The Irresistibility of Orbits Part Two; or, the Forgetting of Things Past. Chapter Two
Title: The Irresistibility of Orbits, Part Two; or, The Forgetting of Things Past. Chapter Two.
Author: ghislainem70
Word Count: 4500
Rating: NC-17
Summary: John returns from Afghanistan.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. All honours to Messrs. Gatiss, Moffat, BBC et al.
Warnings: Massive dose of angst and hurt/comfort. Explicit sex, graphic violence, reference to non-con, deals with mental illness.
Sherlock made only three changes to 221b before John returned home.
First, he switched their bedrooms. Actually, they had been using John’s exclusively for quite some months now: Sherlock’s was full of assorted arcane, unmentionable, odorous and lethal objects. Now John had the downstairs bedroom and Sherlock, the upstairs one. The reason for the change was that John had difficulty with stairs - not just because of his limp (still deemed psychosomatic), but because his recent surgeries had left a mass of scar tissue adhering to his abdominal muscles. Over time this was expected to improve; gentle exercise and massage were prescribed.
So far John showed no interest in pursuing either; mostly, he sat watching bad television listlessly.
Without Sherlock’s messes littering it, John’s room was returned to the near-military order that he habitually maintained. The only item of John’s that Sherlock kept for himself was John’s old oatmeal-colored jumper. Soon it would be cold enough that John might need it; but until then, Sherlock wanted it for his own. It was a talisman. Of sorts.
Second, Sherlock disposed of the few little evidences around the flat that they had ever enjoyed intimate relations together. Sherlock could not bear to imagine that John might discover such things - and possibly be repulsed.
Third, and Sherlock gave this a great deal of consideration, he locked John’s old laptop away and replaced it with an identical new one. If John wanted to explore it for signs of his past life, well, Sherlock had imported most of the other mostly trivial items from the old laptop; only the blog was excepted. From John’s total memory loss it followed that he did not recall his blog. Sherlock had been obsessively reading, and re-reading, John’s blog entries. Now, Sherlock excoriated himself for having once snarled at John to "stop inflicting your opinions on the world."
If John had paid him any mind (he hadn’t - just quietly and firmly left 221b, leaving Sherlock to indulge his tantrum in solitude), Sherlock would not have these precious words: the only record of the memories of one Doctor John Watson’s adventures with the fascinating Sherlock Holmes. After mocking Sherlock’s lack of basic knowledge of the solar system in "A Study in Pink," John had studiously avoided any remarks of a personal nature in his blog concerning Sherlock, or their relationship. Sherlock devoutly wished now that he had never upbraided John for that; perhaps John would have felt freer to write a more intimate narrative.
Reading John’s blog, Dr. Nazimi had been horrified by the extreme dangers Sherlock and John had endured. She advised that for now, the blog should be kept hidden from John. Later, though, when he was stronger, it would be necessary to reveal it to John, she advised; being that these were John’s own thoughts and recollections, not filtered by anyone else.
Otherwise, Sherlock left everything just the way that it had been left before they joined Spartan and went to Afghanistan together, just four months and a different lifetime ago.
He could not tell which of the multitude of objects that crowded 221b might be the ‘petite madeleine,’ the trigger that brought John back to him.
* * *
Just an hour after Sherlock brought John back to 221b, he was forced to leave John alone. He had a lunch meeting at a pub with Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard.
Lestrade had repeatedly demanded to be allowed to visit John while he recovered in hospital but with John’s doctors’ agreement, Sherlock had refused, saying only that John was recovering from difficult surgeries and was permitted no visitors. Lestrade, Sherlock knew, had attempted to go over Sherlock’s head to Mycroft; but Mycroft had finally learned from prior indiscretions where John and Sherlock were concerned to keep his mouth shut, and Lestrade learned nothing of consequence from Mycroft.
But Lestrade was not a Scotland Yard detective for nothing. Lestrade had his own resources. He made a point to learn the exact hour when John and Sherlock returned to 221b. Whereupon, Sherlock texted him immediately (having observed the plainclothes officer parked in Baker Street in a discreetly obvious car), demanding some time to get John settled before Lestrade came charging up the stair. And set an appointment for lunch to discuss matters of mutual importance.
This had held Lestrade off, just barely. Sherlock had taken the precaution of ensuring that John’s cell phone was well hidden and its battery dead. John had not shown the slightest desire to call anyone in England, anyway - Harry had sent John an inappropriately cheery postcard from Keyna, where she was on photo safari with her new girlfriend Gillian.
Sherlock watched John covertly as they approached 221b, slightly angry to observe himself praying that the sight of their front door might be the trigger. Get ahold of yourself, can’t you, you simply can’t do this every minute, he scolded himself harshly.
John merely stood by passively as Sherlock found the key and opened the door. John had become unavoidably aware that Sherlock usually watched him with the attention that a mongoose devoted to a cobra, but with no memory to go on, he just assumed that his flatmate was a little . . . intense.
* * *
Mrs. Hudson met them at the door, exclaiming and fussing over John’s emaciated state and promising to bring up some tea and sandwiches immediately for "poor dear Doctor Watson." Sherlock had warned Mrs. Hudson of John’s condition and asked her not to try and remind him of any past events. Mrs. Hudson, the soul of discretion, readily agreed. She greeted them at the door with a cheerful, "Doctor Watson, it’s me, Mrs. Hudson, but you’re not to know that, are you luv," and followed them up the stair. John clearly did not remember Mrs. Hudson - but Sherlock was fascinated to observe that he perked up, just faintly, under her motherly attentions. Always the ladies’ man, he caught himself observing inwardly with some frustration.
So far, nothing about Sherlock’s own attentions had sparked any visible response in John other than polite gratitude.
Sherlock let John follow up the stair at his own pace, more labored even than the first time he entered 221b. His face was drawn and white with pain by the time he opened the door to the flat. John paused on the threshold.
He regarded the spectacular mess of loose papers, medical journals, newspaper clippings, crime scene photographs, lab beakers and arcane plant specimens impassively, merely cocking a disbelieving eyebrow before picking his way carefully to his accustomed chair, into which he sank gratefully. He tossed down his cane.
"I take it that homeless squatters have been minding the flat in our absence," he deadpanned.
Sherlock bit his lip and turned away to hide the sudden flood of joy this little witticism brought bubbling up in his own emaciated chest. He began picking up a few papers.
"Yes, well, I can straighten things up a bit . . ." he offered.
John gave a dry chuckle. "Really, Holmes, it can wait. Don’t bother. I don’t think the Queen is coming," he said.
Sherlock hated it, absolutely hated it, that John declined to call him Sherlock, even after being asked to do so. A more formal "Holmes" therefore hung in the air between them. Sherlock took his cue and now forced himself to call John "Watson" in return. He hated that, too. He had lost even the privilege to call John by his beloved name, the name so often uttered in aggravation, in affection, in decadent passion, and in love.
He almost wanted to say that after the Scottish adventure of the wreck of the Queen’s yacht, he could probably arrange for John to see the Queen, but let it drop. He observed that all of the spark had abruptly left John, he was pale and slumped in the chair when Mrs. Hudson bustled in with a tray. Even the tempting array of hot tea, sandwiches and biscuits failed to attract his notice.
"You need to eat something, luv," Mrs. Hudson insisted, pouring him out a cup. He shook his head.
"I’m . . . not really hungry, thanks anyway, Mrs. . . ."
"It’s Mrs. Hudson, luv," Mrs. Hudson finished helpfully when it became clear that John could not recall her name.
"Please give them to Holmes. He needs feeding up too, looks like a bloody scarecrow," John said, his voice weak with exhaustion.
John tipped his head back against the chair and closed his eyes. He was clearly overwhelmed by their journey today, and the return to 221b. Dr. Nazimi had warned Sherlock that the first week would probably be very challenging.
"We have discussed your inappropriate possessiveness of Doctor Watson," she reminded Sherlock gently in their last meeting before John was released home from hospital. "Please don’t let those feelings lead you to intrude into his . . .personal space. Let him have his privacy and some quiet. Leave him alone for parts of the day; hospitals are very exhausting and from your experiences in Afghanistan, its not clear to me when, exactly, Doctor Watson had the simple luxury of privacy."
So it was that Sherlock pushed away the proffered tea and sandwiches and said abruptly, "Jo - Watson, I have a meeting, I’ll be out for a bit. Make yourself at home . . .obviously," he concluded awkwardly. John merely nodded his head but did not open his eyes or appear to note when Sherlock had left. He was, in fact, fast asleep.
Mrs. Hudson regarded John fondly. Just like little boy when he’s had a bit of a nasty shake-up, she thought. Straight back home and fast asleep. He know’s he’s home, even if he doesn’t know it, she thought pityingly.
She put the cozy over the teapot and tiptoed out of the flat, leaving John to his dreams.
* * *
Sherlock had chosen The Albert, a pub conveniently close to New Scotland Yard. Sherlock wanted to discourage Lestrade from coming any nearer to Baker Street for as long as he could.
The Albert was in Victorian building of mellow golden brick, dwarfed by glass office buildings overlooking it. It was a picturesque pub; resplendent with ornate cut glass windows, a proper dark wood bar, and cozy corners. The window boxes were overflowing with well-kept flowers. There was still festive Union Jack bunting from the Royal Wedding. Sherlock generally avoided pubs except when it was necessary to frequent them for a case. When he observed himself casting an appreciative eye over the lovely old pub, he realized that it was with the thought of how much John would like this place, and wishing he had thought to bring him here. Before.
Shaking these thoughts away, he entered the dark pub. It was buzzing with lunch visitors from the surrounding offices and Sherlock recognized a few Scotland Yarders among the crowd. He caught sight of Lestrade’s silvery head, ordered his pint, and made his way back.
He was unprepared for Lestrade’s undisguised shock at Sherlock’s altered appearance. Sherlock had expended no effort whatsoever on his own health or comfort since the moment he and John had parted in the Spartan outpost - Sherlock to interrogate the Afghan prisoner, John on a mission to reconnoiter the warlord’s mountain compound. He couldn’t remember the last time he had bothered to look in a mirror. His appearance was irrelevant.
Now, though, from Lestrade’s expression, he realized his appearance couldn’t be . . . good. He had lost all of the weight from muscle he had put on in Spartan’s training regimen, and a good deal more; lack of sleep and relentless anxiety had etched their mark upon Sherlock’s alabaster features. He might have neglected to shave recently. Where he had previously been slender, now he was nearly emaciated. His haunted eyes were restless.
Lestrade was appalled. Not so much for Sherlock; he knew well that Sherlock was in many ways completely mad, and his particular brand of madness made him prone to refuse to eat or rest when he was absorbed in a case. Nevertheless, he had never seen Sherlock in such a debilitated state. He looked like a broken man.
And it was this which planted an icy dagger in Lestrade’s heart. There could only be one reason. Whatever happened to John in Afghanistan, it was much, much worse than Lestrade had feared.
They regarded each other warily. Lestrade dropped any plans he may have had to try and start with small talk.
"Sherlock, Christ, you look a wreck. You need to pull yourself together. Because I’m expecting you to take good care of John. Right now you don’t look fit to look after yourself. Look, it’s not the drugs again, is it?" He ventured fearfully.
Sherlock frowned and took a long pull from his ale. It soothed him just a little. Lestrade pushed his untouched half of a sandwich toward him and stared until Sherlock started to bite.
"Don’t be absurd. Of course it’s not drugs. I wanted to see you, Lestrade, to ask you a favor."
"It depends, doesn’t it?" Lestrade asked, arms folded. He expected Sherlock to try and take advantage of whatever health problems John was currently facing to try and keep John away from his old friends. Especially old friends who desperately wanted to make love to John and take him away from Sherlock and his particular brand madness for good.
"It’s not for me. I know you won’t believe it, but it’s not for me. You see, John suffered a . . . brain injury in Afghanistan. He has amnesia."
Lestrade was crushed with dismay and grief. "God no, not John. . . will he be all right? Is it temporary? What do you mean, exactly, ‘amnesia’?"
Sherlock sighed. He really didn’t want to have to tell this story. Not to anybody. He didn’t even want to tell himself. But he did it anyway, using the minimum number of words humanly possible to convey what had happened. The scope of the problem.
"So you’re telling me that John won’t know me. Won’t know Sally, Anderson, Dimmock; anybody from the Yard."
"That is what I expect, certainly. His doctors say he has lost a full year. All of his time from after he got shot a year ago, in Afghanistan. Those memories are . . . gone."
Lestrade drank some ale and considered, rubbing his chin.
"What if you’re wrong?" He asked.
"What do you mean, ‘wrong’? I assure you John has lost his memory; there is no question of that. He has seen many doctors, world-class, I might add."
"Of course, the great Sherlock Holmes is never wrong, is that it?" Lestrade said with some sarcasm, then immediately regretted it. No point kicking the man when he was down. Not that Sherlock wouldn’t do the same to him, in spades, he thought darkly.
"I don’t understand you, Lestrade. I tell you, there is no mistake."
"Well, have you considered that he may not remember you, and he may not remember living with you, or your flat, or your housekeeper. But have you considered he might have good reasons - -maybe very good reasons - for that?"
Sherlock was very still. This was pretty much what Dr. Nazimi had hinted. He pushed away the doubts that were rising in him.
Lestrade continued: "Sherlock, look - maybe, just maybe, John will remember his . . .friends, people who care about him, people at Scotland Yard. And the clinic, what about that nice bird - Sarah, was it? How do you know he doesn’t remember them, or wouldn’t, if given the chance?"
Sherlock merely stared arrogantly and got up to leave. "I’m sorry to have wasted your time and mine," he snapped. "If you don’t believe me, just understand that his own doctor says he needs peace, quiet and rest. He’s not to be - bothered - with hordes of people breaking into the flat, reminding him that they are his "friends." I tell you he doesn’t remember, and when he realizes just how bad it is, how much he’s - lost - it’s going to be quite a shock. . . .Don’t you see I’m trying to protect him from all that? Can’t you just give me ... a month?"
Lestrade considered. A month. A month during which, no doubt, Sherlock Holmes would employ every device in within his considerable, wicked power to get John Watson right back where he wanted him.
Sherlock was gripping the edge of the table and the bones of his knuckles shone through his almost translucent skin. Lestrade sighed.
"Damn you, Sherlock. God damn you. If you don’t do everything, and I mean everything, to see that John gets well, I will personally see that you pay. And I won’t make it easy. Not this time," he threatened. "And, I expect an update pretty much whenever I want one. No turning off your cell. And, I want his doctor’s telephone number."
"She won’t talk to you. Patient confidentiality and all that."
"You let me handle that end of things. The number, please."
Sherlock scribbled something on the back of one of Lestrade’s cards and turned to go.
"Sherlock," Lestrade called after him. Sherlock stopped and turned back. He looked lost. Lestrade relented. "Sherlock, you great idiot. Take care of yourself. All right? John needs you. God help him, but he does."
* * *
Sherlock made several stops on the way home.
First, the hairdresser, who gasped and chattered away for an hour, repairing the astonishing deterioration of Sherlock’s coiffure. A haircut and a shave restored Sherlock to some semblance of his former impeccably groomed self.
Next, he stopped at Barbour and bought a few merino sweaters - one was for himself, all of his clothes currently were hanging from his frame. He recalled Lestrade’s undisguised dismay at his appearance. Until he gained some weight possibly it would be better if he just wore things that fit him properly. And one for John, not the horrid oatmeal color that didn’t suit his coloring. John had hazel eyes, stormy and changeable. He chose a dark green, but then rejected it as possibly looking too . . . personal. He chose the charcoal grey instead, in a smaller size now too, although he hoped John wouldn’t notice that Sherlock noticed such things. In fact, once he left the shop he was sure he wouldn’t give the sweater to John at all. He would just tuck it into his bureau, he decided. And let John think it was his all along.
Finally he stopped at the Tesco Express near Euston Station and bought two bags of groceries. He was bewildered and aggravated by the useless array of choices even in the tiny store and was fuming with irritation by the time he checked out. John had formerly done the shopping, mostly; Sherlock could never be bothered to think about food. But now Sherlock was determined to do better. Also, he wanted to avoid running out to restaurants all the time, where people were likely to accost John, to confuse him. Possibly he could learn to . . . cook? He put that thought from his mind for later consideration.
* * *
Sherlock was appalled to find construction trucks crowding the entrance to 221b. Helmeted workers in fluorescent vests were coming and going, yelling and carrying things to and fro. An unholy racket of drilling, hammering, and buzzing clamored in the air, drowning out the noises of the street. He was so alarmed by the disturbance that this din might by causing to John that he sprang up the stairs two at a time, failing to observe the burgundy Rolls Royce parked across the street.
He burst into the flat to find John, pale but proper and erect in his seat, carrying on a subdued conversation over tea and biscuits with a tall, slim, silver-haired woman wearing country tweeds and practical heels. She put her teacup down and regarded Sherlock’s dramatic entrance with a frown of marked disapproval. Her bone structure alone disclosed that she could be none other than Sherlock’s mother, Lady Eugenia Holmes.
He dropped his packages.
"Really, Sherlock, the appalling state of this flat . . . I’d spoken to Mycroft, naturally; but I really had no idea. . . .well, never mind that now. I’ve finally had the privilege to meet your dashing Captain Watson. I am very angry with you, Sherlock. You might have telephoned. You’ve been back for hours."
Sherlock slouched dejectedly toward his mother and took her hand. "Hullo, Mother. I’m . . .sorry. I had to see someone right away."
"Always tearing around on your mysterious cases!!! Well, Captain Watson has been telling me a little about your troubles. I’m sorry to say you both look perfect wrecks."
A huge booming noise interrupted Lady Holmes’ train of thought. Sherlock saw John’s eyes go wide with terror and he shrank back in his chair at the sound. Just like an explosion, Sherlock realized. John’s hand shook and he gripped the arm of the chair to try and conceal it.
Lady Holmes, with the keen observant eye her younger son was also blessed (or cursed) with, noted this thoughtfully.
"Captain Watson, Sherlock, right. We’re off. Come along, this instant." She rose with a momentary expression of polite confusion as to where to put her own teacup, there being almost no uncluttered surface available. She finally moved a few autopsy photos with an impatient shake of the head and put it down. "Do you hear, Sherlock? I’ve exhausted my patience with your reckless behavior, and now all this . . .you don’t expect Captain Watson’s health to be restored in this squalid environment? With this unseemly racket? Well?"
John was looking at Lady Holmes as though a guardian angel had descended from the heavens. He stood up and squared his shoulders. He was ready to follow his new general anywhere.
Sherlock groaned miserably. He had truly hoped to avoid such a thing coming to pass. But he had, as usual, underestimated Eugenia Holmes, whose nose for trouble and prevarication possibly exceeded his own. She had sensed his secret dilemma, and she refused to let him nurse it in private, in 221b, keeping John a recluse, if not exactly a prisoner, in the process. No, it simply wouldn’t do.
"Where, exactly, are we going, Mother?" Sherlock asked resignedly, although from her attire he was virtually certain he knew the answer.
"Sherlock, you know perfectly well where we are going. It’s the season. Time for country air. We’re for Riddleston Hall. Don’t pack a thing, Sherlock. Possibly Captain Watson, you might wish to pack a few things, you are not as tall as Sherlock and Mycroft. My dear husband was quite tall, too. All the Holmeses are tall. But don’t bother with coats and boots and such, that we can manage quite well, I think."
John was hesitating.
"My apologies, Captain Watson," she said gently. "I forget that while I may have to be quite firm with Sherlock, you are my guest. May I invite you to Riddleston Hall? Country air, peace, quiet, good walks, wholesome country food. I would love to have you as my guest. Please say yes."
"Yes," John stammered as if in a dream.
Lady Holmes retrieved her handbag. "Lovely. I hoped you would. Sherlock, help Captain Watson with his things, can’t you see his leg troubles him? I hope you don’t mind me saying so."
* * *
John had followed Sherlock back to his bedroom (formerly Sherlock’s). He did not recognize anything in it. Sherlock pulled out an old duffle bag and pointed to the bureau.
"Your things are in there," he said. John nodded.
"Is it all right?" John asked hesitantly.
"Is what all right?"
"My coming home . . . with you. And your mother. You didn’t tell me you were expected home. I don’t want to be any . . . trouble. I can stay here, I’ll be fine," he said proudly. He was starting to have an inkling that he was an enormous trouble to Sherlock Holmes. He didn’t want to be a burden to anyone.
Sherlock was silent a moment. "Don’t be . . . don’t be ridiculous. Of course you’re welcome, I want you - I want you to come. You aren’t any trouble, stop saying that." Sherlock said. "I generally try to avoid these annual trips. But I’m overdue. I suppose it can’t be helped," he sighed.
"Really?" John was amazed. John had lost his parents at relatively young age but had been very close to both, and could not imagine not wanting to see them if he could. He wanted to tell Sherlock how lucky he was to have his mother, a mother that wanted to try and help him, but he thought that would be far too . . . personal. For a mere flatmate. So far, Sherlock had said nothing about his family.
"So, how long has it been? Since you’ve been home?"
"It’s not home. I was raised in Kent. Mostly. Riddleston Hall is my mother’s family’s estate. She goes there this time, every year."
John was done with packing his duffle bag. He pulled down a bedraggled green hooded army jacket with scruffy beige fur around the hood, just in case the promised coats should not materialize. He fingered it thoughtfully. Then he shrugged it on, not noticing Sherlock’s strained expression.
"Where is this Riddleston Hall, then?" John asked curiously as they closed his bedroom door.
"Yorkshire. We’re going to Yorkshire," Sherlock said slowly. "Please leave that jacket, Watson. I assure you we have far more . . .suitable ones at the Hall."
"Fine," John struggled out of it, wincing at the pain in his stomach. Sherlock hastened to help him the rest of the way out of it, and threw it in a corner as though it burned.
* * *
Lady Holmes was efficiently sorting piles of mail that Sherlock had let stack in precarious columns on the mantlepiece.
"I shall send Rigby to sort this whilst we are away," she declared. Sherlock looked mutinous but she held out her hand, implacable. "The key, if you please, Sherlock." Sherlock handed over the key to 221b.
"Now, I’ve got a hamper in the car if you’re really hungry. Tea and biscuits won’t put flesh back on those bones," she sniffed. They departed 221b and Lady Holmes took care to turn the key in the lock. Just in case Sherlock had tried one of his little tricks.
She paused to speak sternly to the foreman of the construction project in 223.
"Young man. We shall be gone for thirty days. If I return to find this - disgraceful racket is still going on, you shall have me to deal with. Do I make my self clear?"
The young man gulped and literally doffed his cap. "Yes, ma’am, clear as glass. It’ll be ever so quiet when you come back," he swore, quivering.
Sherlock and John meekly followed Lady Holmes’ haughty progress back to the Royce and climbed in. Lady Holmes’ driver, Edgar, navigated the Royce smoothly through the bustle of London traffic.
Sherlock surreptitiously watched John’s face as he stared at the passing sights of London, and then as John almost immediately fell asleep again to the motion of the gliding car.
And Lady Holmes watched Sherlock watching John, a small, satisfied smile on her lips.
To be continued . . . .
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Note: Although in no way necessary to this story, curious readers wishing to know more about Lestrade's unrequited love for John may enjoy my fics Promised the Dark, Full Fathom Five, and Wormwood (in that order).