Save Me Sherlock (Sherlock x Depressed Reader)

Chapter 13: Hidden Memories

Before I let you get on with the story, I just want to say how amazing it is that so many of you have been reading my story! Seeing all the interactions has been amazing and I can't thank you enough. I promise to try and respond more often, but without further ado, what you all came here for: another chapter.

- Zoe
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A metallic aroma permeated from the box and you scrunched your nose up in disgust. It was a disgusting smell and god knows how many diseases were in the blood itself, but opening the window didn't seem like a good idea. It certainly wasn't worth risking any neighbors that potentially seeing you holding a bloody rose.

You were, however, more than willing to put gloves on. Grabbing some disposable plastic gloves from the cabinet, you shoved them on before turning back to the box. So funny how a simple box can be so daunting and scary when you know what it contains. Regardless, you gathered up all the courage you could muster you reached your hand out for the rose. Time slowed as your hand seemed to move in slow motion, centimeter by centimeter closer, until finally you picked it up. Except this time there were no images. No seemingly past events appeared. No flashbacks. Nothing.

Relieved and only somewhat disappointed, you took the rose to the sink and began washing it off. Any blood found in your apartment would look more than just suspicious so you had to be sure all of it was gone. When all of the blood was gone from the stem and the petals, you placed it on the counter next to the sink. A proper vase would make it look quite nice and since you didn't really have money to decorate the flat, the ex bloody flower would have to do. Even if it's origin was gruesome, the flat looked just about as boring as it could get, so any added pop was greatly needed. An Ikea display room was more interesting than your actual room for crying out loud.

But for now, there was the matter of the bloody box. You walked over and took a look at it. It was absolutely disgusting. The blood had started to soak into the material, making it visibly soggy and gross, with more blood still gathered above it. If the box was already wet it would be hard to remove, but you could always try. Putting it under the sink you washed out as much of it as you possibly could before placing it on a towel. It looked clean for the most part but to be sorry you wanted to get rid of it. For good. Time to pay a visit to the detective upstairs.

"Sherlock?" you called out as you knocked on his door, holding a plastic bag containing the box.

You could hear the sounds of movement inside but no response. You knocked again. Still nothing.

Taking a quick glance around to make sure that nobody was around you placed the box down on the floor and sat down. Sitting on the steps you listened to the noises from inside. They sounded like Sherlock, very chaotic but poised.

It felt almost nice to sit on the steps and listen to the hustle of life just on the other side of the door. But then you remembered that you were angry at him. For what you supposed what nothing because surely you didn't expect the self proclaimed sociopath to care about you, but nevertheless you were still upset. No wonder everybody always called you a fool.

Deciding to get up and try one more time, you grabbed the box and went to knock on the door. This time the movement inside stopped and you heard Sherlock say "For God's sake I AM BUSY".

"Too busy for free blood samples?" you called out, knowing that this would catch his attention.

The door swung open quickly and there was Sherlock, dressed quite nicely in his dress shirt and pants. You would have stared longer had you had the opportunity.

"That's not blood samples," he said looking down at the bag in your hand.

"Yes, well I may have lied just a tiny bit. There is blood though," you said hoping, pleading he would still help you.

"Clearly," he drawled in annoyance while holding the door wide so you could come in.

You quickly entered as he shut the door behind you. Making your way to the kitchen to place down the box, the groceries were just sitting on the counter in their bags.

"Sherlock, why are your groceries out? Some of the things we bought will go bad!" you exclaimed.

He simply ignored you, taking the plastic bag from your hand and peering inside. Sighing, you began to put away his groceries. The various experiments were left alone as best as they could be, but you occasionally had to move one to fit something. Meanwhile, Sherlock was doing his best to get the blood out of the cardboard.

"I was hoping you could help me get rid of it," you said as you placed a milk carton on the top shelf.

"It's a very easy task. You simply throw it out. How hard can that be? I thought you to be a little slow but not incompetent," Sherlock jabbed.

Feeling his words hit you in the stomach you decided not to say anything. You simply grabbed another item from the counter and put it away. Sherlock didn't seem to notice he upset you.

"I suppose," he said after a few minutes, "I can call in a favor and make sure that nobody finds this box. Make sure it's properly disposed of."

"Thanks..." you mustered, closing the fridge doors and turning around.

He was still pouring over the box, back to you. He looked tense and focused so you decided to just leave and let him be. You got what you had came here for. Nothing more, nothing less. You walked to the door and let yourself out, all the while your heart sinking the tiniest bit at the interaction.

Getting attached is never a good idea, especially to those like Sherlock. You had met people like him before: mean, reserved, humbly egotistical. You should know what to expect of them. But somehow this was different. He was different.

Back in your own apartment you decided to finally put the flower somewhere. Forgetting where you put the vase you had, you found a substitute. The tall glass was promptly filled with water and put in the center of the kitchen table. Next came the rose.

You went to the side of the sink and picked it up. But this time when you touched it you felt yourself start to remember. It was like in slow motion. Watching your hand move towards the rose, realizing you had no glove, feeling it's stem in your fingers, and then the images. Touching it with your bare hand brought back more than just what looking at it had.

(Graphic Content Warning)

You were in a library. The room was chilled and you heard the faint noise of footsteps. You cocked a gun you didn't know was in your hands. You crept through the stacks quietly like you were stalking your prey. Following the faint sounds of shuffling and creaks. Suddenly someone was running only to fall to the ground almost seconds later. The gun was in your hand, aimed perfectly at where he was standing but not having made a single noise with the silencer on.

The next thing you knew was you were pulling a rose out of your coat and walking towards the body. A petal fell on the floor. You came closer to the person. You knelt down and carefully laid it on their chest. It was a clean shot. Right through their skull. You simply got up and slipped away.

You snapped back to reality. The rose was still in your hand but you didn't let go. You couldn't let go. You stood there, tears welling in your eyes and falling down your face. It couldn't be a memory. It couldn't be.

Or could it?