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Red. Bright and dark at once. How fascinating . Deep crimson against stark white. Beautiful in its own way. Reassuring - he was still alive.
It was such a small amount of blood, really, but enough to affirm that Sherlock was really and truly still there. Not a figment of his own imagination. Don’t start that again . But that wasn’t the red that fascinated him.
He fumbled for the bit of leather around his arm and took it loosely in his grasp. It took much more effort than it should have, but Sherlock managed to undo the buckle and a strangled gasp clawed its way out of his throat as heat spread through his veins. He flexed his fingers and felt a warm tingle start at the base of his neck and spread down his spine, thrilling and familiar. Another deep sigh and the collar slipped from his limp grasp.
“Redbeard! Come on, Redbeard!”
Sherlock clenched his eyes against the onslaught of images swimming in his mind. Redbeard… Tartan coat, eyepatch, long red tail - no, that’s not right! Red hair, that made more sense.
Loud, distracting voices shouted from the corridor and Sherlock turned his drowsy gaze toward the sound. Shut up! They didn’t seem to hear him. The girl on the mattress opposite him stretched and her foot nudged against Sherlock’s. She was crying. Twenty… two? Three? Just broken it off with her girlfriend for the… third time? Is that really a reason people relapse? Love? Sentiment? No… to forget…
But that wasn’t why Sherlock was there - he was there to remember.
What Mycroft had been trying to convince Sherlock for years was nothing more than fantasy, Sherlock was convinced was memory. The flashes were so vivid, albeit short. A little boy, a big dog, and a dreadful, cyclical tune.
“Without your love , he'll be gone before. Save pity for strangers, show love the door.”
It never made sense - no part of it made sense. He was forgetting something… he had to be forgetting something.
“My soul seek the shade of my Willow's bloom. Inside, brother mine - let death make a room.”
Brother mine. Brother mine . Mycroft…
“Oh, Sherlock.”
Mycroft?
It was a struggle to get his eyes to focus - they were moving out of rhythm with his thoughts. But finally, Sherlock’s head lolled drunkenly to the side and Mycroft swam into view. He was upside down. No… It must be me. Despite the anger that was always simmering just below the surface of Sherlock’s skin, something about Mycroft’s face, familiar and lined with worry, made Sherlock’s heart swell. Mycroft wouldn’t be there if Sherlock weren’t real. If he didn’t care.
“Hello, brother,” Sherlock slurred. He felt a placid smile roll over his face, but Mycroft did not return it.
“Sherlock, what are you doing here?” Much to Sherlock’s surprise, Mycroft sat down on the dingy cushion beside Sherlock. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s torso and pulled him upright with considerable effort, Sherlock being little more than dead weight.
“I was looking for Redbeard.” Mycroft sighed.
“I’ve told you before, Sherlock. Redbeard is gone.”
“You lie, Mycroft.”
“I’m not lying now .” His words tied a fierce knot in Sherlock’s stomach and he let out a pained cry.
“ Nng… you’re always lying !” His face was wet - he was crying. Sobbing, his body heaving with the sudden influx of emotion. Stop it! STOP. IT. He couldn’t. He wanted so badly to just put the pieces together and be done with the whole damned thing .
A pain rippled through his stomach and Sherlock realized that he was on his side again, his face pressed into the dirty pillow there.
“Sherlock,” Mycroft whispered, his voice resigned and tired, “have you made a list?” Sherlock tried to answer, but found that his voice was being held down by the pain in his stomach. His fingers fumbled in his trouser pocket and managed to extract the small bit of paper. It fell from his grasp as another wave of sobs took him over.
I miss Redbeard… he thought, and even the voice in his head sounded pathetic and weepy. “You took… you took him away.”
“I had to, brother mine,” said Mycroft in that infuriatingly-level tone. “It was for the best.”
“I’ll never trust you again.”
---
Sherlock’s memories were fuzzy - mixed up from years of being conditioned to forget and his own futile attempts to remember. It was part of the reason, he had come to recognize, that he had built his Mind Palace in the first place - so no one would be able to take his memories away ever again.
He had mixed them up for a while - Victor and Redbeard. But after months of trying to suss out what was real and in what order it had happened, he was beginning to put the pieces back together. With no help from Mycroft, of course. Mostly because Sherlock refused to ask him for help.
He was six - maybe seven? - when Victor became the tragic victim of Eurus’s fit of sociopathic jealousy. His best friend, gone forever, cruelly taken away from his family and from Sherlock. Logically, he knew that his parents probably missed Victor more than Sherlock did, but Sherlock had needed him more. No one else had been willing to be his friend. No one else had since. Not until the other Redbeard.
Father was allergic, but an exception simply had to be made. Sherlock was not coping. And besides, he was going away to boarding school - Father would suffer through holidays and breaks. He was the more sentimental parent, after all. Against Mummy’s wishes and Mycroft’s protestations, along came Redbeard.
Irish Setter: silky chestnut coat; height between 61 and 71 cm; intelligent, enthusiastic, affectionate. Commonly utilised as therapy dogs for children.
He had bounded into Sherlock’s arms without hesitation and that had been it. Sherlock had given over his whole heart. He missed Victor so much. So much . He missed his Redbeard. So that was what he called him. Mycroft kept insisting that his name was actually Ignatius, but Sherlock found that ridiculous. Redbeard it was.
For a dog, he was surprisingly empathetic. When Sherlock was sad and illogically missing home, he placed his silky chestnut head on Sherlock’s knee and simply waited. When he was angry, Redbeard goaded him into a game of tug-of-war. He gave chase when Sherlock couldn’t sleep, he cuddled when Sherlock couldn’t get up, and he listened with an intrigued tilt of the head when Sherlock had an idea. And he watched diligently with his head resting over Sherlock’s heart the first time he had been compelled to test his transport on cocaine.
Eurus had said that they never had a dog, but that wasn’t exactly true. She was already gone - she hadn’t known Redbeard. And Sherlock had been all-too-keen to forget her after what she did. Truly, he hadn’t intended to forget her so entirely, but Mycroft had latched onto the notion and ensured it “for Sherlock’s own good”. He had done the same when Redbeard had fallen ill.
He was only twelve. Elderly for an Irish Setter, but Redbeard was exceptional. Mycroft would never convince Sherlock that he was “just a dog”. He could have pulled through, Sherlock knew it. Mycroft didn’t give him a chance. They took him away and put him down and Sherlock could feel his mind beginning to spiral out of control. It wasn’t long before Sherlock found himself looking up at Mycroft from that dingy cushion.
Relapse and rehab. Wash and repeat. Sherlock locked what memories he had in a faraway corridor in his Mind Palace, along with the useless and incapacitating notion of sentiment .
And then - John.
---
Sherlock blinked down at the collar in his hands and swallowed a the surprising lump in his throat.
“Sherlock? You alright?” John’s voice drew his gaze up and he blinked against the burning in his eyes.
He cleared his throat. This was not Redbeard’s collar. It was new and stiff and much, much smaller. And the itch in his forearms was imaginary. He knew that now. “Yeah, I’m - ah - I’m fine.” John’s eyes flicked down to the item in Sherlock’s hand and back up, concern and affection written all over his face.
“Listen, I know thinking about Redbeard is hard for you,” he said gently. “But I think this is going to be good for you.” John shifted the bundle in his arms and gave Sherlock’s elbow a light, reassuring squeeze. “And Rosie is going to love it.”
Sherlock cleared his throat and took a calming breath. “You’re right. Of course you’re right.” With that, he reached out and wrapped the collar around the neck of the Scottish Terrier puppy in John’s arms. He couldn’t help but give his soft chin a little scratch. Sherlock arranged the little silver tag so that the name shone in the soft glow of the Christmas lights strung about the flat. “Arthur.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t go for another Irish Setter, Sherlock,” John said, unable to resist snuggling his cheek against Arthur’s silky black head. The puppy gave a frankly adorable little whimper of contentment and Sherlock swallowed down a dopey grin.
“‘ The old order changeth, yielding place to new ’,” Sherlock recited absently.
“Byron?”
“Tennyson.”
“Mm-hmm.” John gave Arthur a pleasant little bounce and smiled up at Sherlock. “Come on - let’s go wake Rosie.” He reached up and pulled Sherlock gently down by the back of his head, planting a firm kiss on his lips before turning toward the stairs. It was all Sherlock would ever need again.