Notes:

This work wouldn't be possible without foreverwholocked, my fantastic beta and britpicker. She does an amazing job putting up with my writing and having the patience to answer my questions! Thank you so much, dear! (Oh God, I sound like Mrs. Hudson!)

This work is unapologetically inspired by Saving Sherlock Holmes by earlgreytea68 (on ao3), a story that I've read more than ten times, and my favorite work of all. If you haven't read it yet, please do it!

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The title is from a The Used song that was kind of important to me when I was a teenager:

"Today I fell and felt better
Just knowing this matters
I just feel stronger and sharper
Found a box full of sharp objects what a beautiful thing"

(The Used - A Box Full of Sharp Objects)

I hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I did writing! (: I'll try to keep my updates on a weekly basis, I hope you'd like to follow!

Reviews are always welcome!

Now, let's get started!

OOooOOooOOooOO

CHAPTER 1

It wasn't something unexpected, really.

After so much time running through London, chasing criminals and being completely unobservant of his own well-being; it wasn't a surprise that Sherlock Holmes would get a serious injury.

After all, John Watson could only be Sherlock's protector to a certain point. He couldn't just read Sherlock's mind and immediately know where the detective would run to on his own. Fortunately, he knew his flatmate was a stupid genius and the help arrived sooner than later.

A blunt force trauma to the head. Surely Sherlock would love the jargon. A ridiculously vicious blow to the head that left the consulting detective laying on the hospital bed for three weeks, waking up from time to time only to find John spread uncomfortably on the plastic chair, never leaving his side. But who would be surprised by that? Only Sherlock; the idiot.

Also, only Sherlock, the idiot, would think he could be able to fool Doctor John Watson, trying to convince him that things were fine. Sherlock remained stoic and petulant, but his friend just knew that something was off. Mycroft had visited Sherlock a few days ago, and was welcomed only by silence rather than an insult or an annoyed quip at his diet – so John knew something was definitely wrong.

It wasn't unexpected; disorientation and memory loss weren't rare consequences of that kind of injury.

After observing Sherlock for a week, John realized that the detective knew very well who he, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and Molly were, but couldn't shake off the feeling that Sherlock seemed a bit lost in his own character.

He was definitely the same brilliant bastard, deducing the nurse's affair and the hospital doctor's recent trip to Hawaii for a private and embarrassing reason, but John wasn't satisfied.

And he knew that asking Sherlock if everything was fine was the most disappointing way of getting nowhere. He decided to take the matter into his own hands – or rather, Mycroft's hands.

So it didn't surprise John when after three days of being back home, Sherlock received a rather large wooden trunk, probably more valuable than every piece of furniture in Baker Street combined. John tried to hide his own self-satisfied smile, but of course, he couldn't.

"Are you going to act with my brother behind my back now?" Sherlock asked, without really paying any attention to the trunk. He regarded it suspiciously from the sofa, and continued to get himself into a sulking mood.

John rolled his eyes. Really, sometimes it was like living with a diva, what with all the dramatic coats and dressing gowns. "Don't be daft. I know you need it. I'm a quite good doctor," he said, bringing Sherlock a steaming mug of tea and placing it on the coffee table.

Sherlock just sulked even more. "Well, nobody in the hospital seemed to notice, so stop wasting your medical training on me; I'm fine. Go bother someone else with it."

John should be offended, but he hadn't been a Captain in the army for nothing. He could only grin at the sulking detective and think of a million ways to be even more annoying. "Yes, but those doctors aren't really your doctors, are they? Guess who is your doctor? Me. I also happen to live with you and I plan making your life a living hell if you don't sit up right now and drink your bloody tea. And today you're eating lunch," he said, smirking. "Be nice to your friend - who also happens to be your doctor - if you don't want Lestrade to ban you from crime scenes for the next month," he finished, already going back to the kitchen.

"You wouldn't dare," Sherlock hissed.

"Oh, try me, Sherlock Holmes. Just bloody try me."

"You wouldn't stand me without crime scenes for a month!"

"I invaded Afghanistan, I was a trauma surgeon at war for almost a decade. And," he paused, "I live with you." John said tacitly, hoping to have made his point and maybe – just maybe – enjoying just a little too much his friend's fragile state. At Sherlock surprised expression, John could only grin some more. "Good. Now, drink your damn tea."

For the rest of that day, John's plan had been fairly simple: he was going to go out to finally meet his current girlfriend for some dinner and maybe a movie, after weeks without seeing her.

It would have been be useless, anyway. How could he have a date while Sherlock was in hospital, sleeping alone in an unfamiliar room, and risking him waking up disorientated, calling for John? That wouldn't do. He was just sparing Katherine the embarrassment of being left behind in a restaurant when someone called him saying that Sherlock was awake.

Katherine had not been happy about it. The same argument he had had over and over again with his girlfriends, his sister, or anyone who didn't know Sherlock: 'he's sucking the life out of you', 'he doesn't deserve it', and his favourite one, 'he's taking advantage of you'. In John's opinion, those people could just sod off, because he was a grown-up, thank you very much, and Sherlock didn't do anything that John didn't let him do.

Unbelievable as it was, John had actually chosen that life. Surely, having a girlfriend to have dinner and some sex (if it wasn't too much to ask) would be lovely, but being a doctor and a fighter was what he did; it was who he was. He'd be damned if anything else was more important than this.

Katherine probably wouldn't last long because they weren't seeing each other. If John was honest with himself, he knew that that would be their last date. He should probably be worried, but he had a consulting detective to look after; he didn't have the time.

And quite frankly, not even he could understand why he still bothered with the girlfriend thing. One does not keep a girlfriend and be Sherlock's flatmate (and doctor, and friend, and partner, and butler – Oh God, what is his life?) at the same time. It's simply impossible. It's basic physics. How can he be with a girlfriend when Sherlock would occupy every single second of his time? – and honestly, it didn't bother him as much as he reckoned it should. Normally John would be cross about Sherlock driving him away and shutting him out, and not about the other way around. Well, he chose not to think about this very much. Things are the way they are. And John is a man of action, not a philosopher, for Christ's sake.

So that day the plan was Katherine. At least it was.

Sherlock couldn't explain exactly what was wrong with him. And for him to admit that would be similar to the end of the world. How could he not know something? It was maddening, really.

His life was a blur. Surely he remembered his brother and his parents, his grandparents, but for some unknown reason, all events from his childhood and early years seemed blurry and distant. Too distant for him to remember. And he was Sherlock Holmes, he remembered everything he wanted.

Maybe the injury had damaged the parts which he kept hidden, and didn't access much.

The trunk had been a great idea. He knew that. John wasn't only a great doctor, he was a thoughtful friend, and he would always come up with the best solutions for these kinds of things. Sherlock was really good at helping people find clues and criminals, but John was even better in helping his friends. The trunk could help, but Sherlock couldn't bring himself to open it.

Being afraid wasn't something the detective was used to. Being afraid of his own mind was even worse. Surely he was used to paying the price for the brain he had. Of course all of that data, the speed of his thoughts, the inability to shut it down had always been there. But Sherlock had never been afraid. He had always done what he had to do to deal with his own mind: cases, cocaine, violin, more cocaine.

But now he was afraid. Afraid of not being able to restore the corridors and rooms of his Mind Palace, afraid of losing the memories he had had the trouble to keep hidden, but safe.

What if he couldn't remember properly? What if the data got mixed and he got confused? What if the damage got in the way of The Work?

What if all the floating data damaged the other memories? What if the other rooms in his Mind Palace were damaged in the process?

No. That wouldn't do.

Sherlock was almost convinced that the best thing to do was to ignore the whole thing, to wait for the memories to get back without help. He, the great Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, was afraid of some brain work. He, the self-proclaimed sociopath, was afraid of all the sentiment attached to the memories he would have to access. He wasn't stupid. He knew memories weren't only facts, even if he really liked to pretend most of the time. For example, he knew that knowing all the jumpers John had wasn't only the fact that John had many jumpers, but also what Sherlock had felt every single time John had used every single one of those hideous jumpers of his. Thinking about all the sentiment that was kept in that trunk made Sherlock shiver.

He didn't want to do it. From the moment he saw the damn thing he didn't want to open it. He didn't know what Mycroft had gathered and he wasn't sure he wanted to know. Sherlock was starting to feel miserable – not that he would say this out loud, of course. He curled into the smallest ball he could, and wished the wooden thing would just go away along with all the confusion inside his head. He couldn't think, and at the same time he thought too much. Some of the data inside his mind didn't make any sense, and how could he make any sense of things if he was afraid of opening a simple wooden box?

Sherlock was so lost in his own mind that he almost didn't notice his flatmate beside him.

"Sit up, let me see your head," John said, sitting on the coffee table.

Sherlock huffed. "Really, John, my head is right here on my neck, I'm sure you can see it."

John rolled his eyes. Dear Lord, give patience. "Up, come on," he said, choosing not to have a useless argument about the place of the head, and grabbed Sherlock by the arm. He examined the healing scar and seemed satisfied. Looking at the still closed trunk, he frowned. "Why haven't you opened it yet? It's going to help you to be less confused."

Sherlock looked miserably at his trunk and shuddered. "I'm not sure about that."

Sherlock looked miserable. And that alone was enough to make John worried. It was always a possibility that Sherlock could seem uninterested in opening the trunk because he thought it would be useless, but this was different. John knew Sherlock and that look on his face wasn't nonchalance, it was fear.

John was never prepared to see that look on Sherlock's face, that look he had on his face when he thought he had seen a gigantic hound. John was never prepared to realize how young Sherlock seemed in those times.

"What is it?" John asked, and that wasn't Doctor Watson, that was John, Sherlock's best friend.

"My Mind Palace is damaged, I'm worried the data will get mixed," Sherlock said, sitting with his knees up, and his chin rested on them. "I'm thinking too much, but my thoughts aren't quite right, I'm not sure about my memories. My brain doesn't work the way yours does, I don't know if I can control the data inside my own head," he said. And John could see his hands shaking lightly.

"Okay, I understand. Answer me honestly. Are you feeling any sort of headache? Please, be honest. Any minor one?" John asked, worried. Sherlock's brain really wasn't a common one, but that could be the result of some late brain bleeding. Maybe the result of some pain Sherlock chose not to verbalize. It wouldn't be the first time.

"John, I'm not an idiot. I wouldn't put myself in risk of cerebral bleeding!"

But John didn't seem convinced.

"I'm not in pain!" Sherlock raised his voice. "I'm afraid of losing data that I won't be able to gather again. That," he said pointing to the wooden trunk just beside the coffee table, "might be too much."

John resisted the urge of taking Sherlock's hand or of offering any physical contact to show support. He knew Sherlock wouldn't like it. And he wasn't sure which one of them needed more reassurance. Seeing Sherlock getting worked up about his own brain always worried John. The bullets in the wall, the pig's blood and the harpoon, the cocaine, the nicotine patches. Sherlock always functioned in such high speed that John was always afraid that someday Sherlock would be a train wreck he wouldn't be able to stop. And if he couldn't, who would?

"Just... Go away. Leave me alone," Sherlock said, trying to curl into a ball even tighter.

Normally John would oblige without second thoughts. Actually, normally Sherlock didn't have to ask John to leave him alone. The two of them functioned so well together because these things weren't needed. John wasn't Molly; he didn't try to make small talk with Sherlock. John just let him be. In fact, Sherlock was the one who talked so much to John that sometimes he didn't even bother checking if the doctor was at home or not.

That day John thought better than to obey, though. He just knew.

"I won't leave you alone today, Sherlock." he said, only to feel Sherlock's surprised gaze on him. "Maybe I can help you. I can show you one object at a time, and you try to remember something about it, okay? You can tell me if you think that would be better. You normally think better talking out loud, don't you? I'll open the trunk for you and we'll do this." Yes, John sounded like a mother hen. Something between his own mother and Mrs. Hudson. He even thought he would call Sherlock 'dear' and bake him scones if it would help him to be less frightened. John would never admit that, but a frightened Sherlock was one of the only things John was afraid of. "I'll make tea and we can spend the evening getting your thoughts straight, hm?"

"I-" Sherlock seemed confused. He narrowed his eyes. "You have a date today. You haven't met anyone these past few weeks, so it must be the last one. I don't remember her boring name, I deleted it."

Oh. Damn it. Damn it, damn it. Poor Katherine.

"You know what? Don't bother. You have important things to remember. I'll call her to cancel." John said, already standing up and heading for his room. "I'm going to change and then I'm going to make same tea. And you are eating biscuits."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but smiled. "I... I appreciate it," Sherlock said, so low that for a moment John didn't know if he had actually heard it. "... but still there's no need", he finished, even lower. And this time, John really didn't hear.

Not that Sherlock would like him to hear.

Frankly, what would Sherlock do without John?

Well, poor Katherine. John could only laugh. Surely it was some kind of intervention from God. John would be better off just leaving the poor girl alone. He should feel more concerned about how easy it was for him to spend a month cancelling dates, but he was only feeling guilty about the girl. She was such a nice person, and he hoped she would find someone who at least would give her some time.

John thought about sending a simple text. But what could he write?

'Sorry, I'm cancelling again, because Sherlock has a trunk he's afraid to open. The trunk is more important than you. But I would stay home if he had a headache too. I would stay home if he didn't eat his dinner too. Yes, I would probably stay home if he seemed troubled in his sleep'.

Oh God.

Really, what could he text the poor girl? He had to call her.

"Hi! I'm so sorry, but I'll have to cancel tonight- Yes, I know, you're right- No, I don't think you're stupid- I know, you're right..." John stood in his room, holding the phone with his shoulder and changing his jeans to comfortable pyjamas bottoms. Why did he want to go out anyway?

"Yes, I'm still here- No, you're right, I already said that. He's injured- I'm a doctor, I can't leave him-" John sighed. Why did he want to go out indeed? And Kat had this annoying voice! Good Lord in Heaven, just shut up.

"Listen!" John said, raising his voice, despite himself. "You're not listening. I already told you you're right, what do you want me to say?" John let her babble and changed his shirt for an old t-shirt.

Really, pyjamas, socks and tea. Who cares about going out anyway? "Yes- He has memory loss! Yes, it was probably his fault. Listen-" John sighed. It was surprising that he managed to control his anger. If Kat only knew of his rows with the chip and pin machine, she would just shut up and hung up on him.

"Listen, Kat! You're not listening! You're right about priorities, he is my priority, I'm sorry if I didn't tell you before. But it should've been obvious-" Yep. Just like that, Kat finally gave up.

Good God.

After finishing one of the most vexing conversations with Kat, John finally went downstairs and prepared a tray with tea, milk, sugar and a plate of biscuits. Sherlock was still in the same position John had left him some minutes before. The detective snapped from his thoughts and smirked at John.

"Trouble in paradise?" he asked nonchalantly.

What could John do, honestly? He could only laugh. "Oh, just shut up; I'm feeling relieved. Poor girl," John said, shaking his head, and leaving the tray on the coffee table. He pushed Sherlock to the other side of the sofa, so that John could be next to the trunk. "Eat," he said, shoving the plate of biscuits on Sherlock's lap.

"Again with the eating?" Sherlock asked, trying to sound petulant, but not quite managing.

"Always," John said, trying to grin with a mouthful of biscuits. "So, let's get started, then. Is this trunk yours or Mycroft's?"

Sherlock took a deep breath. Maybe John was right. This could help.

"It was Mummy's. It was placed in my parents' room when I was a child. Near the foot of their bed," Sherlock sighed, looking intently at the trunk.

"Right, nice. It's beautiful; looks expensive. Is it a family thing?" John asked.

"I think so, yes," Sherlock answered, seeming lost in his own thoughts.