Of Dubious and Questionable Memory
By Diandra Hollman
---
Day 2
---
I wake to the sound of an alarm clock. Odd, because I hardly ever set an
alarm. I open my eyes to a room I don't recognize and nearly leap from the
bed in surprise when I feel it shift beneath the weight of another person. A
man groans softly. The alarm stops.
Did I go home with someone last night? I feel a bit sore, but I don't
remember anything.
I roll over tentatively and blink the sleep from my eyes. A man is sitting
naked on the edge of the bed, looking at his mobile. Clearly we had sex, but
why don't I remember? What did I take to cause such a complete blackout? He
couldn't have knowingly been taking advantage of my inebriated state last
night if he was still here, could he?
He looks back and catches me staring. "Sorry. I have to be at work early."
"Who are you?"
He sighs and reaches to touch my cheek. I flinch and he stops, his fingers
hovering. I notice the glint of a gold band on his ring finger in the early
morning light as he says "I'm your husband, darling."
---
Henry insists on making me toast even though I'm not hungry. He also talks
me into taking a pill he claims is a nootropic drug that he's hopeful will
improve my memory. I doubt that's possible if my amnesia is as severe as it
seems, but I take the pill anyway.
"I have a bee colony," I ask, looking up from my handwritten note as he sets
a plate in front of me.
He nods at the jar on the table. "That's where you got the honey from."
I pick up the unmarked jar. Like Henry, it looks simultaneously familiar and
wrong. I open it and scoop a little onto my finger to taste. It is real,
fresh honey from a hive. But that would mean the hive is at least a year
old. "How long have we lived here?"
"About two months. We moved in directly after our honeymoon on the
continent." He pours two mugs of tea and settles at the table beside me with
his own identical plate. "Why?"
I shrug. There's no use questioning him about it. He probably knows nothing
about beekeeping. It's likely the hive came with the house. I can look into
it later. I turn to the next page in the folder and my breath catches. It's
a printout of an obituary.
Henry reaches for my hand, gripping tightly. Obviously he's done something
like this before. Many times, no doubt.
"How," I ask, forcing my voice to stay level.
"He was in the car when you had your accident. He didn't make it to
hospital."
He was driving. I remember that. Something hit us and then...nothing. I
strain to recall more details about that night, but it's just blackness.
"I'm sorry," Henry says, pulling my focus back to our kitchen and his pained
gaze.
"Was I at the funeral?"
Henry winces. "No. You were still very sick. I took you to visit his grave
later."
I nod and slide my hand from his grasp, reaching for the folder again. I
know I should be more affected by John's death, but it just doesn't seem
real. None of this does.
I glance at the copy of the marriage certificate for Henry and William
Peters - dated three months ago - and turn past it to find two articles
written by Henry from a medical journal. I skim through the discussions on
forms of amnesia and traditional treatments and read about the subject of
his case study: me. He describes the trauma I suffered in the accident and
how I came to him confused and paranoid - incapable of holding on to
memories for more than an hour. He talks about various exercises, therapies
and medications he tried, the ethics of working with a patient who cannot
remember consenting to experimental treatments (necessitating recorded
statements and the presence of a social worker) and all the progress and
setbacks. The knowledge that I have made improvements since the onset of my
condition is encouraging.
The last page is a note from Henry that ends with a ridiculously florid
declaration of love.
"A bit dramatic, isn't it?"
He smiles and it strikes me how devastatingly charming he could be. "I know
you think me a foolish schoolboy who will eventually get over this
'ridiculous infatuation' - as you once described it - but I do love you.
More than I knew it was even possible to love anyone." He sets his fork on
his mostly empty plate and reaches for my hand again. "You asked me
yesterday why I married you, knowing your memory might never fully recover.
I told you I couldn't bear the thought of not being with you. I don't care
that I have to remind you of who I am every day. I love you. Truly and
madly. I cannot imagine living without you by my side and I don't care to
try."
Ridiculous and sentimental though it may be, he obviously genuinely believes
the words he's saying. "Even if I am incapable of loving you even half as
much as that?"
I half expect him to get angry, though I don't know why. He has shown
nothing but remarkable tenderness and patience with me so far.
He smiles and kisses me. "I have to get to surgery," he says as he gathers
his dishes and stands, finishing the last of his tea hurriedly and setting
everything in the sink. "Your mobile is here, along with your laptop." He
points to the counter where they are charging. "My number is in the contacts
if you need to ring me." He fishes keys from the bowl. "I should be home
around six."
"Mmm." I reach for the honey again, realizing I am, in fact, a bit hungry,
and spoon some onto my toast.
He smiles as I take a bite and comes back to kiss the top of my head. The
gesture is obviously habitual, but something about the careful precision of
it makes me reach up to feel a spot near it, my fingers encountering scar
tissue beneath the hair.
"I'm sorry, did I hurt you?"
I look up into his worried eyes. "No, I just...didn't notice that before."
He smiles and pulls my hand away gently, kissing my knuckles. Then he
continues on his path out the door, calling "I love you" back to me one last
time.
"Mmm-hmm," I mumble around a mouthful of toast.
---
221b looks just as it did when I last saw it. Only now, Moriarty is crouched
beside the fireplace, poking at the still- smoking ashes that were clearly
only recently a burning log.
"Thought I'd finally got rid of you," I grumble.
He chuckles. "Oh, Sherlock..." My stomach clenches uncomfortably. He stands
and reaches for an ornate crown perched on the mantle. "Or is it William?" I
catch his exaggerated frown in the mirror before he turns toward me. "Scott?
What are you calling yourself these days?"
I clench my jaw.
"No matter," he continues, shrugging and placing the crown on his head,
turning back to the mirror to adjust it. "You always say you want to be rid
of me, but we both know that people like you need people like me."
"There are plenty of people like you in the world. You are not special."
He tsks and helps himself to my chair. "Come now, we both know that's not
true or you wouldn't have given it all up to live in the country with Pretty
Boy."
I struggle to hold back a sneer, though I'm not sure if it's his words or
just his general presence that bother me.
"What is he again? Another GP?"
"Shut up."
"Tell me...when he's sucking your cock, do you sometimes look down and
imagine it's really John's head bobbing between your legs?"
I am across the room before I am aware I'm moving, my fist connecting with
his face so forcefully that the crown topples from his head, clattering
noisily to the floorboards.
He lunges upright, tackling me to the floor, hands wrapping tightly around
my wrists and pinning my arms above my head. I curse myself for not
anticipating his attack, allowing him to get the upper hand.
"Oh, I missed this," he chortles as I struggle.
I grapple with him, half blind by rage, until I manage to reverse our
positions. I look down into the face of the man I have trapped beneath me
and freeze. The man isn't Moriarty anymore, even if he does have a similar
mischievous grin on his face.
"If you wanted to be on top, you could have just asked, darling," Henry
laughs.
I open my eyes and take a moment to reorientate myself. I am sitting on the
floor of the sitting room, the laptop open in front of me.
"Well, that was interesting," I mutter to myself as I begin typing in my
journal.
I had been hoping to find John in 221b so I could try to make sense of the
baffling encounter I had previously recorded in my notes. It seems even in
death, Moriarty is determined to thwart my plans.
I keep reading my notes, eagerly absorbing everything I've forgotten of the
past months. It seems much of yesterday was spent fretting over how I wound
up married to Henry and living - seemingly happily - in the suburbs of
Liverpool. This seems to have stemmed mostly from an odd conversation with
Molly in my mind palace wherein she insisted that this just wasn't like me.
'She's right,' I conclude. 'It isn't like Sherlock Holmes to move clear
across England and change my entire identity to escape a past too painful to
think about. But what I told her is also true: I am not Sherlock Holmes
anymore. I am William Peters. I may not always recognize my husband, but I
have plenty of data to suggest that he takes care of me with the patience of
someone deeply and irrationally in love. Maybe one day I will be able to
reciprocate.'
I am interrupted by my mobile ringing. I answer it without thinking to check
the ID.
"Hullo, Will. It's Lillian," a woman's voice announces, awkwardly adding
"your neighbor" when I don't respond.
"Oh...yes. Lillian Taylor, right?" This was the neighbor Henry claimed
actually liked me. The one who hadn't punched me in the face over
some mysterious disagreement.
"I'm sorry. I always forget about your condition."
"Mmm."
"You asked me to design a label for your honey. I finished the mock up. I
can pop over for a bit to show you if you're not busy."
The prospect of engaging in idle chat with a suburban housewife is less than
appealing, but the fact that I have spoken to her before - even asked her
for favors - is intriguing. She could prove a valuable source of
information.
"I'll put the kettle on."
---
Lillian is an attractive, though average looking, woman with dark hair and
Celtic features. Her husband, according to my notes, is a moderately
powerful businessman, which is why she can afford to work freelance. She
does crime scene sketches for the police and consults on archeological
research at the University of Liverpool, which makes her potentially less
boring than I initially thought. Recently, it seems, I helped her determine
a cause of death on a 16th century skull she was reconstructing.
Even though she knows I don't really remember her, she greets me with a warm
embrace and settles easily into the sitting room sofa as if she has done
this before. She asks how I am with more than the usual perfunctory manner,
as if she is genuinely concerned. At first, I assume this is due to my
condition - as she put it - but the alarm in her eyes when I hand her the
cup of tea and she spots the faint bruises on my wrists suggests otherwise.
I set this observation aside for the moment to address her purpose for
visiting.
"You'll understand, of course, if I don't remember hiring you."
"Oh, this wasn't really a job. More of a favor for a neighbor. You told me
you doubted your hive will ever produce enough to actually sell at the
market, but in case it ever does you wanted to have a brand and a label."
She draws a sketch and a sheet of sticky labels from her carrier bag and
lays them on the coffee table. "You were very specific in your description
of how it should look, but I may have taken minor liberties with some of the
details. Softened her features, mostly. Don't want to frighten the
children."
I pick up the sketch, which features a friendly-looking, though not overly
cartoonish, queen bee with an ornate crown perched on her head. A dotted
line suggests her flight path around and through the stylized letters of the
brand name I apparently chose.
Above Board.
I think of the words I read in my journal this morning. My discussion with
John. 'Ever since the Queen went above board.' This cannot be a coincidence,
but I'm not sure what the significance of it is yet. It's as if I'm leaving
clues for myself, but I'm not sure what puzzle they are meant to solve.
This reminds me of a question that nagged me earlier. "Did the hive come
with the house?"
"Yes. It was one of the features you liked best about it. Your...husband
thought it would give you something to do."
I set the sketch down. "You don't like Henry. Is it because he reminds you
of a former lover?"
She blinks at me, her mouth working impotently, startled.
"Or a family member, perhaps? You are obviously concerned for my safety. You
think he's violent."
I can tell her first instinct is to deny my observation. But she is smart
enough to see the folly in that. She sets her cup down on the table. "Not
violent, exactly. He's...volatile. Unpredictable."
"Have you seen any evidence he has tried to hurt me?"
She eyes my wrists before hesitantly saying. "I can't prove anything,
but...two months ago someone gave you a black eye. You didn't remember how
you got it."
"According to my notes, I got it in an argument with the neighbor." I point
in the direction of the house opposite the one Lillian resides in.
She makes a disbelieving noise. "Bob? I admit I don't know him very well.
He's always working. But I doubt he would hurt a fly."
"Forgive me. I'm not accusing you of anything. I believe you. I'm just
trying to understand."
Her eyes soften with that look of sympathy. "That's what concerns me. I hope
I'm wrong, but I'm afraid you wouldn't know if I'm not."
I sit back in my chair and press my steepled fingers to my lips,
contemplating her.
She sighs. "I know we haven't known each other for long and you feel like
you barely know me at all, but I want you to know that I care about you and
I am here for you. If you need anything, you have my number."
A relative or a friend. Something happened to them and she regrets not
having seen the signs earlier. She's afraid of making the same mistake
again. But she's wrong. At least partly. Henry may be volatile, but he isn't
a danger to me.
'You're MINE.'
Obviously he is possessive. But that is the sort of impassioned declaration
that would come from an overdramatic lover. Even if it does suggest
something darker, it suggests the sort of person who would destroy anyone
who threatened me or his claim over me.
The sort of person who would never tolerate a neighbor punching me in the
face.
"Did you see Bob after the alleged fight? Did he have bruises?"
Lillian shakes her head. "As I said, I don't see him much, but I don't think
so." She finishes her tea and sets the cup on the tea tray. "I have a new
job I've got to get to." She stands, straightens her clothes and bends to
kiss my cheek. "Take care of yourself, Will," she murmurs.
I make a vague noise of acknowledgement as she shows herself out.
---
I wash Lillian's cup and leave it to dry in the sink. Then I locate the coat
that must be mine and go out to the garden to get a better look at the hive.
It is a standard wood box hive with a reflective cover. I walk around it,
listening to the hum of a healthy colony while I consider all the clues that
I have left that seem to be leading me here.
When the Queen goes above board.
Crown Royale.
Crown.
I locate my beekeeping equipment in the small shed near the hive. If I'm
right, there's very little chance of being stung as I wouldn't need to open
the hive fully, but it wouldn't hurt to at least wear gloves.
I hesitate when I spot the smoker and remember another detail from my notes.
Molly with a cigarette. John with a pipe. Smoke curling from Mrs. Hudson's
stove and the fire Moriarty was tending. I peer inside the smoker and find a
single, crumpled piece of paper. I unravel it carefully. It has a drawing
similar to the one in Lillian's sketch, only this one is rougher with a more
realistic looking bee. Beneath it, in my handwriting, are John's words from
my journal in the form of a quotation.
"When the queen goes Above Board." - John H. Watson
I return the paper to the smoker, grab my gloves and approach the hive,
moving slowly and carefully so I don't disturb the bees that have ventured
outside the box. I lift the top cover gently, only moving as much as I
absolutely have to, and find the memory stick sitting innocuously on top of
the inner cover - the crown board.
"Thank you, John," I murmur, even though I know he didn't really have
anything to do with it. In all likelihood, my encounter with him in my mind
palace never really happened. I invented it because I knew if I thought the
words were coming from John I would understand their significance. I would
listen to him and trust him. As I always had.
---
The memory stick is password protected, naturally. I stare at the blinking
cursor in the password prompt as I try to determine what sort of password I
could possibly have set. Obviously it had to be something I would be sure to
remember, despite my condition. And if all this secrecy is meant to hide the
information on the drive from Henry - as must surely be the case - then it
must be something he couldn't possibly know or find out using his privilege
as my husband.
I try "Redbeard", but it doesn't work. Not surprising, really. If Magnusson
knew about it, Henry could probably find it.
I similarly rule out 1058, clever as it may be for the house security code.
Wasn't that the number The Woman fooled me into trying on her camera phone?
Her measurements aren't the password either.
I groan and grind my palms into my forehead in frustration. "Think," I
mutter under my breath. "What would nobody know?" Or perhaps something only
a very small number of people would know. John would know, probably.
John.
The note had said "John H. Watson."
I type "Hamish" and tap return. The prompt disappears, replaced by a window
displaying the contents of the drive.
As always, John had the answer, even if he wasn't aware he did.
The drive contains what appears to be a copy of my journal. But it has to be
more than it appears or I wouldn't have gone to such trouble to hide it.
The first few entries are identical to the ones I already read this morning.
Except they begin with our honeymoon. After the familiar pornographic images
there is an entry I haven't seen before.
'I know Henry is lying to me, but I don't know the extent of his deception.
Which is why I have duplicated my journal entries from this date forward
here. I suspect he is editing the original file. The contents of this drive
should prove it.'
I open my original journal so that I can view both versions on the screen
simultaneously.
The first few entries are unchanged and simply document our move into the
new house and my first inspections of the hive. This seems to have been when
I got the idea to buy a data stick from a local shop and hide it in the one
place I could be certain was mine alone. Each subsequent unique entry in
this alternate journal is accompanied by observations about the hive itself
in the original, my recovery of the memory stick disguised as simple
curiosity about the colony. This might explain why I seem to be opening the
hive more often than strictly necessary, though my amnesia provides a
convenient excuse.
Some of the changes are so minor that I can't imagine why the alterations
were deemed necessary. Things like mundane conversations with Bob and
flashes of memory from the honeymoon of Henry buying a package from a man on
the street in France and speaking to one of the staff at a hotel in Italy.
These locations seem to have been determined by what language he was
speaking, noting his apparent fluency.
Then I find the pictures of myself sporting a bruise over my left eye. The
notes for that day in each version of the journal are drastically different.
In the "official" version I went about my usual data collection after a
vague note about arguing with the neighbor. Henry treated my injury and
fussed over me protectively. 'I know he's lying,' I write in the alternate
journal. 'I suspect he was actually the one who hit me, but I can't prove
it. I don't even know why he would have done it. I have no memory of
anything that happened after I put the memory stick back in the hive. All I
know for certain is that I didn't fight with Bob yesterday as Henry claims I
did and Henry is being particularly affectionate and gentle with me today,
as if he feels guilty or even remorseful.'
As I continue to read this new version of the events of the past month, I am
reminded of the way Henry described me in his study. Confused. Paranoid. If
these notes had been written by anyone else, I would draw the same
conclusion about their author. But even though I have reason to doubt my
memories of anything prior to or during the honeymoon, my account of the
events of the past two months doesn't sound confused or paranoid. Merely
incomplete. Entire days seem to have been omitted with no explanation given.
Yesterday, for example, which is only covered by the journal Henry has
access to.
Twice I announced my intention to escape, only to wake up the next morning
with no memory of how I got back to the house.
I come to the day Henry came home on his lunch break. In the possibly edited
version, my daily activities were interrupted by a bout of spontaneous
amorousness from my husband. The unaltered version notes this too, but in
far more graphic detail.
'Henry came home at lunch and dragged me to the bedroom, nearly tearing my
clothes in his impatience to undress me. He prepared me roughly while
performing fellatio in a manner I can only describe as aggressive. His goal
seemed to be to make me reach orgasm as quickly as possible. I asked him to
slow down once, which prompted him to growl and jab at my prostate. I barely
finished ejaculating down his throat before he flipped me over and thrust
himself inside me. I felt my hips bruise under his fingers. He demanded I
say his name and then my own name. I said "Will" almost instinctively to
this last prompt, which made him growl and reach between my legs. He brought
me to a second orgasm while saying my own name, then pulled out and
ejaculated across my back.'
The unaltered journal notes this as a potential strange kink. The original
version - obviously written after I returned the stick to the hive -
describes Henry acting as the gentle, doting husband again that night (as
opposed to the fierce, hungry lover I had seen mid-day), cooking dinner for
me and giving me a full-body massage that erased any traces of the headache
I'd had earlier in the day.
Why had these details been removed from the official notes? There isn't
anything particularly disconcerting about the unaltered version other than,
possibly, the name issue. It merely describes a different part of Henry's
personality - his impatience and possible lack of control. What does this
imply about our activities last night, for which I only have the one account
accompanied by a suggestive email, data about anal orgasms and some
pornographic pictures.
One month ago, I woke up with memory of the day before, news which Henry
greeted with a mixture of happiness and wariness. In both accounts, I
conclude that this is because it had happened before and he knew what would
come next. The next few hours of notes before I returned the stick to its
hiding spot give two differing accounts of my growing illness and its
possible cause. I seem to have deliberately written them that way, knowing
the "official" one would be - if not altered - at least read by Henry. In
that one, I describe my symptoms as a combination of a side-effect of my
medication and possible food sickness as I go about my work, which included
Lillian's skull. 'I suspect Henry is drugging me, though I don't know why or
what sort of drug he is using,' I write in my secret journal. 'I was so
caught up in Lillian's case last night that I can't remember whether I took
the evening dose of "medicine". I deliberately concealed this morning's dose
and hid it in the box containing my microscope slides. I can't test it
myself, but Lillian might have access to a lab that can. I will try to hide
one of the evening tablets as well. I would do so now, but I've no idea
where he hides them. I have searched all likely spots and several unlikely
ones. I will have to try to trick him into revealing their location
tonight.'
The next day is entirely missing from the alternate journal and the original
only contains data regarding Lillian's case. I find the box of microscope
slides in the small study where I've collected some basic lab equipment.
There is only one tablet inside, so obviously my plans hadn't gone as I'd
hoped. But I've no idea what happened.
In the next entry of the secret journal, I note the need for more reliable
clues leading me to the data stick as I can't rely on simple curiosity to
compel me to possibly disturb the hive. I invent the conversation with John
and, when that still doesn't prove entirely reliable, I purchase a small jar
of honey from a local market, transfer it to a cleaned out jam jar and toss
the original in a bin down the street while on a "walk". I ask Lillian to
help me design a label, a rejected prototype of which I hide in the smoker,
and tell Henry that I gleaned the honey from my hive. He believes me,
proving that he thankfully doesn't know anything about bees.
The last few weeks of entries in the secret journal are focused primarily on
Henry, the nature of our relationship, and questions about my mental
condition.
'Obviously, I am not being held prisoner. At least not in any physical
sense. My failed attempts to leave Henry are disconcerting, but I seem to
have returned of my own free will. Though it is still possible he is
coercing me in some way of which I am unaware.'
'I read the book Lillian loaned me today,' another entry reads. 'Apparently
it is popular with the masses right now. It was a predictable, insipid
melodrama masquerading as mystery fiction, yet I found myself sympathizing
with the one of the characters (ironically named Watson). When she realizes
she can no longer trust whether her own memories are real, she says "I have
lost control over everything, even the places in my head." I fear I may be
going mad.'
In the final entry - the one from Tuesday - I note my failure to obtain the
second evening pill a month ago and outline a plan to distract Henry and
hide that evening's tablet in the bathroom while I'm "washing up".
Specifically, I identify the linen cupboard as my ideal hiding spot.
I pause to search for this second tablet, though I don't expect to find it.
If my plan had succeeded, surely I would have another journal entry from
Wednesday. At the very least, the notes I have wouldn't indicate that I
suffered a relapse of my amnesia.
Improbably, I find a small white tablet, nearly identical to the one in the
microscope slide box, tucked beneath a stack of linens. I stare at it,
struggling to make sense of the conflicting data. I have no way of knowing
whether I took the evening pill or not one month ago before I woke up with
my memories mostly intact. But now it seems I deliberately tried to recreate
the conditions of the experiment two days ago to completely unexpected
results. I didn't take the pill and I lost my memory anyway.
I return to the laptop in defeat, setting the offending tablet beside me on
the table where I can glare at it as I note this failed experiment in my
notes. 'There are several possible explanations, but I can't be certain of
any of them without more data,' I write.
Of course, the simplest explanation could be that my condition is real and
the drug really is working. But the data I have doesn't prove that yet. In
any case, repeating the experiment would clear up any uncertainties.
I begin new entries for today in both journals. In the one Henry can access,
I note my encounter with Moriarty in my mind palace (including the moment
where he became Henry), a careful account of my meeting with Lillian
(omitting her concerns for my safety) and observations about the hive.
In the alternate journal, I copy the interlude with Moriarty, give the full
account of my meeting with Lillian along with my newfound doubts about the
alteration with Bob, and then set about collecting data on Henry. If
something is truly off about my current situation, then he is at the heart
of it.
Unfortunately, there doesn't seem to be much to dig up on him. He is an only
child and both of his parents are long since deceased. He has a medical
degree from the University of London and volunteered for several years with
Médecins Sans Frontières in Algeria, Mali, Libya and Egypt. I note this in
my journal as possible corroboration of his fluency in French.
I hesitate as I realize this is one of the memories he deleted - assuming,
of course, that he is the one who has tampered with my notes. Why would he
try to conceal this detail from me? It can't be because he doesn't want me
to know he speaks French. That's hardly an uncommon skill for an Englishman.
If, indeed, he was the one who deleted that memory, he must have done it for
another reason.
I re-read the entry with the memories from our honeymoon, but I seem to have
been too far away to hear more than a few scattered French words and
phrases. Things like "husband" and "honeymoon" and "twelve days". Nothing
useful. I was closer when the situation repeated itself in Italy, but my
Italian is much more rudimentary than my French. I understood just enough to
know that he was arguing with the stranger about money.
My mobile rings as I'm still pondering this information. I glance at the
screen to see Henry's name and, with only a half- formed plan to prove my
theory, answer with "oui, mon mari."
My words hang in the silence for a moment before he answers. "Autant que
j'adore quand tu me parles en français, je suis vachement fatigué
maintenant. Peut-on parle anglais?"
The near-native fluidity of his words is colored by a distinct weariness.
"What's wrong?"
"It's fine. Look...I probably won't be home for dinner, love. There are some
leftovers in the fridge if you get hungry or you can order in. Your medicine
is in the cupboard above the stove."
It takes me a moment to register the gift I have just been given. Hiding the
tablet will be easier than I thought. But there is still something about his
tone that bothers me. I rephrase my question. "What's happened?"
He sighs. "Accident out on the A59. I'll tell you more when I get home. I
just...I needed to hear your voice."
I cast about for something to say and come up empty.
"How are you feeling? You had a headache yesterday."
"Oh. Er...I'm fine."
"Good. There's paracetamol in the bath and herbal tea in the cupboard by the
kitchen sink if it comes back. That always seems to take the edge off." He
takes a deep, slightly trembling breath. "I have to get back to my patient.
Don't wait up."
"Okay."
"I love you."
I open my mouth to respond and hesitate, not sure what I'm supposed to
respond with. It doesn't matter. He's already disconnected.
---
Henry's disclosure of his hiding spot for the tablets turns out to not be
the fortunate break I had hoped it would be. Instead of a bottle with some
sort of markings, I find a plastic container used for sorting medications
taken on a daily schedule. There are tiny partitions for "AM" and "PM" doses
on each day of the week. Each slot from Thursday PM on through the week-end
contains a single tablet.
There is a certain logic to this, I console myself. An amnesiac can't well
be trusted to follow a prescribed regimen any more than a patient with
Alzheimer's. The risk of over-dose would be too great. If my memory
retention has only recently grown to a full twenty-four hour period then I
probably still cannot be fully trusted to remember how many pills I've taken
on any given day. Except I wouldn't remember to take the pills at all if
Henry didn't remind me. I wonder if he has them sorted like this for this
exact scenario - so I can take them myself and he can still be assured I
will follow the schedule.
Regardless, while it will be easy for me to hide tonight's tablet without
Henry's knowledge, I cannot remove any more tablets from the container
without him noticing the absence.
I am determined to see this experiment through however, so I hide the
Thursday PM dose and the tablet I found in the linen cupboard in my
microscope slide box and note everything in my private journal.
There are several possible solutions to the puzzle my life has become, all
stemming from two main hypotheses. The first: my rare condition is real and
the drug really is an experimental nootropic designed to treat it. As
tempting as it is to dismiss this idea, it makes the most sense based on the
data I have collected so far. The second hypothesis: my condition is
actually caused by the drug, whatever it is. But to what end? What
could Henry possibly hope to gain from making me believe I have amnesia?
I can find little more information on Henry. After his humanitarian tours in
Africa he settled back in England. He was working A&E at a hospital in
London when I had my accident. The rest of his story is in my notes. Aside
from one drunk and disorderly charge and one dismissed charge of impropriety
from a patient that was clearly more rooted in homophobia than reality, he
is entirely, unimaginatively clean.
I check the police records and find an accident matching Henry's description
from earlier today. It seems a tire came off a lorry, causing it to swerve
dangerously. At least three other cars were involved. One victim died at the
scene. Five others were taken to hospital in varying conditions. I wonder,
idly, which one Henry is treating. From the tension in his voice, I would
guess his patient is one of the more critical ones.
It is getting late and I am not certain how much longer I will have the
luxury of privacy. I wrap up my notes in the secret journal and return the
memory stick to the hive. Then I return to the file on the desktop and
carefully construct a narrative that frames my research into Henry as simple
curiosity.
I affix the label Lillian designed to the jar of honey and hope that it will
be enough to guide me to the memory stick tomorrow should my experiment fail
and my memories of today vanish.
I need to think. I'm pretty sure I saw a violin in my study- cum-laboratory.
---
The violin, like so many things in my present life, is familiar despite
clearly not being the one I had back at Baker Street. It is a fine,
perfectly tuned instrument that I've no doubt I have made good use of in
recent months.
I run through all the standards I have committed to memory. Beethoven,
Mozart, Boccherini, Chopin, God Save the Queen. Anything that is so
ingrained in muscle memory that I no longer need to concentrate on the
fingering. This allows me to focus on more pressing matters.
The human mind is terribly unreliable when it comes to memory. Even my own
superior intellect cannot necessarily overcome the natural tendency to
conflate events, dreams and suppositions. Whether my condition is a real
medical one or is artificially constructed by drugs, the effect is the same.
I cannot trust my memories and I cannot draw anything concrete from either
of my journals. Lillian's observations contain some noteworthy points, but
are too clouded by her emotional biases to be of much use.
I need to filter out all the distractions and focus on the facts.
I was in an accident eight months ago. John was driving. I sustained a head
injury. He didn't survive.
I am currently married to Dr. Henry Peters and living in Cressington Park.
He makes sure I take a pill twice a day for purposes of which I am yet
uncertain.
I don't trust Henry, but I don't fear him either. I am fairly certain I
could overpower him physically if need be. The fact that I haven't, even
after he hit me if the suspicions Lillian and I share are correct, suggests
I've had no cause to.
I've threatened to leave him, yet I am still here. Like a child making
hollow threats to run away from home. And why should I leave? There is
nothing abhorrent about my life here aside from my inability to remember it.
Regardless of the outcome of my experiment, no matter what the pills are
for, I don't doubt Henry's love for me. His devotion is irrational,
certainly, but unwavering.
I am several measures into Bach's "Air" when I realize I am no longer alone.
I turn to find Henry standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, a
glass of some amber colored liquor cradled in one hand.
"Don't stop," he protests softly. "It was beautiful."
His clothing is rumpled. His eyes are red-rimmed.
His patient died.
"How old was he?"
Henry huffs out a breath. "Late thirties. His wife is in intensive care."
About my age. Died of injuries sustained in a car accident, leaving behind
at least one loved one.
I put down the violin and bow and cross the room to him, taking the glass
from his hand and setting it on a nearby table.
I can feel his body trembling faintly as I kiss him. He makes a noise almost
like a whimper, his hand cupping the back of my neck, but he doesn't try to
take control.
He tastes like Scotch.
I slide my hands beneath the untucked hem of his shirt, smoothing over warm
skin that shudders as he gasps against my lips.
He presses his forehead to mine, wraps his arms loosely around my shoulders.
His breathing is uneven, as if he is barely holding back an emotional
outburst.
"I don't know what I'd do if I lost you," he whispers.
I rest my hands on his hips, steadying him. He leans into me. I have no
doubt if we stay here any longer he will simply sag to the floor.
"Should get you to bed," I venture.
He sighs, his alcohol-scented breath warming my cheek, but doesn't move.
I unwrap his arms and gently coax him up to our bedroom. He follows, docile,
and allows me to remove his shoes and trousers without protest. When I slide
my fingers under the waistband of his pants, however, he stops me.
"Let me just...wash up a bit."
The look he gives me is uncertain and soft and I realize that - perhaps for
the first time in the months since my accident - I am the one taking
care of him.
I cup his cheek, running my thumb delicately over his lips. They part
instinctively and his eyes flutter closed. Lillian may be right in thinking
him unpredictable, but he is far from dangerous. At least at the moment.
I debate confronting him about everything. Forcing him to tell me the truth.
But I don't know yet what the "truth" might be. Until I know what those
pills are and what they do, it is probably better to wait. Play the part and
see where this all leads. Keep gathering evidence so when I do confront him
I will have the complete picture.
"I'll just finish up my notes," I say.
He opens his eyes, looking slightly dazed. Then he nods, kisses my palm and
pulls away from me, disappearing into the bath.
---
I note as many details in my journal as I deem safe about Henry's return
tonight and my deductions about his state of mind. I wish I could add more
to the copy in the hive, but retrieving it now would be too risky.
'It is obvious that his efforts to save his patient today reminded him of
treating me months ago in some oblique way, prompting him to contemplate the
possibility of my death,' I write. 'This line of thought greatly distressed
him and now he seeks comfort and reassurance from me that I am not sure I am
adequately equipped to provide.' Because, more importantly, what he seeks is
reciprocity of his love for me.
I save the journal and close the laptop, leaving it on the kitchen table as
I return to the bedroom.
I spare a glance at Henry, laying on the bed with one arm draped over his
eyes, before turning toward the bath to wash up myself. I brush my teeth
even though I haven't eaten anything since breakfast (I needed to think).
The lamp on my side of the bed is the only light in the room. I hover beside
the bed for a few moments, filing away details I can't be certain I will
ever be able to access again. Henry is well muscled enough that I wonder
when he finds time to work out. There's a light dusting of hair on his chest
and below his navel, disappearing beneath the bedsheet draped across his
hips. There are faint scratches and bruises along his body that mirror the
ones on mine, the remaining evidence of what was apparently a very
enthusiastic round of sex two nights ago. But other than an older scar on
his abdomen, his skin is far more unblemished than mine.
I wonder how many times I have done this. Traced the contours of his body
with my eyes, hands, lips. How many times have I learned exactly how to
touch him to make him gasp or moan or even beg - only to forget it all?
He senses my stare and lifts his arm from his face, blinking up at me. He
smiles, soft and genuine, and reaches for me in invitation.
I turn out the light, let my dressing gown fall to the floor, and crawl
beneath the covers. He pulls me into his arms and kisses me gently, lazily.
I let my fingers explore blindly, feeling his breath catch when my thumb
grazes a nipple. He makes breathy, helpless noises as my lips explore his
neck.
Sensitive. Responsive.
I have just slipped my hand beneath the sheet when he stops me with a firm
grip on my wrist.
"Sorry. I don't think I can tonight, love."
Of course. He's probably too knackered for that. I rest my hand flat on his
abdomen and settle into his side, my head resting on his shoulder. He tilts
my head back with gentle fingers beneath my chin so he can recapture my
lips. Then he sighs, presses his lips to my forehead, and settles with one
hand covering mine and the other tangled in my hair.
I wait until his breathing deepens with sleep before carefully pulling away.
I lay on my back, watching the shadows move across the ceiling. I consider
going out to the hive to retrieve the memory stick in case I'm proven wrong
and relapse overnight. But that would only wake him and risk rousing
suspicion. I can't disrupt the fragile trust he has in me. Not yet. Instead,
I go into my mind palace and place my wedding ring on the music stand in
221b.
Then, with Henry's soft snores filling my ears, I relax and allow myself to
sleep.
Notes:
Lillian is another original character. Her template is basically Angela
from the series "Bones" and her name is either a mutilated version of a
family name or one of the names my mother considered for me, I forget
which. Setting the story in a suburb of Liverpool made a future plot point
work because she would have access to a mass spec. The fact that the
university is also where research on ancient remains is conducted also
gave me a way to make her job interesting to Sherlock.
The book Lillian loans to Sherlock with the quote "I have lost control
over everything, even the places in my head." is The Girl on the
Train.
The French translations are "yes, my husband", "much as I love it when you
speak French, I am [slang for very indicating almost native fluency] tired
right now. Can we speak English?"
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