crossed his legs to avoid tapping his foot on the floor.
"So you keep mentioning," The Taller 15 Man sighed in a way that was completely unfamiliar.
Sherlock's mouth thinned. His restless gaze moved from the oil painting above The Taller Man's head ("The Falls of the Reichenbach", not the original, obviously), to the sofa The Taller Man shared with John (quite fitting, in Sherlock's opinion). Finally, Sherlock's eyes settled on the decorative plant by The Taller Man's right (potted Kentia palm plant, or 'Howea forsteriana').
"This is the last one, John." Sherlock said. "We agreed."
The Taller Man sighed again, but said nothing.
"This negative mindset isn't helping at all." John said. "Can you wait until you hear what the doctor has to say first?"
"Wait for what? Exactly what they all said?" Sherlock snapped. He rubbed his eyes. "I need to go back to the house." Sherlock muttered to himself.
"What?" John said.
"I need to go to my Mind Palace." Sherlock said, louder. "It's the only way."
"Sherlock," John said in the quiet tone that meant he was trying not shout. "You promised."
"One month." Sherlock said. "I promised one month."
"Going into your Mind Palace," John spat out the last two words like they were particularly foul, "was what started all of this in the first place."
"Exactly. I'm going absolutely stir-crazy, John. If I am to find out what happened, I need to go back. Not sit around waiting." He settled back in his seat and steepled his fingers. "Unless, of course, this is just an extremely elaborate practical joke."
John huffed in exasperation. "Sherlock, for the last time, why would I do something like that?"
"I do believe you are familiar with Occam's razor, John?" Sherlock said more coolly than he felt.
John snorted. "Fine, so I went and convinced all the people we know to play along, hired an actor, Photoshopped all those photographs… you know, piece of cake. Then, I sat around waiting for you to wake up from your coma so I could play the world's most ridiculous prank." John gritted out. "You can be an unbelievable prat sometimes."
Sherlock sighed. "When you have eliminated the impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable-"
"-Must be the truth." The Taller Man finished for him. Sherlock deliberately did not look his way.
"It's not just that you can't remember him." John said. "It's that you keep forgetting."
"I'm still working that part out." Sherlock muttered.
A door opened, and a man in a spotless white coat emerged. "Mr. Holmes," the doctor said with a small smile, glancing up from the tablet in his hand. He held the door wide open. Both Sherlock and The Taller Man stood up.
"No," Sherlock said, holding one hand up, though still not meeting The Taller Man's eyes. "You, wait here."
"Mycroft," The Taller Man reminded him gently.
"If you say so," Sherlock said. "John? Please, will you come with me?"
John nodded, standing up. Together they walked into the doctor's office.
Sherlock forgot The Taller Man's name.
8 "A FRIGATE given a £27 million refit three years ago is to be sold - for just £65,000. The Royal Navy Leander class Andromeda, which served in the Falklands and also patrolled the Gulf, will become the Chrisnia, an Indian Navy training vessel. And it means the ship, built in 1969 for £150 million, has been saved from her intended fate… being sunk as a Nato missile training target off Scotland."
-Fiona Barton (in The Mail, June 18, 1995, p.25)
9 Ultramarine and Oxford Blue. The house's interior was not an exact replicate of his childhood home, but he kept Mummy's bedroom exactly the way it was.
10
John: hair still mussed from sleep, shoulders tense as if in pain (Sherlock was right in his earlier assessment), smile faltering.
Neurologist: name tag: Lora Burrows, MD. Middle aged, glasses smudged, recent Botox injection: facial expression difficult to ascertain. Scribbled something on her notepad which Sherlock couldn't quite make out (except for the letters M, R and S. Not very helpful).
11 John had twelve distinct smiles:
1. Happy. Usually seen after scuffles with armed criminals or when winding down after a long day at work.
2. Amused.
3. Amused but trying to conceal it. Usually behind a hand or a cough.
4. Laughing.
5. Post-laughing.
6. Lying.
7. Flirting. Not ranking among his best smiles, in Sherlock's opinion.
8. Polite.
9. Peacemaking (placating a person Sherlock offended.)
10. Drugged. Something of a mix between the Happy and the Flirting/Creepy smile. Sherlock had only seen this one a few times, and despite what John said, he was not accountable for those occasions.
11. Trying to act cross (but failing).
12. Sherlock's.
Smile no. 13 was entirely new. Sherlock didn't like it.
12 "By the Grace of God of Her British and other Realms Queen, Head of the Consortium of Peoples, Defender of the Faith." - Latin. Sherlock can't speak it, but he can recite it beautifully -AM.
13 [missing]
14 Something that started with an M. (Michael, Myles, Mylnburne, Mylnric, Mynogan, Mylo, Micah, Milford, Millman, Miloslaw, Milward, Meinard, Meinfried, Meyer, Miraj…?)
15 He was three centimetres taller than Sherlock. For some reason, that was the only fact Sherlock could retain.