Title: Broken Doll

Author: KimberlyTheOwl

Summary: Why is Sherlock locked in his brother's house, talking to a psychiatrist, and how did he get there? And how will John be able to save him from himself, when he doesn't even know his friend is alive?

Author's Notes: This story came out of an outline I wrote about ten years ago for a different fandom... and which was in turn inspired by a television episode I saw a very long time ago. There's really nothing new under the sun, is there? I've lost my original outline but still remembered the basics of the tale, so decided to resurrect it all (vastly changed, in the end) for this fandom... even though I've already done amnesia-fic with John in All That I Am, All That I was; Sherlock is an entirely different sort of subject.

I wanted to explore the limits of what Sherlock's subconscious could do to him, given the strain he places on his sense of identity by faking his suicide and going into hiding at the end of Season Two. Add a good dose of guilt, a steady infusion of patient and loyal John, and a surprising amount of Mycroft-concern, and this is what you get. Warning for lots of angst; have handkerchiefs at the ready.

This was originally posted in-progress. Thanks to all who read along and faithfully reviewed during that time, especially hjohn302, johnsarmylady, and MapleLeafCameo. Ladies, I dedicate this story to the three of you, for all of your encouragement. Also, thanks to all who helped point out typos and missing words; hopefully I have found and fixed them all now.

Disclaimer: Don't own the characters, don't make any money off of this, just like to take them out and play with them once in a while.

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

Part One, Prologue: Time To Start Remembering

The other door into the sitting room opened, just as he sat down in the armchair with an irritated glance at the nurse as she left the room by the way they had both entered. He looked up and sighed audibly.

"Ah, here you are again for another bit of pointless interrogation. Aren't the both of you getting a bit tired of this yet?"

"It's not a matter of whether or not I am tired of speaking with you." The older man, clad in a heavy tweed suit - with elbow patches, even, all he needed was a pipe to complete the professorial look - eased himself into the other chair. "It's a matter of whether or not we've arrived at the heart of the matter." He spoke perfect English with a London accent, yet his features and warm colouring placed his ancestry as something else... Central European? Jewish, perhaps? Ah, yes, that would make sense...

"Heart of the matter. How trite." He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. "What am I to be confessing, then? We've already talked about my childhood, dismal though it was. And I'm certain that my brother could have filled you in all of those details, anyway."

"No..." The other man gazed at him steadily. "As I mentioned yesterday, it's the more recent history we ought to concern ourselves with."

"Yesterday?" He felt himself frowning. Yes, they had spoken yesterday, but why couldn't he remember the details?

"Yes. We talked for several hours. As you said, you divulged rather a lot about your childhood and young adult years... but we somehow never arrived at the last few days. Or even the last few months." He leaned closer. "How many days have you been here?"

He thought frantically, even looked around the room and at himself for clues. He saw, without really processing it, that he was wearing only simple pyjamas - though of excellent quality - and a plain dark blue dressing gown. The sight of the dressing gown triggered a brief moment of familiarity, then it was gone. He had only bedroom slippers on his feet, no socks. His hands were clean, the nails trimmed very short - he usually favored a tiny bit of an edge, always useful as a tool for prying things open - but when he put his hand up to his face he could feel the itchy residue of several days' growth of beard. When had he last shaved?

He wasn't hungry or thirsty, but that hardly told him much. He was equally accustomed to both ignoring his body's demands and satisfying them without paying much attention to the matter. He felt slightly groggy, slightly off ... as if he hadn't been getting enough sleep or if he'd been medicated with a sedative. But if he'd been forgetting to sleep, why hadn't anyone reminded him to go to bed? There was a time when John used to do that. Where was John?

His neck ached, and both of his wrists itched for some reason. He ignored the sensations and continued his mental inventory, turning up nothing else of note.

Finally he looked back at his questioner. "I don't know. Satisfied?"

"I'd be happier if you did know."

He rubbed his chin again. "Four days? Five?"

"You're guessing."

"I'm deducing."

"But you don't actually remember. It amounts to the same thing." He opened a folder and pulled out what appeared to be two photographs, printed out on a color printer. "Your brother and I spoke about this last night, and we decided that it's time for a bit of change of tactics. I want you to look at these."

He opened his hand and reluctantly took the photographs, and looked at the first one.

It clearly showed himself, slumped unconscious on the floor... an entryway? He didn't look right to his own eyes; his hair was wild and tangled and the clothes weren't anything he recognized. He was filthy, and absolutely covered in blood.

He felt a chill creep down his spine. "I don't recognise... this is me, but when was this taken?" He moved on to the next photograph. Again, he saw his own face; this time he appeared to be cleaned up somewhat and in a hospital bed. The blood was gone, the hair neatly combed, but the eyes were open, unfocused, vacant. Drugged? Was this from some near-forgotten misadventure, years ago?

"The first one was taken the night you ... arrived here, on your brother's doorstep. The second, the following morning." He cleared his throat. "That was about two weeks ago. He found you, barely conscious, covered in someone else's blood and with your stomach full of a near-lethal dose of sedatives." He took the photographs back and put them away in the folder.

"The human mind tries hard to protect itself... but in the end, if we are to stay sane, we must get down to the dark recesses, find out the truth.

"It's time... time for you to start remembering, Sherlock Holmes."