Who? Sherlock Where? Who knows where- When? Saturday What? Sherlock's unconscious mind is a minefield. Featuring mind!cameos from Mycroft, John and Lestrade Rating? Low.
Sherlock's earliest memory comes from when he is three years old. He is sitting on the window seat looking out over the mist that is drifting over the grounds, erasing anything beyond the first edge of the paddocks. He remembers seeing one of the groundsmen going out of the stables with a gun and he remembers thinking how strange that is because it isn't hunting season and he can't see far enough to shoot. Sherlock thinks he should tell mummy or daddy and he scrambles to the edge of the window seat. He remembers falling but he doesn't remember anything more until ten year old Mycroft is hefting him into his arms and calling for mummy instead. Over and over again.
Sherlock knows he's bleeding because his face feels sticky.
The memory skips again until Sherlock is in the nursery and Mycroft is holding a bandage to his head, looking at him with concern, his lips moving but Sherlock can't hear the words. He remembers staring at Mycroft's face and wondering at the worry.
It's the same look Mycroft wears fourteen years later when seventeen year old Sherlock wakes up in hospital. He's been at Harrow for four months, his one and only year of public schooling before he goes to Oxford. But the other boys are cruel to him and Sherlock doesn't have the natural people skills Mycroft has. The first time he is in hospital it is completely intentional. But when he returns to school no one speaks to him at all. And that is much preferred.
He's more subtle about the drugs when he's at Oxford. That fades now, easily enough. Fades away to nothing. It's not a memory he treasures.
Lestrade is with Mycroft the second time Sherlock is in hospital. Just over a year before he meets John. The October before the Christmas Mummy is angry with them both and Sherlock blames Mycroft. Lestrade is around a lot more after that. Weekly. Sherlock likes him. Probably more than Lestrade's wife does.
The memories fade again and shift and blur into something of a mess and he remembers feeling angry at John's parents. Out of the blue but not really out of the blue. He loathes them. He would like to meet them and give them a piece of his mind. Terrible human beings. They didn't deserve a son like John. He doesn't deserve a man like John but there's nothing they can do about that now-
There are a lot of bees. Sherlock's unconscious brain produces a lot of bees. They float around him when he's at the beach with Mycroft and come out of the shell his brother gives him. Malacostraca. The bees don't alarm him though. And they sit around him on his books and dance in patterns on the open pages.
"They tell you things when they dance-"
"I don't like dancing," Sherlock protests. There is wind in hair. He's uncomfortable.
There's a hedgehog on the doorstep of Baker Street. Sherlock's main concern is that it is looking at him, not that its daylight and getting hotter by the moment or that it's the middle of the city. The hedgehog looks at him and Sherlock has trouble stepping over it to get in the door. The bees are humming around the hallway and Sherlock starts to tell them Mrs. Hudson won't like them near the cafe but he gives up halfway through because he doesn't have the heart to disappoint them.
John is asleep on the sofa. The sun is brilliantly bright through the window and Sherlock wonders how John has managed to sleep through it. The bees are very quiet. He knows they're here, but his attention is on John. There's a pressure in his chest because it seems abnormal to him that John should be asleep here in the middle of the day. The absence of noise, the bright light- something seems wrong. Sherlock knows when he turns him over that John will be dead. But he looks so peaceful. So beautiful that Sherlock's heart skips and his legs feel weak and his head hurts.
"Sherlock?"
John is sitting in his chair, smiling at him.
Sherlock looks perplexed and turns to the empty sofa. The room is filled with the soft humming of the bees.
"Where are the bees? What are they doing?" he asks, glancing around for them.
"I told them to do something useful. I believe they're baking," John says absently, looking over his shoulder towards the kitchen. Sherlock looks over too, but the sun is too bright to see.
"You made the bees bake?"
"Yes. It wasn't too hard. They just want to be given instructions. I was in the army."
"I know," Sherlock smiles. "John, I hate your parents."
"I know," John replies, smiling back. "I don't like Mycroft very much. But he is your parents. He made you and you're okay."
"What?" Sherlock asks, taking a few steps towards John. "You look nice."
""When you have time I'll teach you about bees." John says with a nod. "I'll just go and turn the oven on for them. They don't have hands."
"Sure-"
Baker Street dissolves. The humming stays. The sunlight is blinding. Sherlock's mind is reaching for things it can't quite grasp and he feels as though he's falling apart. Constantly falling, jolting, falling, jolting.
Lestrade looks sad. Sherlock wants to embrace him. and tell him it will be okay.
He wants to tell Mycroft about the man in the fog. But they're sitting on the beach and the moment has passed.