TABULA RASA

SHERLOCK. Gosh, what more can I say about the series that gave me one of my favorite fandoms ever?

Just to note that for this story, the world is a little bit more magical than what we normal people are used to, and we start off with Sherlock and John in their mid-twenties, they're a little bit more grounded on actual day-to-day life, and are making the (hopefully) natural progression to where they are at the start of series one. This story is based on an original story I wrote (and have not yet published), but with different elements in place to satisfy my fan girl heart.

A few disclaimers before we jump right in:

I do not own anyone (i.e., characters, etc) or anything (i.e., lines, scenes, concepts, etc) from the BBC Sherlock series. Absolutely no copyright infringement intended.

I'm rubbish with creative deductions of my own, so pardon the lack of cleverness in the flimsy ones you'll see throughout the story.

Some events in this story are inspired by my own experiences, and should you see yourself in the story, then let me give you a high five, but that honestly was not my intention.

In line with the second point – expect some bouts of questionable characterization here and there, and if you feel it can be improved, drop me an email at ficamaze . I love constructive feedback.

July 27, 2005

It was completely unexpected and unplanned, that first encounter.

They went to different universities and had their first encounter during the birthday of a common friend, Mike Stamford. They barely talked for two hours, and only turned to each each other when everyone else in the group was inebriated beyond comprehension.

The blonde man chuckled awkwardly. "So, hi, I'm—"

"John Watson, medical student," Sherlock said instantly, observing his companion carefully. "You recently got together with your high school best friend and you have a family member who comes home drunk on a regular basis."

John looked like he was mercilessly doused in ice-cold water. "How did you guess that?" he said in a hoarse voice.

"I don't guess, I see," Sherlock said a little snappily. The man, though shorter and stockier than Sherlock was, listened as Sherlock started prattling on about what he saw that gave away so much of what John was. "Eye bags, but you seem to not have the gusto for a party like this, and you come in fairly late with a couple of books thick enough to be either law texts or medical texts. Given that there are no evening pre-law classes, I assumed medical student."

"Ok-aaaaay," John said carefully. "But how could you possibly know about—"

Sherlock waved a hand. "Shot in the dark, but I'm pleased to see it hit the mark," he said carelessly. "You've been glancing at your phone for the last two hours: with a smile every time you see an amorous couple around, but she isn't calling you too frequently, so possibly someone you know rather well, a best friend is the logical conclusion."

"On the other hand, every time you see a person completely intoxicated with alcohol, you frown and turn to your phone again, as if to check on someone close to you. Again, logic dictates it's someone close to you – not a friend, as I assume most of them are here with you now, family is the most likely answer, I'll pin it down to either your father or your brother."

John drew a sharp breath. "That was…" The other man tensed slightly, as though he was preparing himself for a good socking. "Extraordinary, quite extraordinary."

The dark-haired man gave a start, looking at John curiously. "You think so?"

John nodded earnestly. "I really do."

"That's… not what people usually say."

"What do they usually say?"

The taller man's lips quirked in a smile. "Piss off."

John laughed, shaking his head and putting a hand in front of him. "Your name, then?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

"So, Sherlock, care to look around the room and tell me more of the interesting life stories around?" John said with an amused twinkle in his eyes.

Cliché as it was, it was magic from midnight to sunrise for the pair. When the night was giving way to the dawn, Sherlock found himself saying yes to John offering him a lift home. The easy conversation and laughter from the last hours continued all the way to the six blocks that they drove together, with Sherlock in the passenger seat.

It was replaced, however, by a silence fraught with tension as John grinded the car to a stop and turned to face Sherlock, apparently at a loss for words.

So of course, Sherlock jumped right in and did the worst possible thing he could to seal the tension: he closed the gap between them and placed his lips over John's.

For a few glorious seconds, John responded enthusiastically, and all he could do was to think about how perfect the feeling of John's lips were on his: dry, flaky; peppermint and tea; warm on the outside, cool on the inside; completely addicting, and how he never before felt this kind of rush and joy—

"No, no, no, I'm sorry," John gasped suddenly, pulling back with wide and scared eyes. He opened his mouth to say something, but instead, he whimpered, lower lip trembling and eyes brimming with unshed tears of despair as he looked away.

"Oh God, what will I tell Mary… oh God, oh God…" He trailed off, mumbling incomprehensibly to himself, shaking with grief.

Now this was a world where some people had special abilities that were once deemed supernatural. Some abilities were harmless enough: speaking in tongues and teleporting, for instance.

Sherlock Holmes, with his genius and clever deductions, was one such gifted individual, but his ability was something that could not be easily discussed or accepted: any memory involving him that he wanted gone was gone, with just a touch of his hand and a few words he only uttered when absolutely needed.

And now, seeing a desperate John Watson in the driver's seat, shaking with the knowledge of what passed between them, Sherlock knew there was only one thing he could do. Ignoring the pain in his chest, Sherlock reached out and cupped a hand on John's forehead, muttering the words alongside promises of how it was going to be all right when he woke up much later.

Sherlock realized a couple of days later that he had overdone the memory wipe when he casually checked up on John with Mike Stamford: John had responded 'who?' and swore up and down that he never met interacted with anyone from the party.

Perhaps Sherlock had confused him for another one of the many Johns that probably went to Mike's party, he told Mike. Whatever it was, John Watson had completely forgotten him and now just their mistake (as Sherlock cynically called it in his mind).

Sherlock told himself that it was a good thing that John had forgotten him: it would make forgetting about that night, setting it aside in his vast mind palace, that much easier for him.

October 16, 2007

Sherlock liked working at New Scotland Yard, though of course refusing the constraints and benefits of regular employment. He liked being clever, being a beacon of light to unsolved mysteries, and he found that the work was absolutely addicting, something he can't believe he ever lived without.

The team was talking about the trainee doctor coming in, but he wasn't paying much attention when they gossiped about the man. It was horribly dull to listen to banter like that.

However, Sherlock's world stopped when one of the team members finally got a hold of a name to attach to the gossip: Sherlock's mind went blank as he stared at Lestrade, who was talking about John Watson, and how bright this young guy was, and how excited they were to have him on the team…

Of all the ridiculous things in this world.

John looked much the same as Sherlock remembered him: he had the same ash blonde hair and stormy blue eyes, with a friendly smile and a relaxed posture as he greeted the whole team. He lost weight since Sherlock last saw him, but not enough to be considered thin – he was still stockier than Sherlock was – and his face seemed more mature, less carefree, and more guarded this time.

On reflex, Sherlock's eyes landed on John's chapped lips, and he was bothered by a memory that was threatening to surface: dry, flaky; peppermint and tea; warm and cool; addicting—

"Sherlock, this is John Watson. John, this is Sherlock Holmes, one of our consultants," Lestrade said as Sherlock mindlessly took John's outstretched hand, earning a look of surprise from Lestrade. "I, well… I'll see you both later, yeah?" he said lamely, still eyeing Sherlock suspiciously as he exited.

John gave him a smile, and it unnerved Sherlock to see how unchanged that smile was (he wondered why he remembered his smile). "Hi, uh… teammate," John said with a trace of nervousness and caution.

So, John really didn't remember him.

This was going to be fun – at least, he would try to make it fun. It didn't take much, really: it was clear that he was still with the woman called Mary Morstan, his high school best friend (Sherlock tried very hard not to remember John shaking in the driver's seat of the car as he assessed how delicious his lips were on his). Also, Sherlock found that his drunk brother had gotten progressively worse.

Sherlock gave out the very same deductions he made two years ago, and it was amazing how exact John's reactions were; how unnervingly constant and unchanging the man was.

Needless to say, it got Sherlock very interested, indeed, and this time, he was sure it would be no problem. Sherlock was confident that the night two years ago would not make another appearance – what happened would stay only in his repressed memories, and he was determined to create new memories with John Watson that did not involve his lips on Sherlock's, in the comfort of a beat-up car in the sunrise.

They would be friends. No, better than that, they would be partners.

January 6, 2008

Sherlock should have figured that he couldn't escape things forever.

It was his birthday, and someone in the Yard thought it would be a good idea to throw him a rowdy surprise party. Everyone had turned up with drinks in hand, and the party was getting out of hand, alcohol loosening everyone up and bringing down the walls between people.

John smiled awkwardly as he took a seat next to Sherlock, who looked at the smaller man warily. It was absolutely baffling as to why John was so uncomfortable in his own skin but still commanded a certain presence whenever he walked into the room. He found it amazing as to how John had no idea what the effect he had on the people around them – Sherlock knew of at least three people in different departments who were interested in John, and didn't want to admit that the thought somehow bothered him.

"Having fun?" John asked dryly.

Sherlock raised a glass to John. "I'm speechless," he deadpanned.

The blonde man laughed. "And here I was thinking you'd outlive God having that last word."

The dark-haired man snorted. "Wherever God is now, He's certainly not in this celebration of life," he mused.

"I'll drink to that, Sherlock," John said as he downed his shot in one gulp.

Sherlock shrugged. "Might as well, then," he acquiesced as he followed suit.

Try as they might to avoid it, the night came to the inevitable saturation point of inebriation and happiness, and for some reason, Sherlock found himself walking barefoot down the hall to his office with John giggling by his side. They were talking about the success of their respective roles, and just how beautiful life was, when Sherlock stopped to think about how beautiful John was, and why he didn't have the man in his arms…

Well, it was time he did something about that.

It came almost as naturally as the first time: Sherlock laughed, pulled John into his room, and crowded him against the wall before he tasted his lips again. Sherlock's mind was blissfully blank, save for the thought of how delicious and soft the kiss was, and – dear Lord, what was his name again – how this moment, this kiss was so much better than the first one: dry, flaky; peppermint and tea; warm and cool; completely addicting, just like before—

The sudden comparison in his mind jolted him to reality, and this time, it was Sherlock who pulled away. John's eyes were wide and scared, exactly as they were two years ago, and Sherlock cursed himself for being utterly mindless.

"Has this happened before?" John asked, confused at his own question.

Sherlock ran through the options he had quickly: tell John the truth, deflect the question, or lie. When he saw the way John looked at him, though, and how hard he was trying to remain calm (Sherlock noted how the years certainly seemed to have brought on a certain sense of maturity about him), he nodded. "Yes."

John frowned, slightly bewildered. "How?"

It didn't take long for Sherlock to explain, or for John to understand: the world was strange, after all, and Sherlock was no less stranger. When Sherlock finished his explanation of what happened two years ago, John lapsed into silence for the next ten minutes, looking everywhere but at Sherlock.

After what seemed like an eternity, John asked quietly, "Can you make me forget?"

His request hit Sherlock with the force of a sledgehammer. "Do you mean… you want to forget about…" Sherlock gestured uselessly between them, but John understood.

John hung his head in shame. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. It was a mistake," he admitted.

Sherlock gulped, understanding the meaning of his request perfectly: John had too much to lose for just Sherlock, and he wasn't willing to risk everything he had for him. He couldn't blame him, not really – after all, who could want to risk it all for Sherlock Holmes?

When he reached out to cup John's forehead, uttering the dreaded words to make him forget, Sherlock swore he would never make the mistake of being a mistake again.

June 2, 2008

Sherlock and John solved yet another case together.

Sherlock was so happy he could kiss someone.

So he kissed John.

Dry, flaky.

September 16, 2008

John told Sherlock that he and Mary were to start a long-distance relationship – she was moving to the States for her post-graduate studies. It was the day after she left, and it was also John's birthday.

John was ninety-nine parts laughing and one-part crying when he opened Sherlock's gift to him, a horrendously ugly jumper that they had joked about John wearing to keep himself warm while Mary was gone. He put it over his head and grinned at Sherlock.

Peppermint and tea.

December 24, 2008

"Happy Christmas, partner."

The mistletoe above them was lime green in the pale lighting. Sherlock was thinking of a spiteful refutation to John's soft greeting, but he found that his mind had betrayed him in the last minute as he gazed down at John, who was coming dangerously close to him.

Green was rather John's color, Sherlock decided, and he vaguely wondered how anyone could possibly look like a beautiful Christmas morning with green skin—

Warm on the outside, cool on the inside.

January 25, 2009

Completely addicting.

He hated himself, and Sherlock Holmes knew there was nothing and no one he hated more in the world right now.

He was exhausted beyond words, and he wondered once more why he never got to acquire a sense of self-preservation when it came to John Watson. He didn't know why he never stopped coming in to press their lips together, why he didn't just walk away, despite the fact that something in him stopped every time John would remember, only for him to beg Sherlock to take it all away again.

"This happened before," John mused as he took a step back.

"I can make you forget," Sherlock said automatically, hand already moving up to cup his forehead as usual. He gave a start when John's hand came up to stop the movement.

"You've erased this before," John accused with narrowed eyes.

Sherlock scoffed. "You always asked for it."

John shook his head. "I couldn't—I mean, I wouldn't—"

"But you did," Sherlock cut in harshly. "Because, as you said, John, it's a mistake."

"Is it?"

"That's what you always say," Sherlock said flatly.

"Is it a mistake to you?" John asked softly.

Sherlock's blue-grey eyes searched John. "Since when do you care?"

John flinched, looking away, and Sherlock instantly regretted his tone. He reached for him, but John took a careful step back. "John, try to understand," Sherlock said in a clipped tone. "This was always a mistake to you, because you never wanted to lose Mary."

The mention of Mary's name brought back the usual sadness and fear Sherlock was used to seeing now, and Sherlock knew at that moment he made his point. Carefully, Sherlock brought his hand back up to cup his forehead and, this time, John did not stop him (though every fiber of Sherlock wished John would stop him this time).

John's eyes, full of guilt (and maybe to Sherlock's disillusioned mind, desire) stared back at him as all faded to black.

July 7, 2009

The last few months seemed to be a meaningless blur to Sherlock.

The burden of the moments and the knowledge only he in the world possessed was taking its toll on his health: he had turned to nicotine and cocaine to dull his senses once in a while, and had started rejecting food on cases. Sleep was evading him more often recently, but all this, really, seemed to make Sherlock that much of a better consulting detective to the Yard, all of whom didn't seem to notice that something was amiss.

It seemed to have gotten worse when John Watson announced that he was leaving the Yard to be commissioned to the Middle East as an army medic in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, but Sherlock would say this was just due to the increasing number of criminal cases he had to solve.

It was the night of the send-off party for John. Though Sherlock did his best to stay away from drinks and from John, he still found himself alone with him when they met in the hallway and stared at each other for five long seconds.

Sherlock knew he was a goner: he found himself in the exact same moment that preceded a dreaded kiss, but before he could even move, Sherlock found himself shocked as John took the bold two steps forward and closed the gap between them; this time making the move to press his lips against Sherlock's.

Having John start the kiss and not just return it was a special kind of high for Sherlock. He ran his fingers through John's short hair and tried to take several steadying breaths as he marveled how delicious, how beautiful, how earth-shattering the kiss was, trying his best not to think about how – in a little while – John would break away, ask him to break the spell, and break his...

"You're thinking too loudly," John growled. "Stop that."

"You don't know what I'm thinking of," Sherlock grunted in reply as he pushed John into an empty room, shutting the door behind him. "And I can't help it. You know that."

They took their time rediscovering each other's lips for the first and what seemed like the hundredth time. Something changed between them, but Sherlock was determined not to think about that now, not with John in his arms, kissing him like he was the only one who mattered in the world—

"I'm sorry," John said gently. When Sherlock was ready to give his standard line, John continued. "I'm sorry I hurt you each and every time we do this, Sherlock."

Sherlock stared at John in wonder. "You remember?"

John shook his head, looking a little lost. "I can't explain it, but I know what happened. I guess the dreams I've had aren't dreams, after all." He chuckled bitterly. "And I know I hurt you every time I asked you to make me forget. I'm sorry. You don't deserve that."

Sherlock nodded mutely, in acceptance of what always came, and he reached to cup his forehead, but John intercepted his hand and shook his head gently. "Not this time, Sherlock."

Sherlock started at him, wondering what was happening. "But… you have Mary and this is a mistake," he parroted helplessly, panic filling him quickly.

"Sherlock, listen to me—"

"No," Sherlock snapped. "No, John Watson, for once, you listen to me!" Sherlock barked, his mind spinning painfully. Whatever it was he was feeling was awful, and it felt like his insides were being torn apart at the seams. "I've had to erase how many of these trysts with you in the last four years, so would you kindly acquiesce to shutting up for five minutes and let me speak.

You have asked me to make you forget everything like they were mere dark memories that did not deserve to see the light of day in your life, and I've never asked you for anything, but I will ask you for something now. Just don't say another word and ask me to believe it, because we all know how good a man John Watson is to keep his honorable word!" Sherlock spat venomously, shaking in fury.

"Sherlock—"

"I said NO, John!" Sherlock shouted furiously, punching the wall behind him, much to his own shock. John watched him wordlessly for a few minutes, and Sherlock wondered what it was that John saw: a pathetic man heaving dry sobs that couldn't seem to come out, something in him breaking repeatedly, as though each moment Sherlock erased himself from the memory of John was relived in high definition.

"Sherlock, I need to tell you something," John said gently as he reached out for him. "I get it now. And I don't want to do this anymore. Not to you. And I want—"

"I don't care what you want," Sherlock growled as he swiped John's hand away and angrily thrust his hand forward to cup his forehead forcibly, willing John to forget. He chalked it up to his overactive imagination and vision playing tricks on him, that a look of panic filled John's face when he realized what Sherlock was going to do.

"No, Sherlock, listen to me, please, I want to l—"

"Never forget me," Sherlock said angrily, watching John's eyes roll back in his head with Sherlock's words, slumping to the floor unconscious. He looked at the prone body of John Watson, eyes hard as he stepped out of the room.

November 24, 2009

Life went on for Sherlock.

He found it interesting that he thought of John only whenever he was on the highest of highs from his drugs, his best source of the rush and joy he could only associate with very few things in this world. He couldn't remember the last rush he had that felt this good.

Or maybe he did.

Lestrade told him once, over lunch, that John and Mary had split up even before the send-off party. No one knew why, but a common friend had hinted that John confessed to Mary that there was someone else he wanted to try it out with, but Sherlock barely paid any attention.

That was the night Sherlock wondered what it would be like to mix several solutions in one go.

Weeks later, when he found out that John had already gone to war, he found that he didn't care.

Really, he didn't, he chuckled to himself as he gave himself yet another shot and his senses went mercifully blank, but he could hear the sound of Lestrade's panicked voice by his door, and the odd sirens of the ambulance in the distance.

Sherlock Holmes prided himself on being able to let go of that night as easily as he did, especially since he would probably never see John Watson again.

Dry

Flaky

Peppermint

Tea

Warm

Cool

October 16, 2014

Mike brought a friend with him, doubtless someone he thought was a suitable flat mate for Sherlock: two pairs of foot falls were making their way to the room. Sherlock wondered how Mike could be this confident in this recommendation, not when he would probably chase off the man to unreasonable places with whatever he would see in the moron—

Of all the ridiculous things in this world.

John gave him a polite smile, one reserved for old acquaintances. "It's good to see you again, Sherlock."

Days later, they confronted the poor American in the cab, and they made it back to the apartment building, wheezing out laughter and catching their breath. Sherlock stole a side-long glance at John, who beamed back up at him and – without hesitation – cupped Sherlock's face in his hands and drew him in for a long kiss.

This time, it was natural.

Dry, flaky.

There was no all-consuming passion that over Sherlock, and both of them leaned into it and navigated through it at the exact same pace.

Peppermint and tea.

It was a perfect blend of give and take, and there was a warm feeling blossoming inside Sherlock as he thought to himself that maybe this time, John need not forget about him.

Warm on the outside, cool on the inside.

Maybe he didn't want to.

Completely addicting.

They broke apart after a long while, bumping their foreheads together. Finally, after a few seconds of silence, John smiled, before his face melted into a stern look.

"You will never make me forget you again, Sherlock Holmes," John said decisively, his eyes hard. "I'd kill someone before you'd even think of trying."

In that moment, Sherlock nodded mutely, because he knew that all those years of uncertainty only highlighted this instance, this perfect memory, one they could both keep this time, and one that could make him forget about all the other memories they created but did not keep together.

As he pulled John in closer, Sherlock Holmes couldn't for the life of him remember all the things that used to matter to him just moments ago.

And he found that he didn't mind at all.