Of Dubious and Questionable Memory
By Diandra Hollman
---
Day 3
---
There is a faint hissing noise coming from somewhere nearby. I struggle
to open my eyes. I am in a car - one that has obviously recently crashed.
The bonnet is crumpled, half obscuring what little I can see through the
spider web of cracks in the windscreen. Everything is blurry.
I try to recall how I got here. I was working a case, wasn't I? Weren't John
and I close to catching the suspect?
John.
Something prevents me from turning my head fully to look at the driver's
seat, but I can see enough to know that he is slumped over the steering
wheel. I call his name, but there must be something wrong with my ears as I
can barely hear my own voice.
Everything shifts for a disorientating moment and I realize my eyes are
closed and there is a soft pillow beneath my cheek.
A dream. No. A memory.
I pry my eyes open just long enough to verify that I am in a bed, then lie
quietly waiting for my nerves to settle. It is morning. The light is just
beginning to creep into the room. But it must be early as Henry is still
sleeping beside me.
Henry.
My eyes pop open. I remember.
I take a minute to think and consider my options. I still can't be certain
that the drug is causing my memory loss instead of treating it. The results
of changing the variables have been inconclusive thus far. But for now, that
is irrelevant. What matters is the effect Henry believes the drug has and
what I choose to tell him. If he thinks it really is a cure to a legitimate
medical condition, it probably doesn't matter either way. But if he is
deliberately causing my condition then I could potentially be stepping into
a minefield. If I tell him I remember yesterday, he may realize I lied to
him last night. He may know I didn't take the evening dose. But what if I
lie now and fake a relapse of amnesia? I'm sure I could maintain the act for
today, but what about tomorrow? How many times can I avoid taking the pill
before he becomes suspicious? And what if he catches me in the lie? It could
compromise the entire experiment.
The truth then. Or at least some degree of it. According to my notes, I told
him about my unexpected improvement one month ago and he responded with
trepidation, not suspicion. But my notes indicate that I didn't know whether
I had taken the previous evening's dose or not.
I will have to take my chances. Better to feign ignorance and make
adjustments as needed than try to over-anticipate how he will react.
Henry's breath hitches and he makes a small noise in the back of his throat,
like an aborted attempt at speech. I turn toward him as he rolls onto his
back and my eyes fall to the burgeoning erection now outlined beneath the
sheet.
Henry described my sexual advances the other day as especially aggressive.
Was I hoping he wouldn't notice I hadn't taken my evening dose if I
distracted him sufficiently? Did I forget anyway because he noticed and made
me take it after all?
I pull the sheet down gently, exposing him completely. His penis lies
against his hip, swelling lazily. I remember the first time I noticed the
cycles the male reproductive system goes through every night, mortified to
find myself waking up hard after dreams that weren't even remotely sexual in
nature. These days, I've learned to mostly ignore it. It's quite fascinating
to watch it happen to somebody else, however.
I run my fingers along the inside of his thigh and watch his cock twitch
slightly. I slide closer, positioning myself over his lower body, and kiss a
slow, soft trail over his abdomen, feeling the wispy hairs tickle my nose.
He hums and shifts, his legs parting further, his body welcoming my
attention without conscious thought.
I grip his hips gently, my fingers fitting over the faint bruises already
coloring his skin, and lick the head of his cock before taking it into my
mouth. His pre-seminal fluid is already bitter, but he probably lives on tea
and coffee, so that's to be expected.
He sighs and hums, his back arching languidly as he wakes. His hips thrust
instinctively in my grip. I hold tighter. He mumbles something indistinct,
his voice still thick with sleep, and his fingers tangle in my hair,
massaging the back of my head clumsily. His cock swells in my mouth and I
shift so I can take it more easily, applying a bit more suction now.
He gasps and stills. "Oh...Will..."
Suddenly he's pushing me away, sitting up. "What..." He cups my face between
his palms and coaxes me to look into his eyes. "You remember," he breathes.
I say nothing, watching silently as surprise, hope and then apprehension
flit across his face in quick succession. I wait for the anger. For the
realization that I have uncovered his deception. But it doesn't come. Will
it happen later when he notices the tablet is missing? Will he demand to
know where I stashed it? Has this happened before?
I am working on a lie, but I don't want to use it until it becomes
necessary. I don't know if I can count on myself to remember anything I tell
him.
"Are you all right," he asks warily.
Oh. Right. I became sick last time I regained my memories. Is he expecting
that to happen again? Does he know what caused it?
"I'm fine."
There is something else in his eyes - something more guarded. Disgust? Fear?
But of what? He can't be afraid of me, can he?
I have a sudden memory of holding him down, fucking him brutally into the
mattress, his neck arched back as if to scream.
False? Real? I can't tell. I shake it away.
"Is..." I put my hand on his thigh. "Is this okay? I thought after last
night..." I trail off, letting him finish the thought himself. "If you would
rather penetrate me, I can try to locate the lubricant."
A short chuckle bursts from him, surprising us both, it seems. "No, what you
were doing was fine. Very good, in fact."
"Then why did you stop me," I ask innocently.
That seems to catch him off guard. He searches my face again, something like
confusion in his eyes. He lies back slowly, uncertainly, and waits to see
what I will do.
I am potentially playing a dangerous game here. This is about more than sex.
Right now, I hold all the power over him, but I have no doubt he could take
that back from me in an instant if I push too far. He may seem willing to
trust me...or at least he wants me to believe he does. But is he testing me?
To what end?
I curl my hands behind his knees and pull him toward me, sliding him down
the bed and spreading his legs on either side of me. He gasps, but does not
protest the vulnerable position. I run my hands up the insides of his
thighs, opening them wider.
He hisses as I roll his balls gently with the fingers of one hand and sighs
as I wrap the other around the base of his cock. I bend to take him in my
mouth again and he moans.
"Will..."
It takes a few tries to establish a comfortable rhythm and then I am
merciless. There's just one problem. He seems to be having trouble
maintaining an erection. I angle my head so I can look up at him. His eyes
are on the ceiling. Obviously he is distracted.
I pull off, wet the forefinger of the hand on his balls with saliva and
thrust it inside him, finding his prostate easily. He makes a noise like a
choked whimper and his cock twitches and fills my mouth. I set up a new
rhythm, which I am able to maintain for a few minutes before my jaw begins
to ache, but I still can't seem to keep his focus.
And that's when his alarm blares.
I pull off him and sit back as he fumbles for his mobile and silences it.
The erection I fought so hard to maintain wilts entirely.
He sighs and pulls me into a kiss. "I'm sorry love. That was rubbish. Do you
need to finish..."
I consider asking where the lube is so I can fuck him properly, but that
would take too long. Besides, I am not particularly in the mood for it
either. And I can feel the beginnings of a migraine threatening. "It's
fine," I say, resigned, and roll back to "my" side of the bed.
He pulls my hand up to his mouth, pressing his lips to my ring. "I'm sorry,"
he repeats. Then he crawls from the bed and disappears into the bath.
I stare at the ceiling, thinking, while he showers. I go into my mind palace
- to 221b - and retrieve the ring from the music stand. I hesitate as I
notice something odd about it. I step closer to the window, holding it up to
the light. There are faint markings on the inside that I don't remember
seeing last night. An inscription of some sort, but too small to make out.
"He's worried about you."
I freeze. I would know that voice anywhere. I turn slowly, almost expecting
to find it had just been a figment of my imagination. But John Watson is
sitting in his chair by the mantle, reading a newspaper. My John Watson, in
modern trousers and soft jumper. Clean shaven.
I realize suddenly that I am still naked. This is not unusual. Why would I
bother imagining myself wearing clothing? I have a brief, irrational impulse
to find something to cover myself, but I brush it aside.
"John."
That can't possibly be my voice, can it? It sounds too high and broken.
He folds the paper and smiles up at me.
"You're..." I stop myself before I can say "dead" like an idiot. He knows
that. He's not real. He's just a projection, like Moriarty.
"Here," he finishes. "Of course I am." He sets the paper down and stands,
moving closer to me as he speaks. "I am your conductor of light, remember?"
Right. This is why I always found myself speaking to him, even when he
wasn't there. He once accused me of simply using him as a replacement for
the skull on the mantle, but he always had an uncanny ability to help me
focus when I became overwhelmed with data. For grounding me in reality and
guiding me. He could see the client where I saw little more than an
interesting case. "Worried?"
"It's obvious, isn't it? You've already worked it out."
"Henry loves me," I say slowly.
John nods encouragingly.
"Whether the pills are to make me remember or make me forget, his basic
drive is the same. He loves me and fears losing me." I rub at my temple,
feeling the faint twinges of a headache again. "But I know this
already. He isn't a danger to me."
"You still fail to grasp the situation," another voice says before my
brother steps into the room from the kitchen. Has he been here the whole
time or did he just sense an opportunity to prove that he is smarter than
me? "You are so focused on solving the puzzle that you are not seeing the
bigger picture."
"Which is?"
"Why?"
I concentrate, pulling together all of the fragments of thoughts and
conflicting data and reformulate my hypothesis. "Either the pill is designed
to make me forget because Henry wants to control me and force me to stay in
this role as his husband..."
"Or your amnesia is real and he is genuinely treating you as a doctor and
concerned husband," John finishes.
I focus on John's face. On the soft, sentimental look in his eyes. "Either
way, he loves you," he continues. "And he wants you to love him too. The
question is whether he is trying to achieve that by manipulation or hoping
you will come around to it in your own time."
"It's too late, I'm afraid, Doctor Watson. My brother is already in far too
deep."
I glare at Mycroft. "How do you figure that?"
Mycroft scoffs. "Please. He's an intelligent doctor who practically worships
you. You can't help but become attached."
I feel a snarl building at the back of my throat. I've already come to
something like this conclusion myself, but hearing it from Mycroft in that
smug tone...even in my mind palace, he is insufferable.
John takes my hands in his. "Look at me," he says softly.
I look into his face and try to forget my brother's presence.
"You know what is really going on. This has happened before. You have the
answers. You just need to find them again."
"I miss you," I mumble.
He just smiles, a bit of sadness in his eyes, and I have a momentary thought
that wherever he is perhaps he misses me too. But that's absurd, of course.
The dead don't miss the living.
I return to the bedroom and realize Henry has already finished his shower
and is now in the kitchen making breakfast. I wash up a bit, wrap myself in
my dressing gown and join him.
I smell bacon before I reach the kitchen. Henry barely looks up from the pan
of eggs he's scrambling and asks "did you eat anything last night?"
I hesitate a moment, wondering if I should make an excuse, before deciding
that he must be used to my habits. "No. I wasn't hungry."
He spoons a generous helping of egg onto a plate with a wedge of toast and a
couple slices of bacon before handing it to me. "Then eat that and don't
argue with me."
I take the plate to the table, where he has already placed a full glass of
juice and the morning tablet. I pick up the tablet and, still feeling Henry
watching from the corner of his eye, perform a simple sleight of hand,
feigning swallowing it, then drink the juice. When I am certain he isn't
looking, I slip the tablet into my pocket. It was far too easy. And if he
retrieved this pill from the container, he must have noticed last night's
dose is missing. This presents two possible solutions. Either he thinks I'm
taking the pills and they are or aren't working depending on their intended
purpose, or he knows I'm not taking them but isn't confronting me about it.
But why?
This will all make more sense when I know what the pills do. In the
meantime, I'm afraid all this doubt and second guessing will drive me
insane.
I reach for the honey automatically and spread some on my toast before
offering the jar to Henry as he joins me at the table.
"Ah, no." He holds up a similar jar filled with jam. "Never much cared for
honey. Is that the label Lillian was working on?"
I tilt the jar so he can see it better. "Yes. Do you like it?"
He smiles a little. "She's very talented. Do you really think you'll have
enough to sell?"
"Not sure yet. Maybe later. I just wanted to be ready."
"Mmm."
We lapse into silence as we begin eating. The food seems to calm my stomach
a bit.
"So what were you doing yesterday when I called that prompted you to answer
in French?"
For an alarming moment I can't remember. Then I realize that's because I
filed his language skills away with other details that I deemed irrelevant
and not because I have actually forgotten. "Your volunteer work for Médecin
Sans Frontières were mostly in French speaking countries. I was testing a
theory."
I think I feel him relax a little at that. Interesting.
"Je t'aime de tout mon coeur, mon chéri," he says suddenly. "Je ne peux pas
vivre sans toi. Je ne veux pas vivre sans toi. J'ai le sens qu'un
lien invisible entre ton couer et le mien. Et si quel que chose à briser ce
lien, mon coeur cesserait de battre et je mourrais. Je suis a toi, pour
toujours."
He lifts my hand to his lips and presses a kiss to my fingers. I have a
sudden, wild urge to tell him everything. To compel him somehow to give me
the answers I want.
I bite my tongue. Not yet.
He must see something in my face because he huffs in amusement. "Yes, I
know. Sentiment. I am wearing you down, though. Six months ago, you would
have mocked me for that."
"Six months ago, I wouldn't have remembered you coming home practically in
tears because you lost a patient that reminded you of me."
The fork he had picked up again freezes halfway to his mouth and he sets it
back down. "He didn't look anything like you. I just..."
"I know. You had to tell his wife."
"Not yet. She hasn't woken up. She doesn't know." He picks at the remainders
of his breakfast, decides he isn't hungry and turns his attention on his
tea.
This could partly explain his lack of interest this morning. He is
anticipating having to deliver the news to the grieving widow today.
"Will...I'm sure you recorded in those notes you keep what happened to you
the last two times you made a miraculous recovery like this. I want to
believe that won't happen again, but it would be foolish to ignore the
pattern. If you experience anything like the symptoms you described in your
notes, I want you to ring me immediately."
He doesn't know why it's happening? Or he wants me to think he doesn't? If
he thinks the pills are treating a real condition, he might believe they are
simply working. But why would I be getting sick then? On the other hand, if
they are causing it, wouldn't he realize I wasn't taking them? Why would he
allow for a possibility that it won't happen?
His love for me may be clear, but his behaviors are still confounding.
"Will?"
"Yes. Yes, I'll call you if I am ill."
He nods and falls silent for a while. I finish my breakfast. He continues to
push his around his plate distractedly while he drinks his tea. He seems to
be avoiding what he really wants to say just as much as I am.
"You kept asking for him," he says, breaking the silence abruptly.
"Demanding to speak to him. You didn't believe he was dead. You were
convinced I was lying to you. Keeping him from you. When I first showed you
the autopsy report and you saw the picture of his body..." He closes his
eyes as if he is reliving the memory.
I wait a moment for him to continue. He doesn't. "What happened to the
picture?"
He looks dazed for a moment. As if he was so lost in his memories he forgot
where he was. "Ah...after a few weeks you made me promise never to show it
to you again."
"How many times?"
He understands the question without needing clarification. "Three. I
couldn't stand watching you go through that anymore so I destroyed it after
that."
He sighs and sets his fork down again. "Look...I know I can never live up to
John Watson, but I would move heaven and Earth if it would prove to you the
depth of my loyalty and love."
"You don't have to," I say quietly. "It's obvious."
He blinks, makes a couple aborted attempts at speech, then gets up to clear
his breakfast dishes, turning his back to me.
Emboldened by this confirmation of how much leverage I have in this
relationship, I follow and wrap my arms around him. I kiss his neck, taking
full advantage of the fact that I actually remember just how sensitive he is
there.
His breath catches and the tension eases from his shoulders. The dishes he
was rinsing clatter unceremoniously to the sink. He turns the faucet off and
leans into me, tilting his head to give me better access.
It would be so easy to take control, to convince him that he can trust me, I
think as I trail kisses up to the hinge of his jaw. All I have to do is play
the role he wants me to play. "Je t'aime, mon mari," I whisper in his ear.
He goes still. His breathing stops for a moment. Then he turns in my arms. I
go to kiss his lips, but his hands on my chest hold me at bay. He searches
my face, tiny frown lines appearing between his eyebrows.
I give him my best sheepish smile. "Sorry. I guess it's easier to say it in
French."
He relaxes a bit and this time when I go to kiss him, he lets me.
"I have to go to work," he mumbles after a few lazy kisses.
I hum and nip at his chin before starting down the other side of his throat.
He makes a choked whimpering sort of noise and tangles his hand in my hair,
guiding me back to his lips. "Later," he whispers into my mouth. He kisses
me one more time before reluctantly prying himself away, wobbling for a
moment or two and straightening his clothes somewhat dazedly.
"The keys are in the..." he begins before faltering. "You know that. Right."
I watch in amusement as he fishes his car keys from the bowl. He comes back
for one last kiss - this time a chaste one on my cheek. "Call me," he says
again.
I finish loading the dishes into the washer, listening as he retrieves his
coat. Once I am sure he is gone, I retrieve my mobile from the counter,
locate Lillian's number in the contacts and press "call".
---
I don't tell Lillian what the pills are for. I say they are part of an
experiment and that Henry must not know about it. As I suspected, her
distrust of Henry is strong enough that she agrees easily, although she
warns me that it may take a while to convince someone in the lab to run an
analysis.
It isn't until after I leave the tablets with her that I think to collect a
DNA sample from the rim of the glass Henry left in my study/lab. I'm not
sure I will need it, really, but the opportunity to collect information
seemed too good to pass up. I save the sample in a drawer and note it in the
journal on the memory stick, along with more details about last night and
this morning.
'The purpose of the tablets aside, it is clear to me that whatever is going
on here is more complicated than I originally assumed. If he is doing
something to insure I stay here with him, it is far more subtle and less
physical than simply drugging me into compliance. I feel a connection to
him. Maybe it's his obvious intelligence or maybe it's because he reminds me
of John, but I find myself craving his company and finding pleasure in his
affections. Much as I hate to admit it, Mycroft may have been right. Henry's
devotion to me compels him to provide for my every need, both of the body
and the mind.'
I stop typing as the mild nausea I'd been experiencing suddenly becomes a
lot less mild and I have to expel the entirety of my breakfast into the
toilet. Vomiting increases my headache. As I sit on the floor of the master
bath waiting for it to subside, I nip into my mind palace for a bit and find
Mary has taken John's place in the flat.
"You know he's lying to you," she says as she tries to settle Rosie on her
hip. Rosie was still too young to be able to hold her head up when I last
saw her, but I can easily imagine what she would look like now, months
later. A perfect combination of John and Mary's features.
"Obviously. I just don't see what purpose it serves."
"Of course you do. That's why you're talking to me right now."
Rosie fills the silence with happy squealing noises as I contemplate the
former assassin holding her, lightly bouncing her in an unconscious soothing
motion. For all of her faults, she loved John. It was the one thing she
never lied about. Their meeting may have been the result of a manipulation,
but she genuinely cared about him.
"He's terrified of losing you," she says. "He will do whatever it takes to
protect this life he's created for himself. This identity."
These last words trigger a realization. Mary Morstan was an assumed name. A
fresh start. An orphan with few ties to others.
"His name isn't Henry."
"His name isn't important. Our names don't define who we are. You
should understand that, William."
"No, but it might tell me who he was." I take off my wedding ring
and squint at the inscription inside again. It's still mostly
unintelligible, but I can almost make out a "T" and an "A" and something
that is either a "J" or an "I".
A phone rings, startling me back to the real world. I pull my mobile from my
pocket and bite back a groan as I read Henry's name on the screen.
"I'm fine," I answer.
"Then why didn't you answer the first time I called?"
First time? "I forgot my mobile when I went to check the hive."
It's a terrible lie and I can tell he doesn't believe it. "I'm going to try
to get someone to cover the last few hours of my shift so I can come home
early."
"I'm fine," I repeat stubbornly.
"You probably can't hear it, love, but your breathing is slightly erratic
and you are slurring your words."
"I'm. Fine. Just a bit peaky."
"You are a brilliant man, but you are shite at judging your health. Do you
have a headache?"
"A bit," I mumble.
"Take some paracetamol if you think you can hold it down. Drink some tea if
you can't. I'll come home quick as I can manage."
"It's hardly an emergency."
He sighs. "I know sweetheart. But after yesterday, I don't think anyone
would object to me getting off early to take care of my poorly husband."
I bite my tongue. Arguing any further would be pointless. And what would I
gain? A few more hours of time to research and write in my secret journal? I
still don't have any solid leads to follow yet.
"I love you."
I make a non committal noise.
He hangs up. I take a deep breath and heave myself up from the floor. I will
have to work faster.
---
I am straining to make out the inscription on my ring, but the letters are
hopelessly garbled. TS? Are those initials? J- o...John? A-m-or...is that an
n?
"Poor Sherlock," Moriarty lilts, appearing beside me. "Not so clever after
all."
I lash out in frustration, only to find nothing but empty air in the
direction his voice emanated from moments ago.
I shake away the disorientation and continue typing, documenting everything
and trying to predict the possible scenarios that could play out once Henry
returns. Will he force me to take the tablet? Can I make him tell me what it
does even if I will forget again tomorrow? TS. Why does that sound familiar?
My thoughts are tumbling over each other too quickly. Blurring. I can't tell
what's real, what's a memory and what is wild speculation.
I research my symptoms, which the wisdom of the Internet identifies as any
number of things between food poisoning and Lupus. Possible side effects of
certain medications or symptoms of withdrawal from others. In short, they
could be the result of me taking the pill, not taking the pill or having a
heretofore undiagnosed and possibly terminal illness.
What if none of this is real, I wonder. What if I'm still trapped in that
car with a head injury and I'm lost in my mind palace?
Okay. Clearly that last one is absurd. It sounds like the plot of one of
John's ridiculous movies.
In a fit of madness, I attempt to call Mycroft. He doesn't answer, which is
just as well. He would probably just assume I'm high.
I record as much as I possibly can on the memory stick and return it to the
hive before the next wave of illness consumes me.
I am on the floor, my forehead pressed to something cool and hard. My face
is burning, but my body is shivering.
I am on the floor of 221b. John is sitting beside me.
"This isn't a side effect. You are suffering from withdrawal."
"I know," I stammer through chattering teeth.
"You can't keep going like this. It could kill you."
"Don't th-think it's up to...me."
"Not entirely, no. But it might be easier if you don't fight him."
I roll on my back and frown up at John.
"Think about it. He said you were worse after the accident - the amount of
time you could retain memory shorter. Your memory is improving and this is
the second time in as many months that you have gone longer than twenty four
hours without a relapse. Assuming the drugs are meant to cause the
symptoms instead of treat them, the only reason that would be happening is
if..."
"He's reducing the dosage," I finish. "He wants...to get me off-f the drugs,
but he's afraid doing it t-too fast will kill me."
"He's probably right if this is a derivative of Benzodiazepine."
I groan and press my palms into my eyes. "But WHY. Why did he ne-ed me to
forget in the first-t place? Who is he?"
"You know who he is," Moriarty's voice purrs. "You just don't remember."
I lash out blindly in his direction, this time feeling my fist strike solid
flesh. The dark figure looming over me falls back with a yelp. I scramble in
the opposite direction with the frantic intention of getting away. But I'm
too tired. I can't think. I can't...
I stop fighting and everything goes black.
---
A man is singing an old folk tune. Something just short of a lullaby. His
voice is soft and clear. I can feel the vibrations of it in his chest,
beneath my cheek. I hear a whimpering noise that can't possibly have come
from me and he stops.
"Are you awake, love," Henry asks gently, nearly a whisper. As if he fears
disturbing me from my sleep.
"Mmm...s'nice..." I recall reading in my notes that my husband has a lovely
singing voice. I wonder how often I've had chance to hear it. I try to shift
in his arms, but my body feels leaden and something is preventing my arms
from moving.
"Softly," Henry says. "Can you sit up?"
That seems to have been a rhetorical question as he unwraps the blanket he
must have bundled me in, sets me upright and fumbles to unwind something
from my wrists. He tied my hands with the sash from a dressing gown?
He lowers me to the floor, placing a pillow under my head, replacing the
blanket and disappearing for a moment. I hear a cupboard open somewhere.
Then his hands are brushing my hair from my forehead and inserting something
plastic in my ear.
Aural thermometer, I realize when I hear a soft click and it is removed.
I finally manage to get my eyes open as he is readying some sort of
equipment. I don't see what it is because I am too focused on his face and
the angry red mark below his left eye that will doubtless turn into a
bruise. That explains my tied hands. He couldn't trust me not to hit him
again until he knew I was cognizant.
My focus snaps back to his hands as he rolls up my sleeve and wraps a rubber
tourniquet around my arm. "No...what..." I try to sit up, but he presses me
back down.
"Shh...it's all right."
He picks up a hypodermic and a bottle of medicine. I watch him draw the
clear fluid into the needle with practiced efficiency, my mouth going dry.
This is how he does it. He will inject me with the drug I failed to take
willingly and I will forget all of this by tomorrow morning.
"No, don't..." I grab for his hands and try to wrest the needle from him.
The sudden movement sets my stomach heaving and I get sick on Henry's shirt.
There's nothing left in me but bile and it hurts to bring it up.
Henry wipes my face with a soft cloth and continues his efforts to reassure
me that everything is "fine".
"Here," he murmurs, pressing the medicine bottle into my hand. "You can see
for yourself. It's just an anti-emetic. And a mild sedative."
The label bears his claim out, though it's possible the label doesn't
accurately reflect the contents of the bottle. It's also possible I am still
paranoid.
Ultimately, does it matter? If what John said is true and this is
withdrawal, I don't actually want to stop him giving me the drug, do I?
Galling as it is to think that I am willingly participating in this
deception, it is quite possible that the alternative is worse.
I close my eyes and force myself to stay still as he injects the contents of
the needle into my veins. Even though it shouldn't, it feels like a defeat.
Though I am not quite sure who the victor is in this. I doubt it's Henry if
his goal really is to wean me off the drug.
"What's your name," I ask. I doubt I will remember any of this, but I need
to know.
He looks alarmed. He checks my pupils as he says "I'm Henry, darling. I'm
your husband."
"No, I mean your real name."
Understanding washes over his face. "Henry is my real name, love." He starts
unbuttoning my shirt. "Let's get you cleaned up."
"It may be now, but it wasn't always, was it?"
He hesitates before sliding my joggers off. "You are not the only one with a
past you would rather forget, Sherlock."
A general feeling of discomfort rolls through me, dulled by the drug he
injected.
He stands and strips down to his pants, carefully setting aside any articles
of clothing that have sick on them. Then he turns on the tap in the shower
and reaches for me.
He doesn't say anything else as he supports me under the spray, washing
sweat and sick from my body with practiced efficiency.
He fetches fresh clothes for me while I towel myself dry, dresses himself in
joggers and a soft pullover, then leaves me with instructions to meet him in
the kitchen.
I move slowly, gingerly, as if any sudden movement might bring about the
nausea again, although the symptoms seem to be going away.
Henry is at the kitchen table, texting on his mobile when I make it down the
stairs. He sets it down and invites me to sit while he goes to the stove to
pour tea from the kettle.
I peek at his phone, guessing the lock code on the first try (the date on
our marriage certificate, obvious) and find the message he just sent still
on the screen. 'Just a minor setback. Everything is under control now.'
It was sent to Mycroft.
Henry sets a mug down in front of me and takes the mobile from my hand. "He
was concerned. He said he got a strange hang up from you."
"And of course he called you because he would never trust my assessment of
my own mental state," I mutter. I swirl the tea bag in the steaming water,
watching it turn darker. The text is more convincing than any other evidence
I have uncovered so far to support the theory that my condition is real.
Mycroft trusts Henry to watch over me and report back to him. Just as he
once did with John.
I sip at the tea. It is herbal. Medicinal. Soothing.
"My name is James," my husband says softly. "Or it was. And this isn't the
first time you've caught me out. But I didn't lie to you. Not exactly."
He plays with the paper tab attached to the tea bag. It is a different color
than the one on mine, I note. The tea smells like some sort of citrus.
"James what?"
He winces. "I can't bear to say it anymore. It was his name."
"Your father?"
"No. I barely knew my father. My ex." He takes a deep breath. "I became very
good at hiding the bruises...the broken ribs..."
I frantically try to remember reading anything about this in my journals.
"He beat you?"
James...no, Henry averts his eyes from me. "He was schizophrenic, although
we didn't know that initially. We were young, still in Uni. His symptoms
didn't even begin to manifest until a year after we were married. He...he
was lovely when he remembered to take his medicine, but..." He hesitates and
reaches for his shirt, pulling the hem up to reveal the scar I noted last
night on his abdomen. "He became convinced I was sent by the government to
spy on him. He got hold of a kitchen knife and attacked me. Luckily he
wasn't very skilled with weapons."
My eyes travel from the old scar to the new bruise I have given him. I have
no idea if the story he is telling me is true, but if it is it would suggest
he makes a habit of marrying men with obvious mental instabilities.
Or the side effects of the drug he gave his previous husband resulted in far
more violent behavior.
Henry lets the shirt fall again, covering the scar as he reaches for my
hand. "You are nothing like him, darling."
"Am I?"
I let the question hang in the air for a few moments, waiting for him to say
something. Anything. Finally, I decide there is no point in being cautious
now. It is highly probable I won't remember any of this and he knows that. I
can get my answers, even if I can't guarantee I will remember them.
"I know the drug isn't meant to help me remember. It's to make me forget."
I watch his reaction carefully for a spark of anger or surprise, but there
is none. He looks almost relieved. "Yes."
That was easier than I expected. "Why?"
"Because you asked me to."
That can't possibly be true. Can it? "Why," I repeat. "That doesn't make
sense."
He sighs and lets go of my hand. "Would you like some more tea?"
"No, I would like some answers."
"I'm coming to that." He retrieves a plate of biscuits from the center of
the table and pushes it toward me. "Eat some of these."
"I'm not hungry."
"You haven't eaten in twenty-four hours without sicking everything back up.
You'll feel better if you put something in your stomach."
"Does the drug cause nausea if it's taken on an empty stomach?"
He frowns. "You still think it was in the injection I gave you, don't you?"
I stare at him silently.
"What did you do with the pills you didn't take?"
"Toilet." It's an easy enough lie.
He nods. "Right. Okay. From the beginning." He takes a healthy swallow of
his tea and leans toward me, clearing his throat. "You got a concussion in
the accident. For several days you were confused and suffering frequent
lapses in memory. You asked for John repeatedly and became upset when I
reminded you of what had happened. I gave you benzodiazepine to relax you
and help you sleep. As long as you were in hospital, I could control the
dosage. But when you were released you started experimenting with different
cocktails, designing your own custom blend that you hoped would make you
forget. You said you couldn't bear it any longer. You wanted to 'delete'
your memory of John Watson entirely. It didn't work, of course, but by the
time you realized your mistake you had developed a dependency. Mycroft
couldn't get through to you anymore, so he called me."
"I wasn't living with you already?"
Henry glances at the laptop charging on the counter. "No. You were still in
the flat you shared with John, which I'm sure is part of the reason your
plan didn't work." He finishes his tea as he gathers his thoughts. "Your
dependency on the drug made simply stopping it too dangerous. Mycroft and I
devised a plan to reduce the dosage gradually. You moved in with me so I
could better monitor your progress and hopefully keep you from relapsing."
"Why didn't you just tell me this? Why construct an elaborate lie about a
rare amnesia?"
"We didn't at first. But we all came to agree that it was the best and
safest way to manage your condition. You've read your notes. The articles.
You can become quite paranoid and violent."
I remember twisting his arm behind his back and shoving him into a wall. Or
was that Mycroft? "Who agreed?"
"You, me and Mycroft."
A sharp bark of a laugh escapes me before I can stop it. "Of course. So is
any of it true?" I take another sip of tea and hold up my left ring finger.
"Whose idea was this?"
He flinches. "The only lie is in the exact nature of your condition. We had
to alter the events of the first few weeks, but you helped by writing those
notes and letters." His hand covers my arm and he waits until I meet his
gaze. "This is real. I fell in love with you. And despite your insistence
that you don't feel such emotions, I like to think that you love me too in
your own way."
It sounds plausible. It makes sense. But I'm pretty sure the only part of
the story that is absolutely true is the last. His love for me and our
marriage. The rest may contain certain elements of the truth, but I am not
certain where those truths give way to lies and what purpose those lies
serve.
I slowly reach for a biscuit and take a small bite. It is plain. Bland. The
kind one would eat to avoid upsetting their stomach.
Henry smiles and reaches to toy with my hair, smoothing rumpled curls into
some sort of order. "One day this will all be over, darling. One day you
won't need the drug anymore and your memory will be restored."
I'm not sure if that would be better or worse than the alternative.
Henry stands suddenly and goes to the sink to pour a glass of water. He
fetches the pill box from the cupboard and shakes the pre-sorted tablet
designated for tonight into his palm.
He sets the tablet and glass on the table before me as he returns to his
seat. "I will not force you to take it, but as your doctor I strongly advise
it. It is quite possible for your symptoms to get worse. Withdrawal from
this could kill you. And as your husband who loves you desperately, I beg
you not to take that risk."
He doesn't need to appeal to my sympathy. I may be drawn to danger and risky
behavior, but regardless of how that makes me look to the casual observer, I
don't want to die.
Still, I hesitate a while before picking up the tablet. Even longer before
swallowing it.
Henry's smile as I set the empty glass back down is not one of victory, but
rather relief. I may have doubts about some of the details of the stories he
has just told me, but there are a few things I can be reasonably certain of.
The drug is causing my memory loss, but Henry is carefully controlling the
dosage - likely reducing it gradually. He fears losing me and the trauma of
losing his patient yesterday coupled with the potential danger I faced with
the onset of withdrawal today genuinely terrified him.
"You should rest. I'll wake you when dinner is ready."
I begin to protest, but think better of it. I can use the time to write in
my journal and maybe call Mycroft. I nod.
He smiles, kisses my forehead and clears the empty teacups from the table.
I retrieve the charged laptop and retreat into the bedroom.
---
"Will," a voice calls gently. A hand rubs my shoulder. "Wake up, darling."
For a moment I struggle to remember where I am. The voice calling me is
familiar, but I can't place his name. I open my eyes and focus on the dark
haired man sitting beside me. James? No...Henry.
The fog lifts slowly and I reach for the laptop I remember using moments -
minutes? hours? - ago.
"It's in the kitchen, charging."
I hesitate. "Did you read it?"
"Just the last bit. Sorry. I try to respect your privacy, but you left it
open."
How many times has he used that excuse? I'm pretty sure I didn't write
anything damning as I knew it was a possibility he would read it. He
couldn't possibly have changed anything in it yet, could he?
I roll onto my back and look up at him. "You said you would wake me when
dinner was ready."
"I've only started it, but I thought I should check with you, see how you
feel."
"Mmm...better." I can smell cooked meat now, spiced with some sort of herbs.
"Think you can handle Spaghetti Bolognese?"
Basil and oregano. That's the smell. "Sounds lovely." I'm not really
surprised to find that I actually am hungry. It's been more than twenty-four
hours since I last ate and I don't have any work requiring my full mental
focus at the moment. Then again, it could be a side effect of the drug.
He smiles, gives my arm a squeeze and stands to leave. Then he hesitates a
moment. "Would you like me to bring the laptop back?"
"No. I'll come down."
I wait until he is back in the kitchen before I attempt getting up. I am
amazed by how much better I feel. My head is clearer. The queasiness is
entirely gone. I realize this is probably why I have stayed with Henry. Why
I continue to take the "medicine" of my own free will. But there doesn't
seem to be much harm in continuing like this. Or, more accurately, there is
far greater harm in not allowing Henry to continue his treatment.
Assuming he really is decreasing the dosage. I frown at the wall over the
toilet as I empty my bladder. Did I reach that conclusion myself or did he
tell me that's what he's doing?
No, I'm pretty sure I deduced it.
Henry is stirring a pot of sauce at the stove when I reach the kitchen.
There is a laptop open on the table, but it doesn't look familiar. I peek at
the screen to find it open to what looks like Henry's work email.
"Yours is on the counter."
I look up, startled, but he doesn't seem to have even turned his head. I
remember Mary doing that. 'I have eyes in the back of my head,' she joked.
'I always know what you're doing.'
I retrieve my laptop from the counter where it was charging and take it to
the seat across from Henry's.
Henry fills a glass with water from the tap and sets it beside me as he
returns to the table. "You should stay hydrated."
I thank him automatically. It isn't until I notice his hesitation before
sitting back down that I realize the exact words I used were 'thanks, John.'
"I'm sorry, I..."
"No." He waves me off. "It's all right. I'm used to it."
Didn't Molly once say I do that to a lot of people? I shrug it off. Henry is
already focused on his computer screen, the moment forgotten. I sip at the
water and focus on my own, which is still open to my journal. A random
jumble of letters at the bottom suggests I fell asleep as I was typing.
I review the entry for today, not really expecting to find anything
different from what I remember yet. Except I remember talking to Lillian
this morning. Did I not note that? What did we talk about?
Oh. Right. I gave her the pills. Did I note that in the other journal before
returning it to the hive? What did I tell Henry I did with the pills? Flush
them?
And then I come to a baffling note between the list of developing symptoms
and wild speculations about their causes and waking up to Henry singing.
'Called Mycroft. Left a message on his voicemail. I don't remember what I
said, exactly, but it must have alarmed him enough to call Henry and compel
him to come home more quickly.'
I remember calling Mycroft twice today. Granted, my memory of the first call
is hazy, but I don't remember leaving a message.
I pull up the phone history on my mobile. There are two calls to Mycroft in
the recent history, as expected. One for a duration of just under three
seconds, which was probably as long as I listened to the generic outgoing
message he never bothered to change before hanging up. The other call,
however, is logged as lasting one minute and forty-three seconds. Long
enough for me to have left a message. But I didn't leave a message...did I?
I try to recall details from before I lost consciousness, but the memories
are too corrupted. I can't remember what was real and what was in my mind
palace.
"Something wrong?"
I shake myself and meet Henry's questioning gaze. "No, I just...have you
spoken to Mycroft recently?"
"Not since he called me this afternoon. Why?"
"What did he say?"
"He was worried about you. Apparently you left a barely coherent voicemail
about the medicine making you sick and my name not being Henry. You don't
remember that?"
I stare at the call log, trying to make sense of this evidence. I remember
speaking to Mycroft today, but only in my mind palace. My sense of reality
at the time the call was logged is highly suspect, but I do remember trying
to call him. And I remember telling somebody my suspicions about the drug's
true purpose and Henry's false identity. Could I have done something I don't
remember doing while I was lost in my head?
Henry comes around the table suddenly, taking the mobile from my hands and
setting it aside. "It's all right, darling," he says, squeezing my hands.
"You were very ill. I'm guessing you don't remember accusing me of trying to
take advantage of you either. You thought I was Moriarty."
I think I remember that part, but now I'm not certain of anything. A wave of
depression washes over me as I come to several realizations at once. It is
already starting. I am forgetting. Soon, I won't remember anything I haven't
written in my journal for the past forty-eight hours. I won't remember the
memory stick in the hive. I may not even be able to record anything more on
it until Monday when Henry goes back to work. And there's nothing I can do
to stop it.
"Is this what Alzheimer's feels like," I ask numbly.
I see genuine pain and sympathy cross Henry's face before he gathers me in
his arms. In a way, he is suffering through this with me. Whatever this is.
He doesn't want me to forget him, but he doesn't want to lose me either.
I cling to him, pathetically grateful for his presence and strength, letting
the feeble words of comfort he murmurs in my ear soothe my fraying nerves.
"I love you," he whispers.
'I know,' I think as I bury my face in his neck.
---
I can't sleep. My mind is racing, but it is stuck on the same frustrating
loop. For whatever reason, when I sleep I will forget. I have chosen this
artificial state of amnesia willingly. I feel helpless to stop it, but
fighting seems pointless. If I stop taking the drug, the withdrawal could
kill me. I guess in a way, it was inevitable I would end up like this
eventually. But instead of dying alone and pathetic on the floor of the flat
I used to share with John, I am living the life I always thought I would
after I retired from consulting work, being cared for by a man who loves me
more than I deserve.
I turn to look at him laying beside me. He isn't asleep yet, but he's making
a valiant effort. I go over his features again in the dim twilight of the
bedroom, storing details in my mind palace even though I don't know if I
will be able to retrieve them in full later or if, like the scribblings on
my ring, they will be corrupted. Have I done this before? Is that why I
recognize him even if I am unsure of who he is?
I quickly realize that simply looking isn't enough. I slip closer and press
my lips to his shoulder.
"Mmm...can't sleep?"
I hum vaguely and kiss a trail up his neck, feeling the texture of his skin
beneath my lips, the roughness of his stubble.
He shifts slightly, welcoming my attentions, but murmurs "not sure I'm up
for it tonight, love."
I catch his gaze as his eyes open, the ocean blue muted in the darkness.
"I'm not expecting anything." I kiss his lips lightly. "You can sleep if you
like."
He chuckles as I resume kissing back down his throat, creating a pleasant
vibration against my lips. "I see. So I'm just to be a living sex doll for
you to rut against, am I?"
I let my teeth sink into the meatiest part of his pectoral muscle until he
hisses. "No," I murmur into his skin before turning my attention on his
nipples, making his breath catch.
"That wasn't an objection."
"Mmm." He is sensitive here too. I experiment with different combinations of
lips, tongue and fingers until they stiffen. He twines his fingers in my
hair lazily, gently encouraging my attentions.
He makes a small whimpering sort of noise as I trace the scar on his abdomen
with a series of soft, almost reverent kisses.
He squirms as I run my fingers along the gently stirring length of his
penis. I keep my touch light and careful, just feeling the weight of it, the
texture of the skin. I wonder how many times I've touched him like this.
Made him come apart. Made him beg.
I give a quick kiss to the still soft shaft and crawl back up the bed,
draping myself over him and tucking my head into the curve of his neck.
He chuckles and wraps his arms around me. "Git."
I twine our legs together, deliberately pressing my own disinterested cock
into his hip. Neither of us is in any state to be engaging in anything more
strenuous than heavy petting tonight. He is still tired and stressed and I
am still recovering. My explorations hadn't been about sex. I wasn't
entirely certain what they had been about, really. I just felt a need to try
to understand him. To know him on a more visceral level than my notes could
convey. I try to store some of the details in my mind palace - the smell of
him, the taste of his skin, the sound he makes when I scrape my teeth over
sensitive flesh - even though I know I probably won't be able to recover the
data.
Henry seems to understand. He holds me tightly, tilting my chin up so he can
kiss my forehead, my cheeks, my lips. He doesn't say anything, yet I sense
this is an apology. I hold tight and let him soothe me into a restless
sleep.
Notes:
The French quote is a variation on something Tom's character said in
"Crimson Peak" (which I understand was itself a quote): "I love you with
all my heart, my darling. I could not live without you. I don't want to
live without you. I feel like there is an invisible link between your
heart and mine. And if anything were to break that link, my heart would
stop beating and I would die. I am yours, always." Sherlock's French that
follows is simply "I love you, my husband."
"...I would move heaven and Earth if it would prove to you the depth of
my loyalty and love" is an altered line from The Three Garidebs.
When Sherlock is researching his symptoms, the fact that Lupus comes up
as a possibility is a nod to the loose Holmes adaptation "House". Because
it is ALWAYS a possibility, but it is NEVER actually Lupus.
Henry makes spaghetti bolognese as a nod to the interview Tom did once
that somehow turned into him sharing his recipe. Likewise, the smokey earl
grey tea Sherlock describes on Day 4 is a nod to Benedict talking about a
favorite blend his dad makes.
This story was partly inspired by a fic I read where Sherlock is
"poisoned" in a way that affects his memory. His alarm at losing the most
important part of himself (everything else is just transport) felt so on
point. Then I read "Before I Go To Sleep" and watched "50 First Dates" and
it mutated into this.
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