BBC Sherlock Howard, Misplaced - Survive

An end justifies the means.When necessary, flattery may also be taken into consideration.But at this moment, he couldn't tell a lie.

Sherlock didn't cry, not even when he lost his balance and fell to the ground shaking.Not even when he realized that he might be dying.Not even when thinking about the possibility that he might never see John again - not at all.

He stated the truth: "I love him! I love that medic! Let him go, I want you to let him go! Put that damn gun on me!"

Sherlock was losing strength, as if slowly freezing.First the limbs, the trunk, and eventually, the head.

"Maybe I should get a piece of pink ribbon with polka dots on it, and tie a pretty bow on it—oh, go to sleep, Detective, and go to sleep. I won't wake you."

Sherlock saw Irene leave the place and turn off all the lights.

——The curtain call is over, yes.

game over.And he lost in a daze.

Out of control, out of control long ago.

Sherlock wanted to go back to where he was.

The place he called home.

——I'm going home.

The weather was terrible.Days of heavy rain made John feel like he had fallen into a swamp.The room was stuffy and damp, as if covering his mouth and nose.

It is difficult to breathe even sitting on the sofa.The oxygen seemed to be dwindling, and John felt a little drowsy, but it was clearly ten o'clock in the morning.

This could be a sign of hypoxia.

He went to the kitchen, filled the kettle, and flipped the switch.When the red light came on, he dug out the tea can from the cupboard and put it aside.

The tea wasn't refreshing enough, but John didn't want to be near the grinder at all, especially after hearing what Mycroft had said.

He walked back to the living room with his slippers on, but stopped suddenly.

John heard a familiar voice.

gunshots.The bullet pierced through the large floor-to-ceiling windows of 221B and got stuck on the wall.He took a closer look and saw the bullet holes.Since it is a long-range shot, there are no traces of sex around.If he hadn't just got up and went to the kitchen to make tea, he would have died.

God!

Misfortunes never come singly, Sherlock disappeared, and now someone wants to kill him?

"You will receive a generous gift."

Is this a generous gift?A bullet that nearly went through his head?

John always felt that the other party's intention was not to kill him, on the contrary, it was a declaration.

But what is she proclaiming?

"Very well, someone is trying to kill me now, Mycroft. You wish I were dead for the best, because in your eyes I'm the one responsible for the heinous crimes that sent your brother into the river. So I'm not asking you Assistance, the purpose of this call was for Sherlock.

Have you found where Irene is?It doesn't matter that I'm dead, but I want Sherlock to live. "

John said this almost subconsciously - I want him to live.I want him alive.

Maybe it's not about guilt anymore.Maybe it's just because he really—

love him.

Harry hadn't taught him what it was like to fall in love with a man.

Will you be willing to sacrifice like this, go through fire and water without hesitation?

He only wants him to live.He wants him to come back here alive.

"We found the lady's hiding place. Unfortunately, when we arrived, it was already empty."

"Useless stuff. That's all you guys are capable of?"

"Watch your words, Dr. Watson."

"...So, you returned empty-handed?"

"Not really."

"Oh, Mycroft, just tell me, please."

The room was very quiet, save for the military doctor's own breathing. Mycroft's voice came to him clearly through the microphone.

"We found Sherlock's hair sample. But not his person."

Should you be desperate at a time like this?

The number Irene used to contact John has expired and became empty.His guess had been correct - it had indeed something to do with Irene Adler, but had she really killed him?

"There was no blood, no signs of a fight," said Mycroft, who was rarely willing to talk calmly to John. "I can't be sure. After all, anyone can lie about anything."

"Let's do this first." John put down the phone.He didn't want to think about it any more.Really tired.

He walked home from the clinic.The weather is getting colder, it is estimated that it will be almost November.

These are the countless streets he and Sherlock walked through, and the memory he left with him, which cannot be erased, let alone rewritten.

The dim light fell on him, forming a shadow behind his footsteps.

He misses those days, the days when he could listen to Sherlock talk.

Those days he walked side by side with him.

"John."

Just as he was about to enter the door, someone stopped him.

"Lestrade. I'm sorry, I'm not feeling well today. About his funeral, I didn't attend. You know, I don't believe it at all—"

"No, John. This is very important, you must listen to me!"

Lestrade's face paled.He seemed to be in a hurry, rubbing his hands back and forth anxiously.

"Well, what are you going to say?" John held the key in his hand, not expecting much.

The police detective took a deep breath, slowed down, and finally said:

"He's alive, Sherlock's alive. We found him."

He said they found the man in the sewer.

When he was found, he almost died of hypothermia.It was a routine inspector who called the police.

"He's just sitting there," Lestrade said, rubbing his temples, "half submerged in water, his skin wrinkled—we took him to the doctor, cleaned him up, and waited for him to wake up."

"And then?" John was eager to know the follow-up, but saw the detective pursed his lips with difficulty.

"Lestrade, don't be like Mycroft. Why can't you both be straight?"

"He doesn't remember me, and he doesn't remember Mycroft." He squeezed the handle of his teacup. "We even told him your name, and he—"

"What's wrong?" The military doctor asked carefully, not daring to carelessly breathe.

"He blinked twice and remained silent for a long time. Finally he said:

"I don't know you, nor anyone you're talking about.I need personal space, please get out. 』」

It's not that John didn't think about wearing a suit to welcome Sherlock back.

But in the end he dismissed the idea.

"We spoke to his attending physician. He said that the damage to the memory blocks in Sherlock's brain was caused by a controlled drug that was soluble in water and was probably drugged. Also, John, There is something only you can do."

John couldn't even drink his tea.He put the cup back in place, and the sound of the collision was very clear.

"Three months," he said, "the observation period is three months. If you want him to return to normal, you must seize this period of time. After three months, everything is a foregone conclusion." The detective paused, then road:

"He doesn't remember all of us, including you," Lestrade concluded, "but you're the one most likely to jog his memory, John. And you're a doctor."

"But I'm not everything." John said softly, barely audibly.

He sits on his sofa. Lestrade told him that around six o'clock in the evening, he would bring Sherlock to 221B - exactly, he would only hand him the key downstairs, and John would have to meet him alone.

"He refused to answer all the questions - he said he couldn't remember anything. He also refused any kind of help from anyone. When we asked where he lived, he didn't answer, he just frowned. So we just followed The way it used to be. This is where he belongs.”

--no. Sherlock's home was changing from moment to moment.

"John, I don't like stalemate."

"You can imagine."

"But I hope that we can always be like this, each sitting in our own position, no matter arguing or chatting—always in this moment."

"Sherlock," John smiled, "you'll have a family, and so will I."

"Really?" the detective replied casually.His eyes were fixed on the waveless tea, and his downcast eyes were reflected in it.

John felt his heart tighten.

He continued in the living room, looking at the half-open window.

The wind kept pouring in, but John had no intention of closing it.

Just watching Sherlock's score being blown was a little irritating.

The military doctor sighed, now he can only wait, and there is nothing else he can do.He walked to the dining table, picked up the piano scores scattered on the floor, organized them and held them in his hands.

Suddenly, John heard footsteps.

He turned around, just in time to see the appearance of the man.

It was he who pushed the door open.It's Sherlock.

It's Sherlock.

His eyes were as sharp as when they first met, only analysis and reasoning, nothing else.

The detective looked at him with momentary bewilderment and finally the usual impatience on his face.

"They want me here. Who are you? With them?"

John's heart went cold.

"I'm your roommate..."

——It’s still the same military doctor who was so devoted to you.Still your assistant. Sherlock, you also said you loved me.

His voice was like the morning dew evaporating, and once the words were spoken, there was no evidence of existence.

"Roommate?" He raised an extremely piercing smile, contemptuously: "They didn't say I have a roommate—or are you John Watson?"

"I'm."

"Oh. They said I should remember you. Obviously, I don't."

"You should remember." John swallowed hard. "Tell me first, who you are." He said softly.Those who return from disaster are always vulnerable.

"Me? No one. I don't know my own name, but they gave me a name—Sherlock Holmes."

"That's what you were called. It was when we met seven years ago." John retorted feebly.

"I don't remember." He was strangely calm, not rightly flustered.

He's like—an empty shell of Sherlock's appearance and a misplaced soul.

Seems like he just came to the wrong place.Just a passing tourist.

"Sherlock," the medic called timidly, not even sure if he should call him that, "would you like...to have dinner with me?"

John felt like he was on the verge of collapse, and every time he saw Sherlock's unemotional gaze, it was like a thousand arrows piercing his heart.

He is back.He is no longer him.

"I'm really hungry."

This time, Sherlock didn't wait for him and walked out the door.It seems that he prefers to be alone, and doesn't want or need another person to listen to his nonsense.

John moved his steps with what little strength he had left, followed behind him, his lips tightened in the cold wind.

He can't give up yet.

The game is not over yet.

The two sat in Angelo's restaurant.A few minutes ago, John asked Sherlock to wait at his seat while he went to chat with the restaurant owner.

"Sherlock has lost his memory. He's been drugged."

"what?"

"That's it, Angelo. What we need to do now is to remind him of the past, can you do it?"

"I try. But how could he—"

"There's no time. I'll tell you again if I have a chance in the future."

Seeing that Sherlock's puzzled eyes had fallen on the two of them, John hurried back to his seat, sat down, and said:

"So, you really don't remember anything?"

"I don't remember anything." He shook his head calmly, very calmly. John's nose felt a little sour.But he held back.

"So--"

"Sherlock! Long time no see, what would you like to eat today?"

Angelo appeared at the table, and the military doctor felt that the expression on his face was a little stiff, but he had done a good job.

Sherlock was quite surprised by his sudden action, and he stared at Angelo for a few seconds, raising an eyebrow.

"Do I know you?"

"Of course, you once cleared me of murder charges! If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't be here at all."

"I?"

"Exactly."

Sherlock looked at the candles that the restaurant owner had placed in front of him, the flames danced in his eyes, and was speechless for a while.

He feels a little headache.

John motioned Angelo to leave first with his eyes.He looked at his roommate worriedly, he was very afraid, afraid that if he didn't pay attention, he would lose him again.

"John...?" Finally, he spoke.A little hesitant, like a child who is afraid of making a mistake, "I want to get out of here."

"Where do you want to go?" asked the medic.

"...Anywhere is fine. I want to talk to you."

They went back to 221B again. John couldn't feel the hunger anymore, just watching Sherlock's every reaction made his stomach cramp.

On the way back, Sherlock remained silent.He just followed John, almost following suit.

—He is not familiar with this place.The military doctor thought, he must let him integrate into this city again, into this life—most importantly, make him familiar with his existence.

They climbed the steps one after the other, and John heard Sherlock close the door behind him.Very light, like treating a rare object.

"Can you tell me, who am I? They—er, one of them seems to be called Lestrade—who is he? And you, what do you do? Most importantly—what happened to me? "

He listed the questions in a rambling manner, and John knew that wasn't Sherlock's style.

All right. John decided to explain to him that he probably wouldn't need to sleep today.

"That's your sofa. I'll make you some tea, and this story might last all night."

"Your profession is consulting detectives. You are the only one in the world who is doing this. You used to be proud of it. You are a successful detective and have solved many strange cases. Even Scotland Yard asks you for advice. You have An older brother, Mycroft Holmes, who works for the Queen and holds important positions in the government. As for Lestrade, he is a Scotland Yard detective. There are many others, but I think this is enough for you to know, and I will go one by one in the future. introduce to you."

"Then, why did I... [lose memory]?"

"That's exactly what everyone wants to know. Someone found you in the sewer, you were unconscious, and no one knew what happened. But do you remember Irene Adler?"

Sherlock shook his head, "Never heard of it."

"Theoretically, she was the last thing you saw before you lost your memory. Most likely she made you look like this."

"Then where is she?" Sherlock remained eerily calm.

"...I don't know, Mycroft hasn't tracked down her whereabouts yet."

"You haven't told me who you are yet."

"Actually, I've never introduced myself to you," John smiled wryly, "You told most of my life the first time you saw me."

"I want to hear it from you yourself."

John took a sip of his tea, "John Watson, he was in Afghanistan. He was a military doctor. He used to be your roommate and assistant."

— and something else.There must be something else.But that's all John said.

Sherlock nodded slightly, half understanding.Even though he was still confused, John could see that the man didn't mean to press.

"……oh!"

The doctor saw the detective close his eyes suddenly in pain, his face twisted slightly out of patience, and he clasped his fingers on his head, strangling him tightly.He trembled slightly in pain, panting in a low voice, and his eye sockets were even red.

"Sherlock, are you okay! I'll get you some painkillers."

"Pain is an old friend, and medicine doesn't help. They gave me too many painkillers in the hospital..."

Sherlock reached out and grabbed John's shoulders tightly, as if the world had lost its center, only in this way could he find a little truth.He yelled in a daze, "John... just sit down. I still have something to ask."

It was John's familiar voice, and his eyes were weakened by physical discomfort.His heat came from his shoulders.If anything - it was closer to the Sherlock he knew.

John handed Sherlock a glass of water, watching him swallow slowly.When he handed the empty glass back to him, he gave him a deep look and said, "Uh, thanks."

—that was the look that made him feel that Sherlock was back.

That look was exactly the same as when he was sitting beside his bed.

John suppressed his excitement and stood there in a daze, waiting for Sherlock's next move.

"I have another question, yes." His voice returned to that cold, but his voice was a little hoarse, "What's the matter with these pinholes?"

The detective rolled up his sleeves so John could see that it was riddled with needles.He reflexively took a step back.

—that's why Mycroft hated himself. John Watson, open your eyes and see, this is your masterpiece.

"It shouldn't be like this on normal people, right?"

"Sherlock..."

"So, you're going to tell me what's going on?"

What should I tell you?Told you it was bloody drug solution?Tell you those are proofs of your love for me and my cowardice?Tell you, we're more than just roommates?

"...I'm sorry," John looked at him with some resentment in his eyes, "I can't say."

I can't say.Don't make me expose my scars.

"...Interesting."

"what?"

"No." Sherlock replied flatly, walking out the door.

"Where are you going?"

"Anywhere - a place to hide from you. I don't want to see you right now."

His words last night were like a dream.

John tried his best to pretend nothing had happened, but he always remembered the way Sherlock said - "I don't want to see you now."

He was in pain, as if he had been cut, his body was bruised, and he was bleeding profusely.

Sherlock stopped talking to him, not a word.

"Lestrade, that's not the way..." John said weakly, "He's completely forgotten about me, and what's worse, he seems to hate me."

"But we have no other choice. John, you have to believe in yourself."

"Maybe I'm not up to it at all."

The medic hung up the phone and walked back to the living room. 221B made it more and more difficult for him to breathe, and if he stayed for another second, he might suffocate.

Sherlock was flipping through today's paper at the desk.Old habits are wiped out overnight.In the past, he never read by himself.

"That's too time-consuming."

"But you must at least accumulate a little common sense! Or know about state affairs—"

"But I have you, John."

Sherlock smiled and said, "You always read aloud when you read some important news, and discuss it with me."

—Yes, that's him.That's Sherlock.

"According to you, I'm a good detective?"

Sherlock was the first to break the long silence, "You mean, I'm smart?"

John was surprised how the man would ask such an incredible question, but he still answered patiently: "Yes. Your thinking logic is always different from ordinary people. You are different from them."

"I should have known," he said, "that there's always been a strange feeling—like an instinct. Every time I meet someone I don't know, I always know bits and pieces of him."

"You said it was 'deductive reasoning'."

"I don't know." Sherlock shrugged. "But, can you help me get something to eat? I'm hungry."

Actually Sherlock had other plans.

"Okay. Remember to call me if something happens to you."

"...John, one more thing. I shouldn't have said that to you yesterday. I'm... sorry."

He saw the military doctor stop moving—only for a moment, and then heard his answer: "It's okay."

No.Impossible is okay.

John didn't look back before leaving.He just stubbornly moved forward, dragging himself away from the altered world.

After confirming that his roommate had left, Sherlock went upstairs and entered John's room.

He searched his room, and finally found what he was looking for on the unmistakable desk.

——Perhaps I still have a little ability to solve crimes? Sherlock thought.

At least he thinks he has solved the unsolved case that happened to him.

Sherlock put the "evidence" carefully into the bag.But he found that he had forgotten the way to be happy, and even had some sins.

After that, a month and a half passed smoothly.

Sherlock seemed to be trying to pander to John, as if he was imitating someone with the same name and surname as himself who looked exactly like him.That's why the military doctor always felt that he didn't mean it.

Something went wrong, for sure.

Perhaps this is the calm before the storm.He always had a hunch.

"He's not normal. -JW"

Lestrade didn't call John back all day.The recent public security situation may not be very good, which made him too busy.

The military doctor typed in hastily, sent a text message, and then strode away from the clinic.

A few hundred meters away from 221B, John stopped.

Two police cars stopped at the door.

—Gosh.Could something have happened to Sherlock?

He starts to run.Run on sidewalks that aren't very wide.

Luckily, no one blocked his way, not even half a police officer stopped him when he was downstairs. John just went straight to the living room, and saw Lestrade standing there with a few police officers, looking at him as if he were an unexpected guest.

"Here comes the person you are looking for."

Sherlock spoke.But those words left him clueless.

"Sherlock, there's no way—"

"Oh, and he said you'd believe me."

"Your intelligence is well known, yes. But this—"

"Lestrade, haven't I given you enough evidence?"

"No," the detective laughed, "you don't know anything."

"It's not funny." Sherlock scowled.

"What's going on here?" John couldn't help asking, "I don't feel comfortable with so many police officers."

"If you're innocent, there's no need to be uncomfortable. John Watson."

"Sherlock," Lestrade almost turned the tide, "maybe you're always right. But this time, you're dead wrong."

"I never make a mistake," he replied.Then he looked at the bewildered military doctor.

"I reasonably suspect that you drugged me, John Watson."

"Don't say any more—"

"Shut up, Lestrade. Thank you.

John Watson.Your self-introduction is too brief, so short that I doubt it.You didn't answer my question at the first time, but found two perfunctory sentences. This kind of time is enough to make up a clumsy lie.

Furthermore, when you saw the pinhole in my hand, your eyes and body movements betrayed you.It's just too obvious.

Your profession is also very questionable - a doctor, and an army doctor, right?

Most importantly - I found syringes and medicine bottles in your room.That's right, IreneAdler doesn't exist at all.That's just your nonsense.It's you, it's you from beginning to end.I spent a month and a half waiting for your lie to prove itself, but I didn't expect you to be so hypocritical.Do you have anything to say? "

"You're way too much, Sherlock." The detective hurried to John's side, "Don't take it to heart, he's just—"

"Lestrade, please take your men out first. Give me five minutes. Sherlock, you stay."

Sherlock sat obediently on the sofa, motionless.He watched the police detective walk out of the room dejectedly.

The sound of chaotic footsteps gradually disappeared behind him.

"Are you finally going to confess?"

"not me."

"Is there any reason for me to believe you?"

"Sherlock," John said rationally, "if you want me to prove my innocence, that's the only way I can do it."

He took a step closer to the sofa. Sherlock just raised an eyebrow, as if still wanting to see what he could pull off.

Another step.One more step.

"There are police officers downstairs. Don't act rashly."

"I know," he said, "but I don't care anymore."

John leaned over, pinned Sherlock on the couch, and kissed him wildly, sadly and humbled. John wanted to pour out his most painful and anxious love, he wanted to let Sherlock know how much he loved him heartbrokenly, from beginning to end, firm and tenacious.

Sherlock was struggling, and John was clutching at him, and he didn't want to let him go, not for a moment. John's stubbornness finally got Sherlock to resist more fiercely, he bit his lip, but John didn't feel the pain, there was bitterness between his lips and teeth.

"I love you," said the doctor.

Sherlock's posture was like a blooming rose in his eyes, along the way, he had been stabbed all over his body and his hands were bloody, but he loved him.

John Watson loves Sherlock Holmes.

His eyes are soft and fragile.He saw Sherlock glance at him with the most wary look, full of disgust.

"..." Sherlock got up gasping and left the apartment angrily.

John's vision suddenly blurred.But never shed tears.

He just looked at the empty seat, lost in thought.

"John."

After an unknown amount of time, Lestrade appeared behind him again.

"These are transition periods. He'll be fine."

"Are you sure?"

"John..."

"Okay. What's the matter with you?"

"Cough. You know, Sherlock's been suspicious of you—"

"Yes."

"We might have to put on a play for him. He's very emotionally unstable right now. I've been in touch with Mycroft, and that's his suggestion."

"so?"

"I'm going to handcuff you and take you back to Scotland Yard. Don't worry, it's just Sherlock's will, I know the truth."

"Come on." John held out his hand, "if he wants to see it go like this."

The detective handcuffed the doctor's hands and went downstairs.

"Lestrade," he called to him before he could turn the doorknob, "I think, I can't do it. I want to give up."

"what?"

"I can't go on like this."

"John, you mean—"

"It's time to leave him. He's fine on his own."

"No! He's a patient now! And you're a doctor!"

"What's the use of all treatments without mutual trust?" John said quietly, "Even the most basic ones can't be done."

"but--"

"That's what he wants, Lestrade. I'll give it to him."

"Why?" the police detective frowned and asked, "You can't bear it yourself."

"Because I love him."

The cold wind outside blew his cheeks the moment the door opened.

John didn't look for Sherlock.

He was afraid that one more glance would shake his decision.

"Mary, I've been thinking about this for a long time.

I was very emotionally unstable back then.I honestly don't know what to do... the best friend seems to be dead and the world is like ruined.

I was flustered, desperate, and refused to accept anyone's help.Sometimes this military character also makes me suffer.

Then I met you.

You listened to me gently, accompanied me quietly, and never seemed impatient.

But I pushed you away.

I was still in a dazed state, facing everything I could only think of—running away.

In a way, I'm a coward.

But I decided to be brave.

Mary Morstan.

Would you marry me? "

"I'll move out of 221B."

"why?"

John knew Mycroft hated him enough already, and the words only added to his hatred.

"Sherlock doesn't remember me anymore. He's fine by himself now."

"You became roommates with him to let him remember you?"

"It used to be not, but now it is. This life is too painful, and everything is out of reach. Besides, he can't wait to let me move out. Mycorft, please take care of him for me. There is still about a month until the end of the observation period , it won’t work on my side. I know that we are the two people who care about him most in the world, and now we can only rely on you.”

"Moran's organization has collapsed under our pursuit. Irene Adler appeared in the United States and settled down. Your life has returned to normal, why are you leaving? He tried everything to get you to stay, but now you say you want to leave ?" Mycroft said aggressively, "Don't you think—"

"I know. But Sherlock would prefer me to move now. That was before, maybe he needed me before, but not now."

Not anymore.

Mycroft seemed to be bored, or didn't want to continue the pointless debate.He tapped the end of his umbrella on the floor, "Dr. Watson, I won't let you move out of that apartment with such a poor excuse—"

"I know," John smiled, but it was full of veiled sadness: "I'm getting married."

Sherlock's aftermath opens a new chapter in their story, but John decides to stop there.

He missed the past and was addicted to it.Those were the days they walked together, like the unique traces and temperature of the pages of the book, mottled, but incomparably gorgeous.

"Hope you'll bless me. I'll check back to 221B when I have time—if Sherlock wants to see me."

I also hope that one day.

If Sherlock had been paying attention to the various changes in the apartment, he would have noticed that the clutter was decreasing one by one.

Even if he found out, he didn't intend to ask.

Maybe he knew—these things faded away, and eventually even the little blond would follow.

He continued to watch John's figure come and go.The boxes were piled so high that they were even crumbling.But now the height has gradually decreased.

Just after the last box was removed, Joh