---
Day 1
---
I wake up with John's name on my lips.
The details of the dream fade almost immediately, but the sense of danger
and the desperate need to get to him linger for a while. I lie quietly on
the bed for a moment in order to reorientate myself and allow the sickening
fear to dissipate. Rationally, I know it was just a dream, but it had felt
so REAL. More like a memory than the random neural firings that usually
constitute dreams.
Once I am calm and fully awake I realize that I am not in my room - or even
in my flat. I take quick stock of my surroundings. The bedroom is sparsely
furnished, plain and clean and belongs to someone who, until recently, was
sharing the bed with me. The smell on the rumpled sheets confirms that this
person is definitely male and definitely not John.
I am alarmed to discover that I cannot remember how I came to be here. I can
only assume I went home with some stranger I met in a club last night. The
ache I feel between my legs as I move to sit up leaves no doubt as to the
activities we engaged in after that.
I stumble to the toilet adjoining the bedroom, splash some water on my face,
and take a moment to go over the physical evidence left on my own body.
I am naked, but I am clean. So obviously one of us had been sober enough to
think of taking care of the post-coital mess. I have stubble burns and faint
bite marks decorating my neck and the insides of my thighs. I have light
bruises around my wrists and scattered across my torso and deep, dark ones
in the shape of hands wrapped around my hips. I reach tentatively between my
legs and feel for what I can't see. The skin around my anus is swollen and
sore and something wet spills on my fingers as I prod at it. I yank my hand
away and stare at the trace of semen in horror. I had unprotected sex with a
stranger. Never - even at the height of my cocaine addiction - have I been
so reckless.
I scrub my hands clean as thoughts and theories race wildly through my mind.
Drugs would explain my inability to remember anything, but had I taken them
consciously or...
"Will," a voice calls from behind the door, disrupting my thoughts. A tall,
slim man with dark hair and soft features tentatively pushes it open. "Are
you all right, darling?"
Will? Did I use my given name with him as some sort of disguise?
I do a quick cold reading on him as he steps into the bathroom. Whatever he
is, he is not a rapist. He is looking at me with far too much kindness and
adoration. Except beyond his physical features and his obvious care for me I
can't really deduce much. He is definitely the man I had sex with last
night. Although he is fully dressed, I can see the edge of a bruise peeking
from beneath the rolled up sleeve of his silk shirt. More importantly, his
smell matches the one on the bed sheets I woke up in.
His ejaculate is still inside me.
I shake this last thought off and focus on his left hand, which is curled
around a glass of water. A simple gold band surrounds his ring finger. I had
unprotected sex with a married man?
"You don't know who I am," he says gently as though he can read the
direction of my thoughts.
"Should I?"
He looks a bit disappointed, but not surprised. "Sometimes you do. You've
had good days and bad days since we changed medicines."
My eyes narrow. What the hell is he on about? "Medicine?"
He holds out his right hand to reveal three white pills. "I was just
bringing your morning dose. Plus some paracetamol." He gestures toward the
bruises on my hips. "I'm afraid I got a little carried away last night.
Although in my defense, you were a bit gasping for it and you gave almost as
good as you got. I already took some of these myself."
I run through the many questions in my mind - eliminating the ones that
might compromise me should this prove to really be some sort of con - and
settle on the most important one. "Where is John?"
His face falls and he sighs. He sets the glass and tablets on the counter
beside the sink and reaches for me, hesitating only a moment when I
instinctively flinch. He carefully frames my face between his hands, tilting
my head with the faintest pressure of his fingertips until I am looking
directly into his blue/green eyes.
"Sherlock...sweetheart. John Watson is dead."
---
Minutes later I sit at the kitchen table, wrapped in a dressing gown I've
never seen before even though it is worn and smells of me, staring at the
pill the man who says he is my husband - Henry - has set beside a glass of
juice. I took the paracetamol already, but only because I recognized that's
what it really was. I don't want to take anything I can't readily identify
without further explanation, which Henry promised to give me when he coaxed
me from the bathroom.
I wince as he sets a plate of toast and beans before me and mumble "'m not
hungry."
He kisses the top of my head. "I know. You never are. But you have to eat,
love."
This more than anything so far lends credibility to his claim that he is my
husband. He treats me like a doting spouse. But it still doesn't make any
sense.
He sits beside me and rests a hand on my arm. "What day do you think it is?"
"Sunday."
"No, darling. I mean the date."
What difference could that possibly make? "I don't know. June something."
He smiles again. "Well, it is Wednesday. And it's actually the tenth of
February."
I stare at him silently, waiting for an explanation.
His thumb begins absently rubbing my arm through the dressing gown. "You
were in a car accident eight months ago. I was the doctor who treated you.
You were suffering from some fairly significant head trauma and I initially
diagnosed you with a severe concussion, but it became clear after about a
week that you were having persistent difficulties with your short term
memory. You could retain information throughout the course of the day, but
each time you fell asleep your mind seemed to reset itself and you woke up
unable to remember anything that had happened since the accident."
"Amnesia."
He nods. "A very rare form of anterograde amnesia. So rare, in fact, that
you offered to let me write a series of papers for medical journals tracking
your progress. I have two so far if you want to read them."
"I've already read them, haven't I?"
He smiles. "Yes. You sometimes offer your own research and thoughts on
possible treatments. Some days you know who I am and can recall some of the
events of the past few months and some days - like today - you don't even
remember the accident."
The dream. I close my eyes and try to remember the dream I'd been having
when I woke this morning. The details still elude me, but now I think I can
recall broken glass and John's face covered in blood. "John was in the car,"
I whisper.
Henry's other hand rests on my back. "He didn't make it to hospital. His
injuries were too severe. I'm sorry."
I feel tears prick at my eyes and wonder how many times I've had this exact
discussion. How many times have I lost John only to do it all over again the
next day? How many more times will I feel as if I only saw him yesterday?
How can I even begin to properly mourn him if I can never remember losing
him in the first place? I pick up the pill Henry had identified as my
medicine and roll it between my fingers in an effort to distract myself from
the painful tightness in my chest.
"We've tried several different medications and therapies," Henry says, again
demonstrating his intimate knowledge of me by seeming to read my thoughts as
if I had spoken them out loud. "This one seems to be most promising so far.
Just last month you went forty eight hours before you started losing
memories again. I had hoped...last night...that that might happen again."
Possible signs of improvement might explain why he was willing to put up
with me in such a condition. "Why am I not wearing a ring?"
"Oh..." He lets go of me to reach into his trouser pocket. "I almost
forgot." He pulls out a gold band identical to his own. "You sometimes take
it off at night. You say it's one less thing to try to deduce if you relapse
overnight. It's easier if you think we're just lovers initially." He
gestures to my left hand. "May I?"
I hold out my hand and let him slip the ring on my finger. There's a sense
of rightness to it that I don't quite understand. As if I had been missing
its weight without realizing it. As if having it back in place completes an
important part of the puzzle.
He lifts my hand and presses his lips to my knuckles gently. "There was
never in this world a man who loved with a more whole hearted love," he
murmurs almost to himself.
"I take it we're newly wed then."
He laughs and I'm struck by how genuine that laugh is, how relaxed. He looks
at me with the same affection and wonder John often wore when I said
something particularly clever. "Guess I deserved that. Yes. We've been
married for three months. You were opposed to the idea of marriage, of
course, but I convinced you eventually."
The kettle whistles. He kisses my hand again, repeats his instructions for
me to eat and goes to pour us both tea. "There's honey on the table," he
adds this time. "You usually like to put it on your toast."
I reach for the small jar sitting beside the salt and pepper pots before I'm
even aware of the motion, as if my body had responded without my conscious
thought. I frown at the unmarked jar that I simultaneously recognize and
have never seen before. "Is this fresh?"
"I think so. You said you collected it last week."
"I collected it?"
He comes back with two sturdy mugs full of hot tea and sets one beside my
plate. "You said you always wanted to move out to the country and tend bees
when you retired. Cressington Park isn't exactly the country, but you are
able to keep a small hive out back."
"Retired?"
He sips at his tea cautiously. "A bit young, but in your condition...
consider it a temporary retirement until you are better. You still
occasionally submit anonymous tips to law enforcement websites, which you
think I don't know about." He smiles at me fondly over the rim of his cup.
"But you tire easily and you get headaches often. It's usually enough for
you to spend the day occupied with your bee keeping and catching up on the
last few months. Sometimes you go for a walk...talk to the neighbor." He
points to one side of the house, then the other as he adds "that one. THAT
one hates you. I don't know what you did to offend him in the two months
we've lived here, but it's probably best to avoid him for a while."
I spoon honey onto a slice of toast and take a bite, holding the thick,
sweet syrup on my tongue for a moment before swallowing. My stomach rumbles
and I realize I am a bit hungry after all. "Why did you call me Will?"
"You said you wanted to start over and leave your old life in London behind.
Being Sherlock Holmes was too painful after everything that happened."
Even though I don't remember exactly what happened, I can recognize the
truth in this. The mere mention of my name stirs up a vague, uncomfortable
feeling that borders on nausea. It happened the first time he said it too,
but I had associated the feeling then with the news about John.
Oh. Thinking about my name and my life in London makes me think about John.
And thinking about John and the accident is too painful.
"I assume I took your name then?"
"Not at first, but yes. Your name is William Peters now, legally speaking."
'Dull,' a voice in the back of my head grumbles. But hearing the name
doesn't bring the same discomfort. In fact, it feels right somehow. I take
another bite of toast and reach for my tea, momentarily surprised to find
that it has already been sweetened exactly the way I like it. 'Of course he
would know how you take your tea. He knows everything else.'
Henry finishes his own mug and makes a move to stand up. "I have to go to
work. Your mobile is on the counter by the laptop."
"Aren't you going to eat?"
"Already finished. You were tired after last night. I thought I'd let you
sleep in a bit." He puts his mug in the dishwasher and fishes his car keys
from a bowl on the counter by the aforementioned laptop and mobile. "These
are labeled in case you need to lock up." He slides a folder out from
beneath the laptop. "You usually like to start with this." He hands it to me
and leans down to kiss me. He tastes like tea and mint. "You should take
your medicine before you forget."
Oh. The tablet. I reach for it automatically and hesitate only a second
before swallowing it with the nearly forgotten glass of juice. I'm still not
entirely certain what it is, but I am sure it will not hurt me. Henry's
obvious love for me would preclude any desire to do me harm.
"Good man," he praises, sweeping a lock of hair back from my forehead
tenderly and pressing a kiss to my temple. "My number's in the contacts if
you need to call me."
I have a brief, pathetic desire to beg him not to leave. I quickly dismiss
it as some ridiculous side effect of my condition. I have so many more
questions - which he likely knows the answers to. But I can find most of
them myself. Isn't that what he said I spent at least part of my days doing?
I open the folder as Henry walks out the door and read the top page while I
finish my toast. It is a handwritten note - my handwriting - discolored by a
tea stain and slightly ragged at the edges from repeated handling. 'Your
name is William,' it says. 'Henry is your husband. You were in a car
accident in June of 2015. You have suffered from a rare form of amnesia ever
since. Details of the disease and your progress with treating it are in a
file on the desktop of your computer, along with observations and inspection
data from your bee colony.'
There isn't much else in the slim folder. The articles Henry wrote about my
medical case. A copy of our marriage certificate confirming my name as
William Peters. And a printout of John's obituary. 'He is survived by his
mother Evelyn, his sister Harriet, his wife Mary and their daughter.'
His wife Mary. I wonder if part of the reason I keep this particular
evidence in such a prominent location is to remind myself that John wasn't
mine to lose. To convince myself that I need to move on and try to forget
him.
Is that even possible?
The last paper in the folder is in handwriting that must be Henry's,
identifying the locations of anything important like keys (which he already
showed me), the name and phone number of the neighbor who doesn't hate me,
his mobile number, the location of the fuse box and a list of the possible
side effects of my medication that I should watch for and contact him
immediately about any concerns.
The note ends with a more personal touch. 'Should you need to leave the
house, the alarm code is the fiftieth through the fifty-fourth digits of pi.
You were very adamant that we program it that way.' That sounded like a
condition I would have made. 'I love you, my darling,' he finishes. 'Until
my body ceases to draw breath.'
I wonder if we had a wedding ceremony. If we did, he almost certainly wrote
his own vows. Maybe I'll find something about that on the laptop. At the
very least, maybe I can find out how I came to marry a man I can't even
remember meeting.
But first, I need to figure out where I keep my toothbrush and razor.
---
There is a file on the computer desktop simply titled "open me". It opens a
popular note taking program and is full of notes, clippings, photographs,
spreadsheets and links. I appear to have attempted to document as much of
the past eight months as possible, although there are still several
disconcerting gaps.
The first entry in what could be loosely described as a journal is dated two
weeks after the accident and reads much like the note in the folder, except
it makes no mention of Henry. It isn't until several days later that I seem
to take notice of the doctor treating me - and only then as the kind man
whose head I had attempted to remove from his body. After that, my entries
document both my frustrations with my lack of significant progress in
reversing my memory loss and the slow evolution of our relationship. As my
condition made living by myself difficult, he initially offered to be my
live-in doctor and flatmate. 'Just like John used to be,' I think painfully.
He reminded me every day of what had happened, made sure I took my
medication and monitored the side effects, altering the dosage as necessary.
Three months after the accident he kissed me for the first time. The entries
over the next two months describe a strange courtship where the line between
caretaker and lover shifted continually. One day he was nursing me through a
migraine or what sounded like a particularly violent bout of food poisoning
and the next we were having what sounded like very energetic sex. 'Henry
warned me to be quieter when we make love,' one entry reads. 'The neighbor
is beginning to complain about the noise.'
'Make love?' I think. 'Oddly sentimental, but I suppose that could be how HE
worded it.'
Five months after the accident we were married. We spent a month vacation
traveling through France and Italy. There is a whole folder devoted to
pictures of this trip. Us kissing in front of the Eiffel Tower - his hand on
my face to show off his ring. Me reclining in his arms in a Venetian
gondola, his lips pressed to my temple. A picture he seemed to have secretly
snapped of me drinking tea on a hotel balcony overlooking a peaceful lake,
the Swiss Alps in the distance.
There are several more salacious images from inside various hotel rooms.
Henry apparently took great pleasure in capturing our more intimate moments.
There are candids of me both pre and post coital, in varying stages of
arousal and dishevelment. But there are a few of him too, and I find myself
particularly drawn to three of them. In one I obviously have caught him
unaware as he is bending to retrieve something from the floor and presenting
me with his bare arse. In another he is laying on the bed, post coital, a
smear of seminal fluid decorating his abdomen, grinning at me adoringly. In
the last, he is at the foot of the bed, one hand reaching toward my leg,
possibly already wrapped around my ankle. His erect penis hangs heavily
between his thighs and he is looking at me with such blatant hunger that a
faint shiver goes through me. I wonder if he looked at me like that last
night.
I have a sudden flash of memory; of Henry pinning me to the bed, thrusting
inside me, that same almost dangerous look in his eyes.
"You like that, don't you," he growls.
I shake my head and the image dispels. Was that a memory? Or is my brain
just supplying possible scenarios to fill in the gaps based on the
information I have? I look again at the bruises on my wrists. It certainly
fits. What else can I remember?
I pore over my notes eagerly, searching for further data that might unlock
details of my missing months. But I become increasingly suspicious of my
ability to distinguish between real memories and fictional constructions. I
read conversations between myself and Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson or Mycroft and
can practically hear their voices saying the words. Then I discover at least
half of them in the text message history of my mobile.
False memories.
I start a new entry for today and note this. I can see how I could easily
spend an entire day doing this. My entire life has essentially become a
puzzle for me to solve. The fact that I have to start my investigations into
my recent past over every day is enormously frustrating, but that
frustration is mitigated by the obvious evidence that I am getting better.
Henry was right: my memory is improving by small increments. Although I am
apparently still susceptible to fits of bizarre, irrational behavior. For
example, when I consult my data on the bee hive I find indications that I
have checked on it nearly every day of this past month. This probably
wouldn't be suspicious in itself were it not for Henry's claim this morning
that I had collected honey from it mere days ago. While that might not be
completely bonkers in late winter, it couldn't be possible unless we
inherited the colony from the previous owners of the house as bees don't
usually produce an excess of honey for at least a year after introduction to
the new hive.
I take a break from my reading about the past few months to locate a coat -
just as unfamiliar as the dressing gown even though it is clearly mine - and
go out to the back garden. The hive is a standard wooden box structure with
a reflective lid on top. I walk around it, inspecting the exterior, running
my hand along the warm wooden panels, feeling and hearing the hum of a
healthy colony. It isn't brand new, but it doesn't seem old enough to be
producing yet.
I don't want to disturb the hive any more than that, so I return to my
laptop and note my observations on the health of the colony in the
appropriate place. I check the notes again and, while they don't specify the
age of the hive or how I came to acquire it, they do indicate that I
siphoned off a small amount of honey a week ago.
The computer pings and an alert at the bottom of the screen informs me that
Henry has sent me an email. I click on the notification and the message
expands to fill the screen.
'Just finished listening to a dreadfully boring presentation from a drug rep
for a product I am unlikely to ever have cause to prescribe. I couldn't stop
thinking about how gorgeous you looked last night; how desperately you clung
to me and demanded more, faster, harder. If our activities hadn't left me
sore this morning I would have been tempted to wake you and have another go.
I don't think I will ever not ache for you. I long for those days in Venice
when I could spend hours in bed just worshiping your body. I want you again
tonight. Be very thorough when you shower today as I plan to be just as
thorough when I eat you out.'
'That doesn't sound very sanitary,' I think. But the idea of him looking at
me as hungrily as he did in that photograph makes me squirm a bit. The only
other person who has ever looked at me with so much naked lust was Irene
Adler.
I ignore the email for the time being, too caught up in my research to be
distracted by my husband's lewdness.
'I saw John today,' a more recent note declares. 'In my mind palace. He was
wearing Victorian clothing and had that ridiculous mustache that makes him
look ancient. He was smoking my pipe and kept calling me "my boy". I asked
him when he took up smoking. He said "ever since the Queen went above
board".'
The strangeness of this incident is quickly overshadowed by the knowledge
that I am using my mind palace in this bizarre reality I find myself in.
Maybe I can find useful information there?
A tiny voice in the back of my mind notes that I can still find John there
as well, but I brush it aside. John is dead. I have to let him go. I can't
keep him in my mind palace forever.
I close my eyes and imagine myself standing before the familiar doors
leading into my mind palace. I hesitate only a moment, unsure of the state I
will find it in, before pushing them open and stepping through.
I am in the morgue at St. Bart's. A body lies on one of the metal slabs. It
is charred so far beyond recognition that it is near impossible to even tell
what sex it had once been. "Male," a familiar voice says and Molly Hooper
appears at my side, a cigarette dangling from the fingers of her right hand.
"He was in a car crash. The car caught fire before he could get out."
"Accident?"
"Still working that out." She takes a drag from the cigarette and slowly
exhales, tendrils of smoke curling around her head.
"Since when do you smoke?"
She shrugs and takes another drag.
I look back at the body. "Do you have an ID yet?"
"You know who he is."
I nod, clenching my jaw to stop my lip from quivering. I had known since
Molly first spoke who it must be. "Did he suffer?"
She slowly exhales a gentle stream of smoke, then inhales and opens her
mouth to speak.
"Never mind," I interrupt. "Don't answer that." I don't want to know.
"You know this is wrong, don't you? You know this is not real. Sherlock
Holmes wouldn't just move to the suburbs and play housewife."
The sick feeling returns, this time accompanied by a faint throbbing behind
my eyes. "I'm not Sherlock Holmes," I mumble. "Not anymore."
I open my eyes again and take a moment to reorientate myself before
scrolling back to today's date in the journal.
'Molly was in the mind palace this time. She was smoking. The body on her
autopsy table was presumably once John's, but it was burned beyond
recognition. She said that "this" is wrong and "not real". She said Sherlock
Holmes wouldn't just run away to the suburbs to play housewife.'
I pause to massage the building ache in my temple. Then I let all my
conflicting thoughts about my present circumstances pour out on the screen.
'She's right, as always. What am I doing here? Was John's loss really so
devastating that I had to move clear across England and change my entire
identity to avoid facing it? I don't even believe in marriage, yet I find
myself married to a man I barely know. Superficially, I recognize that he is
a lot like John. He takes care of me willingly and with the patience of
someone deeply and irrationally in love. I know some part of me loves Henry,
if for no other reason than he represents what I never had with John:
reciprocity of my unrequited longing. But if my condition proves permanent,
his love will no doubt fade.'
The throbbing in my head can no longer be ignored. I stop typing so I can
search for some painkillers.
I settle back in front of the computer while I wait for the aspirin to
hopefully relieve the pressure. I finally send Henry a reply to the effect
of 'sorry, not tonight, I have a headache'.
A copy of John's autopsy report is clipped into the journal. It details
high-impact injuries consistent with a car crash, but there is no indication
the body was burned. I wonder if my subconscious added that false detail
merely so I wouldn't have to face looking at John's lifeless corpse. When
did I lose my ability to become detached where John is concerned?
On impulse, I pick up my mobile and send a text to John, simply saying 'I
miss you.' I am not really surprised when the message history shows that
this isn't the first time I have sent messages to John in the months since I
acquired this new phone. I scroll through some of them. 'I'm sorry.' 'We're
out of hydrochloric acid.' 'I can't keep doing this, but I don't know how to
forget you.' 'I need more slides for the microscope.' 'Last night, in a
dream, you told me you forgive me.' 'For god's sake, are you really going to
keep that ridiculous mustache?!'
I wince and add a note to the journal to for-God's-sake STOP sending texts
to a dead man. I know I will ignore it though. Obviously I sometimes
unconsciously send shopping requests to him, forgetting that he no longer
lives with me.
The mobile buzzes on the table, startling me. For a moment I think maybe
there was a mistake and it is John ringing back. But it's Henry. I chastise
myself as I answer.
"Scale of one to ten," he says. "How bad is the headache?"
"I took aspirin before it became unbearable. Maybe a four now."
"So it's getting better. That's good. Are you experiencing any other
symptoms? Dizziness? Blurred vision? Nausea?"
"No."
I can hear the relief in his voice. "Okay. It sounds like it's just a
headache. You should take a break from that computer. Go for a walk. Have a
bath. There's some herbal tea in the cupboard next to the sink. You always
say it helps. If you're still hurting when I come home I can give you a
massage."
Molly was right. I am playing housewife. And I am a very spoiled housewife
at that. Although tea does sound lovely. "I'll be fine."
"Mmm." I hear papers rustle faintly on his end.
"How did you propose," I find myself blurting suddenly. "I don't remember
and I don't see anything in my notes." It's a strange gap in the narrative
of our relationship.
He chuckles. "Well, that's probably because it wasn't my best romantic
gesture. I didn't even plan it. We had just finished a rather spectacular
bout of lovemaking and I couldn't stop touching you...kissing you. I
realized I couldn't bear the thought of not spending the rest of my life
with you."
"I was already living - and sleeping - with you. We hardly needed a
contract."
"No, probably not. It just makes everything easier, especially given your
condition, if we are legal."
The logic of this is sound. I had no doubt he could use his credentials as a
doctor to gain access to me should I be taken into hospital, but nothing
could cut through red tape faster than a wedding ring.
"I know the disdain you have for the institution of marriage," he adds. "But
I love being able to call you my husband. I love having a constant reminder
on my finger that it is my legal right. I love knowing that you are wearing
one as well, even if I have to remind you to put it on every morning. I love
being able to let the whole world know that I am yours and you are mine."
I have a sudden memory of Henry looming over me, growling "you are mine!"
But is it real or another false construct? Without proper context I can't be
sure.
"I have to get back to work. You rest. Take care of yourself. And remember
what I said about being thorough in the bath."
"But..."
"I'm sure your headache will be long forgotten by then," he continues
confidently, heading off my protest. "If not, my understanding is that the
endorphins produced by orgasm are excellent for treating headaches."
I grunt, frustrated by my apparent inability to argue with him. It doesn't
help that he's right.
He chuckles softly. "Just trust me, okay darling? I love you."
I hesitate, wondering if he expects me to return the sentiment.
"It's okay, sweetheart. I know."
I hang up and add all the relevant details from the conversation to my
journal. The proposal, my impressions of Henry's romantic nature and
possible possessiveness and the odd, possibly false memory. 'I don't know
why I can't bring myself to say the words to him,' I conclude.
I close the lid on the laptop and massage my temples. The headache has
mostly gone, but there is still a lingering, annoying throb.
Tea, I remember. Tea and a hot bath. Maybe then I can try exploring the mind
palace for more clues.
---
The tea does help. As does the bath, although accidentally aggravating the
still-tender scar from my head injury while washing my hair did set me back
for a bit.
When I try to explore my mind palace a bit more I find myself in Mrs.
Hudson's kitchen, listening to her prattle about her ex-husband and John and
love in general.
"But this young doctor of yours...what's his name? He reminds me of my
husband. So charming and full of passion. And the way he looks at you...like
you are his whole world." She sighs. "He used to look at me like that too
when we were first married. He could barely keep his hands off me. I
remember this one time on our honeymoon when he..."
"Is something burning," I interrupt, pointing to the stove where wisps of
smoke are beginning to curl around the oven door, grateful for the
distraction.
Mrs. Hudson makes loud, displeased noises as she rushes to pull a blackening
cake from the oven. "Knew I shouldn't have used so much Crown Royal," she
says between coughs, waving ineffectually in an effort to clear the smoke.
I sigh as I emerge from my mind palace and stare at the blinking cursor on
the laptop screen. There didn't seem to be any useful data there, but I
write it down anyway.
The thought of Mrs. Hudson burning the cooking does get me thinking about
food. I uncurl myself from the sofa and rummage around in the kitchen,
pondering whether my duties as a househusband included making meals. I hope
for both of our sakes that they do not.
As if sensing the line of my inquiry, Henry texts me while I'm trying to
judge the freshness of the leftover chicken in the fridge and whether the
moldy thing beside it used to be edible or is part of an experiment. 'Just
finishing up. Don't feel like cooking tonight," he writes. 'Bringing home
Indian takeaway. Anything in particular you want?'
'Thought you'd put a little more effort in since you're so intent on wooing
me tonight,' I reply.
'You'd rather eat out?'
I think of the promise he made in his email and smile. Two can play at this
game. 'No. I would have to get dressed for that.'
There is a long pause before his next text. 'Are you naked?'
'Dressing gown. Don't want to scandalize the neighbors.' This is a lie. I
don't care about modesty, or what the neighbors think. According to my
notes, my last discussion with the one Henry claims hates me resulted in an
altercation that left me with a black eye. If anybody were nosy enough to
peek through the windows right now they would see that the dressing gown
isn't secured. 'I was very thorough in the bath,' I add. 'As per your
request.'
There is an even longer pause this time and I wonder if he is trying to
compose himself. 'I'll get a bottle of wine,' he finally replies. 'I'll make
up for the meal after.'
I feel a momentary thrill of victory as I type 'I look forward to it.'
---
I was what one might call a late bloomer, sexually. Most of my knowledge of
sexual activities is theoretical not because I am a virgin, as my brother
and the Woman assumed, but because I find the process of seeking out a
partner to help me tend to a basic biological function tedious. I had a few
disappointing experiences with my "friend" Seb at Uni and an interesting one
with the Woman, but I am usually perfectly happy tending to the occasional
demands of my transport on my own.
But that is why married people report having more sex than single people.
Ready availability of a willing partner.
Laying sideways on the bed with Henry kneeling on the floor between my legs,
both of us naked, I understand the admonishment from my journal to be
quieter. The wicked things he's doing to me are pulling sounds from me I
didn't even know I was capable of making.
"You've done this before," I observe between panting breaths.
He hums and I gasp at the vibration. "A few times," he confirms in a low
voice between teasing licks and slow, filthy kisses. "It's my favorite way
to prepare you. You're always so open and slick..." He presses his thumb
into my perineum, just above his working mouth. "So desperate for it. I can
usually slide right in." He pushes a finger inside me and my lower body
seizes, muscles gripping around the intrusion. "Just like that," he murmurs.
I twist my fingers in the bed sheets and fight the urge to grab him by the
hair and rut against his face. Dear God, is he nuzzling me?
"Hold yourself open for me, love."
I follow his instructions automatically, grateful to have something to do
with my hands as I squeeze the backs of my thighs and pull upward.
He thrusts his finger a few times before pushing in a second, immediately
finding just the right angle and using the right amount of pressure.
'He's done this too,' I think, groaning helplessly.
"Look at me, darling."
I force myself to focus on his face between my legs. He looks just as
flushed as I feel. His eyes are dark and intense, almost dangerous.
Predatory. Hungry. "I'm not going to do that this time," he says, his hand
continuing to thrust leisurely, keeping me on the edge. "This is about you.
I'm going to keep doing this until you come. Just relax and let it happen."
He keeps his eyes locked with mine as he bends to lick at the stretched skin
surrounding his fingers.
My legs are already starting to shake. I reinforce my grip and moan as the
muscles in my abdomen tremble. I let my head fall back, the added visual too
much for me to take. But that only makes me focus more on the feeling of his
hands spreading me further open as he replaces his fingers with his tongue.
On the obscene noises he makes that suggest he is enjoying this even more
than I am. I give in to the pleasure and my thoughts scatter wildly. I hear
him talking to me between hot swipes of his tongue, but it's as if he isn't
speaking English anymore. I can only make out the occasional word - love,
gorgeous, want, come - amid the sounds falling from his lips in his smooth
voice. I am vaguely aware that I am making loud, embarrassing grunting
noises.
The tension breaks and I shout as my whole body shudders uncontrollably, my
pelvic muscles contracting. And then suddenly Henry is on top of me,
straddling me as my legs drop from my numb fingers. I realize when I feel
his hot, heavy erection slide alongside my own that he never once touched my
cock. He does now, wrapping his hand around both of us and stroking
purposefully and I am coming again. Or maybe I never stopped coming. I'm not
sure.
'There's a reason the French call it La Petite Mort,' I think hazily as I
grip his shoulders. I might still be yelling, but I can't be certain.
He growls and shudders to a stop, his hand slowing. The fog in my head
clears and I am able to catch my breath. He kisses me and I think I should
probably object to that after what he's been doing, but he just tastes like
musk, curry and, perhaps faintly, soap.
And then suddenly he's pulling away from me and disappearing into the
bathroom .
I stare at the ceiling while my pulse settles into a slower rhythm,
listening to the water splash in the sink.
I have almost lulled myself into a trance when I hear the faint click of a
mobile camera.
"Don't you have enough of those already," I ask without opening my eyes.
He chuckles softly. "I can hardly be faulted for admiring my gorgeous
husband."
I pull my legs back up and plant my feet on the edge of the mattress,
spreading my knees. I feel ridiculous and exposed, but it has the desired
effect.
He groans and snaps a couple more photos. "You are a wicked man."
'And you are very easily corrupted.' I run my fingers through the cooling
pool of semen on my abdomen and bring them to my mouth, very deliberately
and slowly licking them clean.
"Jesus, Will," he breaths.
I open my eyes finally and look up at him, hovering over me so he can get a
close-up of my face. I lick my lips and see his eyes darken. Pupils dilated.
I finally understand the pleasure the Woman found in using sex to bend
people to her will. The rush of power can be quite intoxicating.
I reach out to him. "Can I see?"
He hands the mobile over easily and goes about cleaning the mess from me
with a flannel while I scroll through recent images. It would seem he hardly
takes anything but pictures of me. Many of them pornographic, but not all of
them. There are some of me bent over the laptop - sitting in bed, on the
sofa, at the table or just on the floor amid a mess of papers. There's one
of me in a meditative position, probably deep in my mind palace. And there's
a few of me waking up in the morning, tousled and smiling languidly, my eyes
still closed. I'm sure I can guess why that series of pictures stops before
my eyes open and my expression changes.
"Can I copy these?"
---
He lays beside me reading, his hand occasionally wandering over to absently
rub my leg as I curl over the laptop, clipping pictures, observations and
his email from earlier into my notes. I take a picture of him
surreptitiously while he is especially engrossed and take a moment to really
look at him. He is, by all objective standards of modern society, a very
attractive man. Combined with his charming, romantic nature and the steady -
if not excessive - wealth of a doctor, he could have had any number of
willing and eager partners. Why had he chosen to bind himself to someone who
doesn't even believe in marriage? Someone who doesn't even remember who he
is every morning?
"Because I love you," he says suddenly, shaking me from my thoughts.
"What?"
He puts his book down and looks up at me. "You were wondering why I put up
with you, right? That's usually what you're thinking when you get that
look."
"Love is..."
"A chemical defect? Easily confused with lust or infatuation?"
I bite my tongue. Obviously we've had this conversation before.
His hand returns to my leg, fingers drawing light patterns on the inside of
my knee. "I wish you could see yourself the way I see you. You never believe
me when I say it's more than physical attraction. I don't care if I have to
remind you of who I am every day for the rest of our lives. I cannot live
without you."
"That's easy for you to say now that we're young and relatively healthy.
From what you described of last night, our relationship is still primarily
based on sexual desire. It won't always be like this." I open the final
picture he took and tilt the screen toward him pointedly.
He barely glances at the picture of me licking semen from my fingers, my
legs spread to display the loosened opening still damp with his saliva,
before returning his gaze to my face. "You think I will leave you once you
can no longer satisfy me sexually? Is that why you were so desperate for it
last night that you all but ravaged me?"
"I..." There was nothing in my notes about what happened last night. All I
have is his rather colorful description in the email. "I did?"
"Mmm...you practically tore my clothes off and begged me to fuck you so hard
you would feel it for days. You said you wanted to remember."
I did?
He sighs and sits up, wrapping his arms around me, pressing tightly to my
side. "I love you." He punctuates his words with a kiss to my shoulder. "I
will always love you." He starts kissing a trail up my neck. "Until we are
both...old and gray...and the closest we come to physical intimacy...is when
I have to remove a bee stinger from your arse." I turn my head to meet him
and he kisses my lips. This time he tastes like mint toothpaste. And still
faintly of curry. "I will never stop loving you."
'Liar,' I think, but I hold my tongue. It is fairly obvious he will grow
tired of this if my memory never improves enough for me to recognize him
every morning. But he may not realize that yet and, given my condition, I
don't have the luxury of worrying about the future. All I have is the
present. And there are worse ways I could be spending it than with a
handsome doctor who is utterly devoted to me.
"Thank you," I say, because I still can't bring myself to say the other
words.
He smiles happily anyway and nuzzles my nose. "Are you almost finished?" He
nods to the laptop.
"Oh..." I pry myself from him so I can finish my journal for today. I save
it and set the laptop on the night table before shutting out the lamp and
slipping under the covers.
I gasp a little as he pulls me tightly against his naked body - obviously
this is his preferred way to sleep too. I realize that it would be very easy
for either of us to take advantage of this arrangement during the night if
not for the fact that I might not recognize him.
I think of the second evening dose of the medication I took, which my notes
identify as a new type of nootropic derivative. "You said the medication is
working?"
He sighs and rubs my back. "It's difficult to tell with an experimental
drug. But I have faith in it. Your journal helps as well."
I look at him in the dim moonlight of the bedroom. It's not that I don't
recognize him, I think. I know I've seen him before. But it's like he's
someone I met once and can't quite recall when or where or what his name is.
"I know," he whispers, understanding my line of thinking again. "I wish you
could remember."
"Maybe I will."
An odd, sad expression flits across his face. "Maybe."
Notes:
"There was never in this world a man who loved
with a more whole hearted love" is an adapted version of a quote from The
Disappearance of Lady Francis Carfax, which is also where Henry's
name comes from.
I put a lot of thought into where this story was
going to be set. I initially was going to use Sussex, but I needed it to
be somewhere where Sherlock could conceivably go unnoticed. A small town
where everybody would likely be all up in everyone else's business wasn't
it. But a suburb of a city far enough away from London that nobody would
think to look? A suburb - where people generally spend most days at work
and don't know a whole lot about their neighbors? That was a place
Sherlock could believably disappear into.
I was a psych major, so my favorite parts of this story were generally the
mind palace/dream sequences where Sherlock explores his mutilated
memories. It was also where I could use the concept of unreliable narrator
because while I knew what the clues in them meant, he often misreads them
because he doesn't have all the "data" and therefore what the reader gets
is...not necessarily accurate.
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