XXVII.

Memory Boxes

"We are products of our past, but we don't have to be prisoners of it." ~ Rick Warren

Behind his desk in the Diogenes Club, Mycroft looked across at his brother, fifteen years after he had been begged to ransack his memories of a girl and the mistakes that had been made. He had eventually complied, since a boy like Sherlock felt things so strongly, so fiercely, so destructively.

Fifteen years, and a career built on cold, hard logic and reasoning without sentiment; ignorance of the chemistry of love and its destructive nature. It was what Sherlock had craved and what he had become and, bar an accident of fate, it could possibly have continued that way.

Or perhaps not.

After an typically dismissive beginning, and despite the memory extraction at the Institute, the friendship of Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper had already been showing signs of re-emergence. Edges were curling back like paper, allowing their true selves to realign and form new synapses, new connections. Was the human brain not a miraculous organ? Where there has been something so powerful. it seemed there was an insistence on re-establishing such a bond.

Sherlock had forbidden him from offering the same privilege to Miss Hooper at the time, knowing she would never accept such a charity, but it seemed she had made her own choices towards a similar destination.

"You are now in full knowledge of your past, Sherlock. What you must decide now is your future."

Sherlock looked up, still shocked, but recovering with every moment and torn by conflicting feelings at every juncture. It was exhausting.

Mycroft smiled slightly.

"Too many emotions?"

"I've lost count. How do people live? How must this impact on their day to day life? They must get nothing done." He raked his hands through his hair, cradling his skull, wondering how to hide a sneaking and genuine admiration for his elder brother.

"It's life, Sherlock. People manage and they get by. I am told the rewards are … not insubstantial."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at this brother, but without true rancour.

"What would you know of love?" he asked.

"Nothing whatsoever," returned Mycroft, with the sparest glimmer in his eye.

~x~

The building stood, shaded by trees and dappled with sunlight that morning; benign and almost welcoming with its sweep of steps and discrete brass plaque beside the doors.

They stood at the foot of those steps, just has he and John had stood some weeks before and stared upward, waiting for something.

"You're vacillating."

"As are you."

Molly waited, the slight breeze lifting stray tendrils of her hair, casting them where it wished. Judging by her poorly buckled shoe and carelessly buttoned shirt, she had changed her clothes at least twice, lost or broken her last elastic hair tie and needed to return home for her Oyster card. He completely understood and his heart twinged a little for her. This was empathy. He liked it.

She turned and looked at him, collar up, (those cheekbones) shoes and suit immaculate, nothing to betray his feelings except his reluctance.

"Are you sure this is what you want to do?" He looked down, seeing her with eyes that were soft, so she took a chance. Molly reached out a hand so it hovered next to his and uncurled her smallest finger, hooking it around his.

"You've told me everything I couldn't fully remember, everything I was hazy about."

Birds in the trees twittered and carolled to each other, searching for their mates.

"But, truthfully, it was coming back anyway."

"Those Level Ones." He smiled, but didn't unhook his finger.

"Yeah, cheap and not so cheerful."

He flexed his hand, slowly slotting his fingers inbetween hers, cradling its warmth and tightening his grip.

"And when I held Selina's baby - " (tighter)

"I know."

They turned to face each other, still amongst the pedestrians glued to their phones, the Deliveroo boys on their bicycles, red buses trundling by and the beginnings of another London morning. She looked up into his face and it was like coming home.

"I don't need to open a box," began Molly Hooper slowly, fearful of the tightness in her throat.

" … to know - " Her voice sank to a whisper.

"Sherlock, I don't need to open a box to know how much I loved you."

They sat on the bottom step of The Anamnesis Institute and held each other close after fifteen lost years and she stroked his hair.

"Don't cry," she said, softly. "It's OK, don't cry."

But he did, and it felt incredible.

~x~

EPILOGUE

Three Years Later…

The process had been lengthy with the Committee having multitudinous individual cases to consider and thousands of words of testimony to plough through. Unprecedented public support, however, had resulted in a verdict buoyed up by a united and relentless social media campaign which had made Brexit look like a walk in the park. Memory Transference had eventually been deemed unlawful by the Board of Ethics and the Freedom of Remembrance Trust had been disbanded. Institutes like the Anamensis had been closed down, their boxes returned to owners to do with as they saw fit. People, it would seem, were going to have to learn how to cope with the bad things in life, because (as Mycroft Holmes testified at the final hearing at the High Court) "that's what people do."

"Suffering is an unfortunate part of the human condition, but without it, we are less than human and we become ill-equipped to navigate our days and nights. Having no knowledge of your mistakes means you are unable to learn from them and are unable to move forward, taking your place in a considerate, supportive and symbiotic society. Life is not perfect, so we all need emotional strength and support of one another in order to take on its challenges."

(Sherlock Holmes, in his closing speech to the Memory Transference Investigation Committee on 12th November, 2019)

~x~

"Sherlock, what is your understanding of 'my best side'?"

"I have insufficient data at present."

"Very diplomatic, but I can tell you, without equivocation, that it is not from underneath. I have at least seventeen chins from that angle!"

Sherlock showed mercy, lowering his phone as Mary stepped down from the table and cast a critical eye across the symmetry of the bunting.

"You are a bloody camera Nazi, Sherlock Holmes."

"You two need to stop bickering and let me know where to put three hundredweight of Jammy Dodgers and cucumber sandwiches from our landlady's kitchen of delights."

John Watson's arms were indeed overloaded with trays wrapped in cling film and brightly coloured biscuit boxes. Sherlock raised his eyebrows. Inexplicable. He feared for the digestive systems of future generations.

John dumped his cargo across the table, scattering sellotape, balloons and paper plates and earning an eye roll from his fiancee.

"Bunting looks wonky," he said, blandly.

~x~

By 4pm, bunting had been forgotten and Baker Street was crammed to the rafters with several generations of family, friends and a few friendly faces from New Scotland Yard. Mrs Hudson was quite in her element, forgetting the hip and passing out cucumber sandwiches and a cherry coloured punch of dubious origins. Mr and Mrs Holmes had been rather taken with the latter and John decided a taxi might be a judicious decision before the evening rolled on much further.

"Whatchya thinking?"

Mary slumped down on the arm of his chair, scattering crumbs and waggling her eyebrows.

"Just stay away from the punch, it looks potent."

She smiled.

"Naturally. Who d'you think made it?"

"Wicked."

"Adult consumption only."

"Maybe elderly parents needed a warning too."

Mycroft had arrived late, but compensated considerably with a bottle of Dom Perignon '68 from his own cellars and a large cake, iced beautifully with yellow flowers and ribbon.

"It's wonderful that you still find time for baking, Mycroft," smiled Sherlock, filming his brother and the cake's arrival as well as his parent's punch-laden jollity in the corner. "Something for the commitment hearing," he added, lightly.

Mycroft affected to ignore him, only placing down the cake, hooking his umbrella on the mantle and holding out his arms.

"Put down that phone and give him to me," he smiled, eyes only on Sherlock's newly-one-year-old son who was balanced on his father's hip and holding a mushed up strawberry in a tight fist.

"Your uncle wishes to show you off and share his appalling day with the Brazilian Ambassador with you. Your comments will be greatly appreciated."

The boy crowed in recognition of his favourite uncle, throwing up small arms and leaving go of the strawberry. Sherlock laughed. He laughed a lot these days.

He watched the ruination of Savile Row by strawberry as they walked to the window, then Sherlock felt two arms snake around his waist and a small, smiling face press against his back (icing sugar, champagne, baby powder and Body Shop White musk - still).

"Hey, Sherlock Holmes. Pleased to meet you. I'm Molly Hooper."

He smiled as a warmth spread through him.

"Good afternoon Miss Hooper."

"Doctor now, if you don't mind."

"Apologies, Doctor Hooper. I am pleased to meet you too, but have the strangest feeling we have met before."

He turned around, touching her face, shoulders, hands. Checking, assessing, wanting (needing).

"May I take this opportunity," he said, quietly, "To congratulate you on our son. He is magnificent, as are you."

"You may," her eyes shone, bright and dark at the same time, exactly the same as eighteen years previously, and his heart swelled in recognition, in remembrance.

"You film so much," she added, smiling as he placed the phone in a pocket and wrapped both arms around her. "You must have hours and hours of the past three years. With a memory like yours, is that totally necessary?"

"Back up," he said, gently into her hair, kissing the top of her head. "I never want to miss a thing."

THE END

(but not quite...)

ADDENDUM: What do you need?

Sherlock leant over the microscope again (as if a judicious squinting would alter the results) and hissed a curse between his teeth.

Idiot forensics at the scene had ruined the chance of any of the fungus surviving and the sample was useless: another chance for Forrester to go free and make good his escape this time. By the time Anderson adjusted his coarse focus, the thief could be halfway to the Maldives with his safely stashed pocket of emeralds.

A sudden and shockingly tinny chime echoed through 221B, interrupting his thoughts and making him jump. Neither he, John nor Molly had quite acclimatised to the new doorbell. He feared it might soon befall an unfortunate short circuit. Luckily for all, Ben was out with Mary and his mother and not subjected to its eldritch squeal.

"May I help you?"

The woman standing on his stoop was striking indeed. Almost his own height, her bright titian hair standing inches higher, framing her face in a fiery halo. She was swathed in woollen shawls and what appeared to be Viking brooches and she sported a lipstick that highlight a wide generous mouth which was smiling at him in an altogether too familiar manner for a stranger. Oddly, there was a shudder, a glitch in his thought process, suggesting an inexplicable familiarity he was unable to account for. Perhaps she read John's Blog and affected some faux affiliation as was so irritatingly commonplace in today's celebrity obsessed society.

"Sherlock," said the mouth, a tad fondly for his liking. Perhaps someone from Molly's mother and baby group? A group of assorted women, meeting up to compare milestones and drink tepid tea in a draughty church hall with nothing in common but the agony of birth and a keen eye on the competition.

"Molly is out. With the baby." He gave her what he hoped was a regretful smile and made to close the door, made that bit more difficult by her (size 10?) foot. Amazingly, she was still smiling.

"You haven't changed a bit," she said.

~x~

Before she said her name, everything had suddenly flooded back in through paralysed synapses.

"Amy. Of course, Amy. ("exams done: all done") You must accept my apologies; neither of us opted for full retrieval."

"I know. I heard. You built from the ground up."

"Not entirely. Most has been restored yet we prefer to make our own way."

They were walking up the stairs since she was disinclined to 'come back later' and he knew from her tells that she had something in her satchel (hessian, leather-thonged) she wanted to give to him.

"Everyone is out."

"I know. It's you I wanted to speak to. I would love to catch up with Molly later, but for now..."

They walked into the sitting room and he was momentarily pleased regarding its relative tidiness since he remembered liking Amy, and being grateful for her mercy at the time.

She immediately saw the picture (everyone seemed to find it irresistible; he could quite see why) and stepped one huge Valkyrian stride across to the mantle to pick up the frame. She stared intently for a moment and when she looked back at him her mouth lifted and her eyes glistening slightly.

"He's so like you, like you both really, but there's a beautiful innocence there that's purely you."

Rather than irritation at such nonsensical whimsy, Sherlock felt a pull at his heart as a woman he barely knew looked at a photograph of his son.

"He's beautiful," she added, replacing the picture. "A good boy?"

"Undoubtedly. He has his mother's temperament, a beauty from within."

They stood for moments as he waited for her to gather herself. Molly and John had mentioned (several times) how patience was quite useful in situations such as these, and people gave more if allowed to take their time. Her fingers played around the clasp of the bag and Sherlock gestured to the chair.

"I have something for you."

"Oh? Polite. No pushy deductions.

"I always hoped I'd have the chance to give it back. Molly entrusted it to my care before she left Oxford that Summer - "

He leant forward, heart suddenly haywire.

Excruciatingly, her hand hovered above the open satchel, fingers frozen in time and causing Sherlock to clench his fingers and toes and grit his teeth.

"It meant so much to her; she couldn't take it with her, but she couldn't throw it away - "

He wanted to leap up and snatch the bag from her quavering hand, but he didn't. The things you do for love.

The manuscript was still in a faded brown A4 envelope, dulled and slightly creased by years of storage, but still undamaged after eighteen years away from both its composer and its muse.

"Thank you," he said, looking directly into Amy's softened eyes and meaning it. "Thank you Amy, for remembering."

"Ah, I was waiting for my moment. When I saw you both in the papers at the Investigation Committee hearing I nearly looked you up, but it was early days, so I ... I waited. It wasn't until I saw the announcement in The Times about your boy being born that I knew it was the right time."

Sherlock ran his long fingers over the foolscap, remembering summer nights of intoxicating desire and yearning, all poured into scrawled notation across stave after stave as his youthful heart was almost overpowered by an unstoppable torrent of wanting.

They sat in silence again, but without discomfort, more a strange companionability built on the half-remembered ferocity of youthful emotion.

Amy suddenly stood up, offering a hand to shake and Sherlock found himself strangely reluctant to see her go.

"I've had three husbands," she announced, almost casually, "so I know loss and I know heartache." She gathered her strange, archaic robes and affected a quiet dignity one could only respect.

"I also know now when you should let go and when you should fight for love. I saw you two shatter and it haunted me for years, so I decided The Anamensis Institute didn't deserve your memories and that you needed to have them back, to decide for yourselves."

Sherlock's eyes were wide.

"The note pushed under the door -"

She grinned.

"It was indeed me."

She stood on the stoop again, grinning, adjusting her satchel, consulting her phone and considering a job well done.

"A woman like me doesn't sit around waiting Sherlock, which goes someway to explaining the three husbands. I decided to set the ball rolling and ... well, here we are."

Sherlock watched after her taxi as it pulled away, musing on the vast array of random chances in such a lazy universe that weren't so very random at all.

~x~

The water was cooling now, but Molly Hooper found she cared little for that.

Candles would have been nice, but there had barely been time to lose clothing let alone set light to things. It wasn't entirely her fault, despite what Sherlock would undoubtedly remark upon later, since he knew exactly what he was doing when he drew that bow across that violin and played her that particular piece.

An evocation of everything they had tried so hard to erase; a conjuring of burgeoning love and desire, a memory of the youthful hope and assurance that the world was golden, welcoming and designed entirely for you.

Beautiful, bow playing hands were no less talented with a sponge she noted, as water squeezed and cascaded over her shoulder, leaving her cherry tattoo glistening in the half light coming from the upturned lamp in the sitting room. She was sorry to have missed Amy, but terribly pleased she hadn't been at Baker Street when Sherlock had welcomed her up the stairs with her very own theme.

"That manuscript, Sherlock, has given you considerable power over me."

"Oh?" He squeezed more water over her back, but she knew he was smiling without even turning around.

"Oh yes indeed. You do feigned innocence so badly, I can sense it even in the dark. You can lift that bow whenever you may have a need - "

He kissed her shoulder, her neck, her other shoulder, pulling her close so that she felt the resonance, the deep rumble through her back as he spoke.

"I will always have a need," he murmured, lips hovering above her carotid, hands circling her waist, pulling her into him.

"Good," she whispered softly, smiling into the shadows. "Good."

~fin~

A/N: A heartfelt thank you to all of you lovely readers who took the time to read, comment and perhaps even favourite this story: I love you all. Your comments mean a great deal to me and allow me to be truly appreciative of this brilliant community we have.

Lovely. :)

E. x