Chapter 5

John didn't sleep or eat for the next twenty-four hours. He barely spoke. Mostly he watched. He watched nurses and doctors rush about. He watched Mycroft speak to professionals. He watched other patients move about the hospital, but he didn't see Sherlock. The one person he wanted to see was on the other side of a door.

"No brain damage, but the blunt force trauma might have created a linear brain fracture. They have to do more tests." Mycroft had told him in between meetings and phone calls. John knew what that could be like. Confusion, balance problems, headaches, swelling or worse. A fracture could fit some of Sherlock symptoms especially the confusion part. He tried to ask Mycroft about the mumbling but Sherlock's older brother waved him off.

"Later." Mycroft told him. John was content for now. Later was better than never or forget about it. Finally after a second night sitting on the couch outside the room and a night of no sleep or tea, John started shouting at Mycroft in the middle of the hospital hall. Mycroft made one of his faces and ushered John into an empty hospital room next to Sherlock's.

"What is going on Mycroft? I don't know really know what is wrong with Sherlock. I haven't seen him leave his room even though you keep telling me they are doing tests. I want to know what Sherlock has been babbling about." John ragged and Mycroft listened patiently.

"He is fine. There is nothing physically wrong with him that will last." Mycroft told him. John raised his eyebrows.

"Nothing physically wrong that will last?"

"There may be some memories that have resurfaced that may cause him some trouble later." Obviously Mycroft was hesitant to explain. John's anger intensified.

"Mycroft, if you didn't know, living with your brother can be difficult if not impossible some days. If there is something that is going to make it even more difficult, I would appreciate knowing now." John was trying to keep his voice down, but Mycroft sighed anyway.

"Sherlock has remembered the death of our father."

"Something happened to him when Sherlock was eight didn't it?" John asked. Mycroft cocked his head, much like Sherlock did when John surprised him, and nodded.

"When Sherlock was about eight years old, he was obsessed with pirates and navigation as you alluded to a few months ago. My father loved to indulge Sherlock's interests, and he suggested that the two of them take our family boat out on a pirate expedition. It was the middle of March. A terrible storm blew in while they were out on the water. The wind and waves capsized the boat and it broke apart. The two of them were left clinging to the boat until they could be rescued. My father tied Sherlock to the floating wood and gave him two life jackets to keep him afloat. Father only had one and he was more badly injured than Sherlock. When they found the two of them my father was barely alive and Sherlock had fallen unconscious and had hypothermia. Father died two days later and Sherlock was in a coma for a week. When he came out of it, Sherlock remembered nothing about the accident or pirates." Mycroft told him the story while John stood silent. John mouth hung open till the end of the tale.

"So he just deleted the memory of everything. The pirates, the ships, the navigation even your father's death?" John asked still amazed.

"He didn't delete the memory. He repressed it. I'm sure of it. I've seen my brother delete things John, and what he did with the memory of that day and piracy wasn't eradication. He was eight, and I don't think he knew how to delete things then. He didn't have that disciplined control over his mind until he was older. I'm sure it wasn't until he was at university that he really learned how to delete things. Mother wanted him to pass his classes so he remembered everything until the tests and deleted what he didn't need after. I remember coming to pick him up for holidays and not hearing a word the whole way back home. I asked him once what he was doing, and he said he was reorganizing. Only later did I realize what he was doing. He deleted people, places, information and reorganized everything. He shifted from university student back to Sherlock. He is very efficient at it now. Why do you think you never hear about past flat mates or times as university?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow at John.

"You mean he deleted it? He's not being mysterious...he just doesn't remember?" John was incredulous. The mystery of Sherlock Holmes was suddenly more and much less curious at the same time.

"I'm sure he remembers names and possibly some other things, but he sees and remembers every detail. Rather than taking up all that space for memoires he didn't care about, he deleted them entirely. I'm sure there are things he doesn't remember about you either." Mycroft explained.

"Hopefully that night at Angelo's," John murmured under his breath.

"What?" The other man cocked an eyebrow.

"Nothing. So that day on the water your father drowned and Sherlock repressed anything that reminded him about that day including all that knowledge that he had about space, stars and pirates? How could he do that Mycroft? He has such control over every part of his mind, but he didn't remember that he did it?," John asked still confused. Sherlock was a walking, talking computer sometimes that just spit out facts and deductions, but he had his brain so organized, so controlled, how could he forget something without meaning to?

"Fear. Fear is the easy answer. Like I said he wasn't as disciplined then. Sherlock was eight years old and he was afraid. He was afraid for hours and he passed out from hypothermia. We don't know how long he was awake while Father was unconscious. We don't know what he saw or heard that day. When he woke up in the hospital, and couldn't remember what happened, no one had the heart to tell him what really happened to Father."

"What did you tell him?"

"Nothing. Mother gave no explanation for his death."

"So did he invent one or what? Sherlock is always asking why."

"He threw himself into his schoolwork. He didn't ask why our father died. He asked why is the world made up of atoms? He asked why does the woman at the café have dirty jewelry but a clean wedding ring? He answered the questions and asked more, but he never asked about father. Sometimes I wonder if he deleted his love for Father too." Mycroft sounded so sad.

"He has talked about him and even though he doesn't know how to say it well, he cared about your father very much. It's obvious he admired and respected him."John quietly explained the visit to the grave and the things Sherlock had told him. Mycroft smiled a bit at that.

"Well, he might be a bit difficult to live with for a while. They've kept him sedated up until now to make sure there wasn't any lasting brain damage but it seems like the blow he took only injured his skull not his brain." Mycroft started to leave.

"Mycroft…." Sherlock's brother turned to face John as they left the room. "Will he delete it?"

"After what you just told me, I doubt he would do something so rash. I think he has remembered something that was so traumatic that he buried it deep within himself. I don't know if he will be the same, but he will recover Dr. Watson."

Mycroft strode away from John and down the hall. John heard Sherlock speaking in the hospital room and suddenly he came strutting out in his black coat with the collar turned up.

"Let's go John. Did they capture the criminal after I fell in the water?" Sherlock asked rushed.

"Yes."

"Heard anything from Lestrade?" Sherlock pressed John for details. Same old Sherlock it seemed.

"Not since my cell phone was destroyed when I jumped into the water to make sure you didn't drown." John grimaced. Sherlock turned on his heel and walked toward the exit. Once they were out on the street Sherlock hailed a cab. They rode in silence until they neared the Yard.

"Thank you for that." Sherlock said suddenly.

"For what?" John looked around thinking he had done something without realizing it.

"For making sure I didn't drown." Sherlock clarified. John nodded as the cab came to a stop. Both of them climbed out of the cab and headed into the Yard to find out more about the murderer. It seemed for now things would continue as if nothing happened.

John couldn't help but wonder if he and Sherlock would ever address what had happened or these memories of his father's death. As they talked to Lestrade, John was distracted and only half paying attention. Sherlock and Lestrade decided that that they were sure they didn't need to set up another search in another city. They were sure they had the right man.

"Well since there was not a murder the night you and John tracked this guy down and there hasn't been one since you were in the hospital…I'm confident this is our man." Lestrade explained.

The two of them headed back to the flat after that and John went to sleep in his own bed for the first time in two weeks. He hadn't slept at all for almost thirty-six hours. John only woke up when he heard Sherlock shouting in his sleep.

"I guess we are going to have to talk about this." John grumbled as he looked at the clock. He went downstairs and roused Sherlock from his sleep. The man's eyes were wide when he opened them. He jumped off the sofa and began pacing around the flat.

"I need something to work on."

"You might just need to talk about this."

"I can process it fine on my own thank you."

"You obviously couldn't before."

"I was eight before."

"When you remembered, you couldn't say more than a few sentences!" John was almost shouting. Sherlock glared over at him.

"As soon as I get work I will be fine. " Sherlock insisted.

"Fine." John made a cup of tea and went back to bed. He was still angry the next morning when he got up. Sherlock was playing the violin when he came downstairs.

"We have a case."

"Good." John nodded as he made breakfast.

"Quite."

John continued to worry as they headed out to the Yard to see the body that Lestrade called about. He wondered how Sherlock was really doing and if he would tell John if there was something really wrong. John knew it couldn't be this easy.