De Frag

Author's note: The inspiration for this story is found at the start of the Great Game, when Sherlock points to his head and says, "Listen. This is my hard drive, and it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful ... really useful. Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish, and that makes it hard to get at the stuff that matters. Do you see?" I am NOT computer literate, and this is computer as metaphor, so anyone wanting to geekpick, please don't put it in a review- please PM and I will correct if I think it makes sense and doesn't defeat the purpose of the story- which is to explain and entertain.

Chapter One

Previously, in Musgrave Blaze:

"I'm just underperforming because the anaesthesia hasn't entirely left my system yet. It always lingers and makes the brain work slow down. Irritating." Sherlock sounded disgusted with himself.

"Well, forgive me if I disagree, that display next door was nothing short of scintillating. If that's what you do when you are 'slowed down', then it's worrying what you expect of yourself when you are firing on all cylinders."

That earned him a glare. "My brain is not analogous to the internal combustion engine of a motor car, John. Something so old fashioned and underpowered is just not an adequate metaphor."

John tried to placate his friend's ego, which somehow had been bruised by the idea of needing to rest. He raised his hands in mock surrender. "Sorry- would rocket engine be better?"

"Nooo. Not in the slightest. Rocket fuel is just a lot of combustion and no finess." He tapped the side of his head. "Up here is a quad core processor, capable of dealing with multitasking and computation as fast as neurons can fire, John. The anaesthesia is like...like a power brown out. Less energy gets to the brain cells, and processing just slows down. Most annoying."

"Sherlock, this is your doctor speaking. Take the computer offline. Upstairs, pull the plug, don't reboot, give the circuits a rest. You push yourself too hard."

But Sherlock ignored him. He had to. There was not one, but four neat little mysteries to solve, each one slotting into another. He'd figured it out, in theory, but needed time to tie up a few loose ends, then prove it, to show the others who were involved. The idea of "pulling the plug" was tantamount to shutting down his brain, and he had no intention of doing that.

Two panic attacks, a melt down and a twice broken wrist later, the case was solved. But, on the way home…

oOo

"Be quiet." Sherlock was trying to shut John up. The case had taken five days, but at last they were on their way home. Stuck in the back of a chauffeur-driven Bentley, he desperately needed to take action to sort out his Mind Palace, but John seemed intent on conversation, of all things. Ever since Sherlock had woken up at the Royal Gloucestershire Hospital for the second time in 36 hours, he'd known that he was running on borrowed time. General anaesthesia was like a corrupt system disk, it just slowed processes down to the point where he was lucky to stay functional. It was supposed to wear off within a couple of hours for normal people, but as he had learned over time, his neural pathways were anything but 'normal'. Dealing with two doses in the space of such a short time was just…impossible.

(ERROR 112: 0x70 ERROR_DISK_FULL)

The hard disk was not working properly. He knew it, and it was only a matter of time before a full system crash. Something was going on that was beginning to eat up all the processing power, all the free memory space that he needed to function. When it did finally reach critical mass, he needed to be back in London. Preferably at Baker Street, in total silence, so he could do the necessary de-fragmentation routines. Or maybe a full system scan and tune-up. Possibly all three.

Something was decidedly wrong with his brain. He needed a time out, when no one was around. When he could take his Mind Palace offline and figure out what was going wrong with it. It was too embarrassing when he couldn't string two sentences together in a coherent thought, when he lost the ability to speak or to make sense to a disbelieving world.

Of course, it had happened before. But not for years. He hoped he had not forgotten the way to deal with it. He tried to remember if he had ever written it down. Yes, somewhere in his bedroom, if he'd be able to find the repair manual.

Sherlock forced his body to remain inert, slouched against the leather seat, as if sleeping. He needed to hide the problem from John sitting next to him in the car. The doctor would not understand. This wasn't the sort of thing that doctors or therapists or anyone else for that matter could help him with. He was on his own, as ever.

Back in Baker Street, Sherlock vaguely heard his own footsteps on the wooden hall floor, felt the shiny Victorian brass doorknob in his right hand. How had he got there?

(ERROR CODE 54: 0x36 ERROR_NETWORK_BUSY)

He'd lost time and memory of motion, of leaving the car, climbing the seventeen steps. Even short term memory was failing.

He shrugged off the Belstaff and left it lying in a puddle on the floor. The scarf joined it, then he fought to keep his balance. Even the most basic of system setup software was now failing- the mental processes that kept him upright, regulated his senses. He kicked off his shoes, staggered to the bed and crumpled onto it, ignoring the pain that shot through his left wrist.

A few minutes later there was a knock on the door. With the last vestiges of voice left, he called out "Go away." He put as much force behind it as he could muster, knowing it was the last thing that he would be able to say for some time. He could hear John's voice saying something about tea, but he was no longer able to reply.

(WINDOWS KEY + R)

The system line came up- (cmd?) and sat there blinking at him.

His last conscious thought was (shutdown –s).