Of Dubious and Questionable Memory
By Diandra Hollman
---
Day 4
---
I wake in an unfamiliar bed. This by itself wouldn't be odd if not for the
clear evidence that until recently I was not alone.
And I am naked.
I don't feel hung-over, yet I don't remember last night. I have bruises on
my body that suggest a carnal encounter, but they appear days old.
There is a note on the pillow beside me in an unfamiliar handwriting,
instructing me to read the contents of a folder on the kitchen table.
Intrigued, I wrap myself in a dressing gown that is curiously both familiar
and unfamiliar and search for the kitchen.
---
I have just got to the pictures from our honeymoon when Henry returns to the
house, sweaty and out of breath from his run.
He kisses the top of my head on his way to the sink for a glass of water.
"Morning, love."
I instinctively touch the spot his lips just touched and discover a
still-healing scar just near it. Obviously from the accident.
"Leave it be," Henry says without looking at me and I snatch my hand away
instinctively. Interesting. This must be a routine exchange for us.
He leans against the counter, sipping his water. "Have you eaten yet?"
"Er...no. Not hungry."
"You never are. You should at least take your pill."
I look at the tablet he left sitting beside the folder along with a glass. I
had filled the glass with water while the laptop was booting, but I couldn't
quite bring myself to take the pill yet. It looked harmless enough, but I
was wary of taking drugs I couldn't easily identify, even if my notes claim
it is an experimental form of nootropic that I helped design myself.
Henry sidles closer to get a closer look at the laptop screen, currently
displaying a picture I had obviously taken of him post-coital, grinning
happily, his abdomen smeared with seminal fluid.
"Ah. Venice," he murmurs. "We didn't leave that hotel room for four days."
He ghosts his finger over the screen, tracing the line of his own hip. "You
can't make out the bruises yet. As I recall, this was the afternoon you
decided to test your ability to make me come untouched. It took you nearly
an hour from start to finish, but you managed."
An image springs to mind of Henry pinned to a bed beneath me, crying out
brokenly. But I'm not sure if it's a memory or my mind simply offering it up
as speculation. Combined with Henry's current proximity, it is having a
curious effect on me. Possibly because he is still sweaty and slightly
breathless, so I can readily imagine what he would look like after a
vigorous round of shagging. I swallow, force my breathing to remain even,
and reach for the laptop trackpad, opening a different image. This one is of
Henry reaching for me, a dark, hungry look in his eyes, his cock very erect.
"What about this one?"
Henry chuckles. "That was after you spent dinner flirting with the waiter.
You knew it would make me jealous. You were trying to wind me up. I got a
bit...possessive."
This time the image is clear. Henry looming over me, pinning me down,
growling "you're MINE" in a low voice. Definitely a memory.
I am beginning to feel warm despite the lingering chill in the air from his
reentry into the house. "Is that how you got that," I ask, gesturing at the
bruise beneath his left eye. "By being possessive?"
He glances down at my hands. "No, that was an accident."
Suddenly the soreness I feel in the knuckles of my right hand makes sense.
"Can I show you my favorite picture," he asks, already scrolling through
images, this most recent curious detail seemingly forgotten. He locates an
image of me sprawled on a bed. Compared with some of the other images in the
folder, it is unremarkable. I am naked, but there is nothing particularly
sexual about it. I look like I am half asleep. "This was our first night in
Paris," he explains. "We were exhausted from the long trip, changing from
train to tube to cab. The room had a nice, big bath, which is rather unusual
for a hotel like that. We shared a shower, practically holding each other
upright while we cleaned the grime of the underground off."
Henry slips behind me, wrapping his arms around my chest, his warm breath
tickling my ear as he continues. "We were too exhausted to have sex
properly, but we couldn't keep our hands off each other. Couldn't stop
exploring. Practically giddy with the knowledge that we were really married.
On honeymoon in the city of love." He kisses my neck tenderly. "It was
gloriously intimate. Sensual if not sexual. We fell asleep tangled up in
each other. I have never felt closer to you. Or any other man for that
matter." He nuzzles beneath my ear in a way that makes me shiver
involuntarily. "You haven't showered yet today?"
"Er...no," I answer belatedly.
I feel him smile. "Join me," he murmurs in my ear before he nips the lobe.
He dips one hand between my legs to fleetingly cup my burgeoning erection
and then he's gone, headed for the bath.
No, it can't be that easy.
I force myself to focus on the words on the screen, skimming through the
last few months of entries. Aside from a mysterious altercation with one
neighbor and efforts to help the other identify a cause of death for a 16th
century skull, it seems fairly mundane. Domestic. Dull enough, apparently,
that I spend an inordinate amount of time obsessing over my bee colony in
the back garden. But the unique challenges of my condition provide adequate
distraction and my determination to improve my treatment of it seems to be
paying off. Just yesterday, I woke with my memory intact for the second time
in as many months.
Treatment. Right. The pill.
I swallow the tablet and try to focus on the screen again. But this proves
difficult as I can hear the water running in the upstairs bath. Once I find
an email wherein Henry rather colorfully announces his intentions to perform
analingus on me, all hope of concentration is lost.
People seem determined to make assumptions about my sex life - or presumed
lack thereof. I've never understood why people make such a fuss over
something so trivial, so primitive. But I am human and not above being
aroused by the thought of taking my very attractive husband up on his offer.
I check the clock in the corner of the laptop screen. I will have plenty of
time for this later, taking into account the average time needed for a
healthy adult male to achieve orgasm.
I close the laptop and make for the upstairs bath.
---
"Not yet," he pleads.
I snatch my hand away from his bobbing erection and grip his hip instead,
steadying him as he leans back until my cock is at the desired angle inside
him, as indicated by his contented sigh and faint shudder.
A primitive noise escapes my throat at the sight of Henry riding me, his
eyes unfocused, panting with exertion. I run my hands over his skin, feeling
the muscles in his thighs tremble with the effort of controlling his
movements, his abdominals quiver as I trace an old scar.
My hands settle on his backside, pulling him tight against me and he growls.
I manage to sit up without dislodging him and take full advantage of the
discovery I made in the shower that his neck is especially sensitive.
He tangles one hand in my hair encouragingly, the other gripping my
shoulder, bracing himself as he continues to roll his hips.
It is awkward and I can't thrust properly, so after a moment I lose my
patience with this arrangement and pull him back down to the mattress,
rolling us over, slipping free only for a moment. He groans as I push back
inside, arching his back. "Love it when you get rough with me," he breathes.
"I know."
He laughs and reaches a hand for his cock, stroking languidly, drawing it
out.
I swat his hand away. "Not yet."
He makes a mewling sort of noise and pulls me into an uncoordinated kiss
that is all tongues and teeth.
"Nearly an hour you said?" I gasp into his mouth.
"Not gonna last that long, love," he pants, squirming beneath me as if to
illustrate.
Neither will I. Despite the obvious evidence that we have had sex regularly
- recently even - and the nagging sense of familiarity I have with so many
things about my new life, this still feels new and overwhelming. I can feel
the tension building fast, the pleasure curling in my abdomen, my balls
drawn up tight.
I pull out and flip him over before the thought has fully formed in my mind.
I manhandle him into position - kneeling almost upright with his hands
braced on the bedstead. It takes a couple thrusts to reestablish a rhythm.
Then I slide one hand beneath him, wrapping it around his rather generous
erection. He whimpers encouragingly and pushes back against me, his body
pliant and eager, his entire focus on the building orgasm. I tangle my other
hand in his short hair and pull his head back roughly, making him yelp.
"Come for me," I growl directly into his ear.
He does immediately, as if he was waiting my permission, moaning and
shuddering as he spills onto my hand.
I bury my face in his neck and let go, feeling the tension break so
forcefully it is almost painful.
I manage to roll onto my back, away from him, before I collapse.
After a minute or so of silence broken only by our collective efforts to
regain our breath, he chuckles.
"What," I prompt breathlessly.
"Now I have to shower again," he says, his voice muffled by the bedclothes.
"Mmm. Me too."
He laughs and turns over to face me. "That was brilliant."
"Stop it."
"No, honestly. You're usually so uncertain and hesitant when we do this. I
hardly ever get to see this confident, wild side of you. It's thrilling."
I frown, eyeing the bruise beneath his eye. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"
"No, darling. Although sitting might be difficult for a while." He smirks.
Much as I hate to admit it - and would never do so verbally - it turns out I
am not above male sexual pride. By the impish look in his eyes, I suspect he
knows this already.
He leans in to kiss me. "Come on. You can admire your handiwork while we
clean up," he says before heaving himself from the bed and heading back to
the bath.
---
"When did you take up smoking?"
John takes the pipe from his mouth and exhales a stream of smoke. "Since the
Queen went above board."
I recognize these words from my notes. "That doesn't make sense, John."
He shrugs. "Yes, well. It is your mind palace, my boy. What was the
question?"
I sigh and repeat. "TS..."
"Ah! Right. Was that related to a case?"
"Perhaps..." I look down at the inscription on the ring again. Those
initials are the easiest to read. Presumably, this would make them the most
important. But why are they only initials? Is it because all the attempts at
whole names are largely unreadable? There is an Am or an An, followed by a G
and a couple scribbles that start with J. One of them looks at first glance
like it could be "John", but upon closer inspection I can't be sure of the
last two letters. The N could be an H and the H something else entirely.
"What case was that again?"
"Something about a missing woman, I think. Or was she murdered?"
It is unlike John to forget such an important detail of a case. But then, I
remind myself, I am not really talking to John. I look into his face - a
face I couldn't erase from my mind palace if I tried. "I miss you," I
whisper.
He reaches out to fold my hand around my ring. "You have the answers
already," he says softly. "You just have to remember."
A mobile buzzes, shaking me from my nineteenth century construction. I blink
at the mobile perched on the coffee table beside my laptop. The screen is
still lit, announcing a text from Lestrade. I asked him what he knew about
"TS" before I entered my mind palace, already suspecting it had been related
to an old case. I pick up the mobile and open the message, groaning at the
unhelpful response.
'What, as in Eliot?'
'No, as in my last case with John,' I fire back.
There is a pause, then a response of 'I can't recall any TS being involved.
How are you? Haven't heard from you since the wedding. How's married life
treating you?'
I bite back another groan, even though the only other person who could hear
it is holed up in his office. 'Fine. Don't suppose you have any cases for
me?'
'No, nothing the yard can't solve. Hey, nice work on that ancient skull, by
the way.'
'How did you know about that?'
'It was in the papers. Your neighbor identified the remains and the
deceased's cause of death? Figured you must have had a hand in it.'
'I don't remember.'
Another pause, then 'right. Sorry mate.'
I go to put the phone down, then hesitate. There is one other piece of the
puzzle Lestrade might be able to assist me with. I glance at the closed
study door before I resume typing. 'What do you know about my husband?'
'What do you mean?'
'I did some digging, but I couldn't find much about him.'
'What is there to know? What are you trying to find?'
I hesitate. Is this the paranoia I read about in Henry's description of the
early days of my condition? 'I don't know. Something's off, but I'm not sure
what, exactly.'
'Off? How?'
This isn't working. I sound ridiculous. 'I don't know. Let me know if you
find anything.' I put the mobile down and stifle another groan. At least I
sounded sober, which is more than I can say about the message I seem to have
left Mycroft yesterday when I was ill.
Wait...why was I ill?
I search though my journal entries again, but they don't offer any
explanation beyond a possible side effect of the nootropic. I seem to have
suffered more frequent bouts of illness in the weeks following my accident,
but now it seems to correlate most predictably to the rare occasions when I
make sudden improvements in my memory. Perhaps indicative of an adjustment
in dosage or the need for one.
Henry emerges from his study and disappears into the kitchen. I hear him
fill the tea kettle and turn on the stove. He sticks his head around the
corner a few moments later.
"There you are. I'm just putting the kettle on. Would you like some tea?"
That actually does sound lovely. I start to stand.
"No, don't get up. I'll bring it to you."
I settle back down and set about adding my latest visit to my mind palace to
my notes. I add the bit about Lestrade being unhelpful where the initials on
my ring are concerned, but omit the questions about Henry.
I close the laptop when Henry arrives with two steaming mugs of tea.
"Anything new," he asks as he holds out one to me.
"No," I grumble.
"Have you tried your mind palace?"
"It turns out strategies to store memories aren't exactly effective when one
is prone to losing their memories."
He gives me a sympathetic look. "I'm sorry, darling. Is there anything I can
do to help?"
I am tempted to ask him about TS, but some instinct tells me I shouldn't.
Instead, I find myself asking "how did you get your scar?"
He looks puzzled, as if that was not what he expected me to say.
I gesture at his torso. "My notes say you told me, but there are no
details." I sip at my tea tentatively. Earl Grey, I note, with a hint of
something darker, richer.
"Ah, well. That's probably because it was my own fault for turning my back
on a delirious patient in a war torn country."
I cast about for a hint of memory of the conversation, but come up empty.
"You were a medic?"
"Médecins sans Frontières," he says with flawless pronunciation. "That
should be in your notes too. Normally we kept well away from the fighting,
but we had to treat soldiers as well as civilians. This one was so lost in
fever that he became convinced that I was an enemy spy sent to kill him
instead of a doctor trying to save him."
Henry sips at his own tea while I try to fit this detail into the overall
picture. There is an unmistakable ring of truth to it, but something is
wrong somehow. Incomplete, perhaps. Rehearsed.
"I suppose that incident taught me a lesson in dealing with patients with
cognitive issues," he continues. "Working with you was far easier. You tried
to strangle me and I took many blows but you never once took a weapon to
me."
I look at his blackened eye again and wonder briefly if he is lying to cover
up the fact that I stabbed him. No, the wound is too old.
He smiles softly and reaches a hand to play with a lock of my hair. "You are
getting better, Will. We're making real progress with your treatment."
Will. I even changed my name. No doubt in part so I could escape the fame my
detective work brought. Or, more accurately, the fame that John's
publicizing of our cases brought.
This brings me to another thought. "Did you treat John too? After the
accident?"
"No, I never had a chance. His injuries were too severe. He never made it to
hospital." His hand comes to rest on my neck. "You really loved him, didn't
you?"
"Love...so many meanings ascribed to the word and yet it is entirely
inadequate." I swirl the tea in my cup, watching it slosh gently. "I suppose
I did. And I know he loved me too, though not necessarily in the way I might
have once hoped. He was a constant. Someone I could trust with the most
intimate knowledge."
Someone I would die for. Someone I would kill to protect.
"Rosie--"
"--is the reason you keep regular correspondence with Mrs. Watson. I think
your brother may be keeping watch over them as well."
Of course he is. I suppose this is another reason for the distance. It is
harder for him to meddle. "Did my brother offer you money to spy on me?"
Henry's hand falls from my neck as he sips his tea. "Not exactly," he says
after a pause.
I groan. "That's a yes."
"He offered me a job as your personal live-in physician. But by that time I
was already falling in love with you and I couldn't take his money."
If he had, he could have quit his job. Or at least reduced his hours. But he
was too proud. Too noble. In many ways, he reminds me of John.
Except...
I think of the hungry look in Henry's eyes as he knelt before me this
morning. The desperate noises he made against my lips as I prepared him. I
may have once desired that with John, but I told myself it was just as well
he never felt likewise as it would have been a distraction. I was happy with
our arrangement, once I grew accustomed to Mary's presence. I may have still
had moments where I wondered what could have been, but those thoughts were
easily dismissed as foolish. Yet here I was, less than a year after John's
death. I don't even believe in marriage.
"I assume you proposed?"
He chuckles and sets his empty teacup on the coffee table. "Yes, well...it
was quite a process. The first time I asked you lectured me about ridiculous
traditions and absurd sentiments. I was more careful when I broached the
subject after that, speaking in broader, theoretical terms. You never
remembered the conversations, of course, but I think I wore you down
subconsciously." He smiles wistfully and slides his palm along my thigh.
"That night we made love and - although you've called me a sentimental idiot
for saying this - I honestly felt you open to me in ways you never had
before. Not just your body, but your heart and mind. You were still gasping
for breath and trembling in my arms when I whispered the question in your
ear. To my surprised delight, you said yes." He gives a small shrug. "Of
course, within the hour, you were rationalizing your response as a
combination of understanding the practical need for me to have spousal
privileges given your medical condition combined with the endorphins
released during orgasm, but I choose to believe that was just bluster coming
from a man who refuses to admit that deep down he's really a romantic."
I snort and open my mouth to refute this nonsense, but he cuts me off by
laying a finger on my lips.
"I know you, my love," he murmurs. "I have had the unique privilege of
seeing you on those rare occasions when you let the cold, logical airs you
put on for the rest of the world slip. I have wiped away your tears when you
grieved for John Watson. I have soothed your fears when you became so ill
you were convinced you were dying. I know who you really are, Will. I know
you are capable of loving so deeply that you are paralyzed by it. That you
can't help but dread that one day the thing you love will be taken from you
too soon. Like John. Like Victor. Like Redbeard."
For a horrible moment I feel as if I am being vivisected. Stripped bare
before a man who was little more than a stranger to me hours ago. I am
reminded of the deficiencies of my memory and wonder when I told him about
my childhood pet being put down when he was barely middle aged because it
was discovered he had cancer. Or about my best friend from Uni whose life
was cut short at an even earlier age by a drug overdose.
Is this why I ran away from London? From Rosie and Mary and Mrs. Hudson? I
am not foolish enough to believe in curses or other superstitions, but it
would be easy to blame myself for John's death. He knew my work was
dangerous, certainly, but maybe this was my way of protecting his family and
mine from suffering the same fate.
Henry takes the teacup from me and sets it on the table, gathering my hands
in his. "I know you are too logical to believe in curses or any vows I make
that I would move heaven and Earth to stay with you. I understand and have
accepted the conditions of our relationship because I know at least a part
of you loves me, even if it is only because I fill the void left by John
Watson." He kisses me. A gentle, tentative brush of his lips against mine.
"I love you," he murmurs. "More than anything in the world. More than my own
life."
He releases my hands so he can cradle my face and kisses me again. Just as
gentle, but less tentative. I relax and let him take control. I think I
understand now why I said yes.
"Do you want more tea," he asks, nuzzling my cheek.
"Ah...no, thanks."
"Mmm...well, I do." His hands fall from my face, one giving my thigh a quick
squeeze before he gathers both cups and heads back to the kitchen. I
hesitate a moment, looking at the closed laptop and thinking, before getting
up to follow him.
"Does 'TS' mean anything to you," I ask, hovering in the doorway.
"No. Why?"
There is something odd about his answer, but I'm not sure what, exactly. "I
don't know. It's probably nothing." My eyes land on the jar of honey I saw
on the table his morning and I realize why John's words were so familiar. I
pick up the jar so I can inspect the label.
Queen. Above board. Of course. That's why I am spending so much time
fretting over the hive.
"Something wrong, Will?"
I put the jar back down. "No, I just...thought I remembered something."
"Really? What did you remember?"
"Nothing. I was wrong."
He eyes me with more concern than suspicion, but says nothing.
I must be hiding something from him, but what? And now I realize what it was
about his earlier answer that bothered me. He answered too quickly. As if it
was a reflex.
"Maybe you should try your mind palace again," he suggests conversationally.
"Maybe."
He smiles and kisses my cheek on his way out of the kitchen, disappearing
back into his study.
---
Just as I suspected, there is a memory stick hidden beneath the lid of the
hive, above the crown board. Clever, but can I remove it and return it
without arousing Henry's suspicion? I have no doubt that the information on
it is important, but it is obvious I am keeping it hidden from him in the
one place I know is mine alone. Is the need to know what is on the drive
worth the risk after I have gone to such bother to ensure its safety?
I slide the stick in my pocket and close the hive. I won't know anything
certain until I know what is on it.
---
The fact that the drive is password protected with John's never-uttered
middle name reinforces my belief that it is mine alone. The contents remove
any further doubt. Although there is nothing particularly alarming about the
events in this alternate journal, the fact that they differ from the ones I
read this morning is unsettling.
I read quickly, mindful of the time. The last entry is from yesterday
afternoon and isn't entirely coherent. I copy the rest of my notes from
yesterday onto the drive - although I can't be sure of their accuracy if
Henry has access to them - along with what little I have as yet today. I
note the fact that I cannot do more with Henry in the next room, but now
that I have read my theories about the true nature of the alleged nootropic
medicine I am taking I hope to prove my suspicions that it is causing my
memory loss and not treating it.
Of course there is a chance the tablet I took this morning will be enough to
affect my memory, but I am betting the effects will be minimal. There must
be a reason Henry prescribed two tablets per day.
I return the stick to the hive quickly, feeling like a little boy again
hiding dirty magazines or, later, drugs from my parents. The twin rushes of
adrenaline at the danger of being caught and disappointment that it proved
to be so easy.
I settle back at the laptop and enter a few hive observations to justify the
two trips he doubtless heard me make.
Then I go into my mind palace to confront the one person who knows exactly
what has really been going on these past months.
Henry sits in the chair John and I set out for clients. Except his posture
is more relaxed than the chair's usual occupants, as if he is perfectly at
home in 221b. He even appears to be wearing one of my dressing gowns and
nothing else.
"There are far too many variables here and I can't be certain which ones are
true and which are false. I know you are lying to me, but I don't know why
or to what extent." I run my fingers gingerly over the scar on my scalp. "I
was in an accident. I remember enough details to be sure of that.
But did it cause my current condition? This rare form of amnesia seems too
bizarre and unlikely to be real, but the alternative is even more absurd. It
would imply that you concocted an elaborate scheme to abduct me and convince
me that I have a rare condition requiring experimental treatment in order to
trick me into continually dosing myself with the drug that causes the
amnesia-like symptoms."
"Diabolical," he agrees with a smirk.
"But if it's real, why bother lying and deceiving me at all?"
"When have I lied? Has anything in your journal actually contradicted me or
is it all just supposition?" He stands and moves closer to me. Close enough
that the mere two inches of height advantage he has on me feels
intimidating. "Has it occurred to you that your paranoia is merely your mind
rejecting the simplest of answers precisely because it is too simple?
That you have been on a steady diet of difficult cases for so long that the
sudden lack of them is driving you to such bored madness that you have begun
inventing elaborate plots where there are none?"
The dressing gown falls open and my eyes fix on his scar. I reach to trace
it with a forefinger. "How did you get this?"
I asked the question rhetorically, of course, but he answers by mirroring my
movements, pressing his hand over the concealed scar Mary gave me. "How did
you get yours?"
I think about the collection of scars on my body, including the new one on
my scalp and a wild thought occurs to me. What if the lies are masking his
guilt over my condition? Treatment aside, what if he caused the accident?
"The angle is wrong," he says, answering my thoughts with the ease of
someone quite literally in my head. "I wasn't in a car when it happened. And
the wound was obviously made deliberately by a blade and healed long before
your accident."
"That doesn't mean you couldn't have been on the scene," I argue.
"No," he admits, his smile fond and infuriatingly serene. "But a doctor
doesn't always have to be part of the cause of a condition to feel guilt for
their inability to cure it." His hand, still pressed low against my chest,
circles to the small of my back, tugging me closer with very little effort,
pressing my clothed body against his mostly naked one. "Is life with me
really so intolerable that you must believe it to be founded on lies?"
This, combined with the memory of Mary's deception, prompts a deduction on
the problem I have been puzzling over all morning. "You are TS,
aren't you?"
His lips twitch faintly, but otherwise there is no change in his expression.
Not that such a thing would mean anything here. "Why did you change your
name? Are you hiding from someone? From the person who gave you that scar?"
I correct myself immediately. "No, the scar is too old for that to be
likely."
He brushes his lips against my clavicle. Not exactly a kiss.
"What is it? Timothy? Thomas? Tobias? You look like you could be a Toby."
He chuckles softly. "Why does my name matter so much?"
"Because I suspect it is connected to the case I was working with John, but
I can't remember the details."
"You think I could be a killer?"
"Yes," I say with an ease that surprises even me. He cocks an eyebrow at me
and I run through the deduction out loud. "Yes, I think you are capable. If
I believe your story about how you acquired that scar it means you were
blindsided by a violent man intent on killing you and impervious to reason
and yet you got away with a single wound. You remind me of both John and
Mary - people who once killed for a living and are more than capable of
doing it again to protect those they love."
"Hmm...but who have I killed to protect whom?"
My head is beginning to ache.
"Maybe I wasn't protecting anyone," he continues. "Maybe I discovered I liked
killing people. Maybe I tried to kill you but something changed and I
decided that having you by my side - under my control - was far more
intoxicating. Maybe I killed John instead because he tried to stop me from
taking you."
It almost makes sense, and yet it seems entirely absurd. Henry - or TS - may
be capable of violence, but he is not a murderer. And I don't think he would
ever have intended to kill me.
"Your love is incompatible with any desire to do me harm."
"If the love is pure, perhaps, but what if it's obsession? I couldn't kill
you if I had to have you. Perhaps that explains why you sometimes
confuse me with Moriarty." He leans close and whispers "you are mine," in my
ear.
"You don't scare me."
He chuckles and runs his fingers delicately around to the front of my
trousers. "I could have you right here until you begged for mercy."
The familiar phrase calls to mind a familiar response. "I don't beg."
He smiles knowingly. "Yes, you do."
I sigh, shake my head and pull away from him, emerging from my mind palace
with no more information than I had before. I always knew there were limits
to what my mind palace could do, but being confronted so blatantly by those
limitations is maddening.
But there is something bothering me about the accident, isn't there?
I pore over the details I have again - a brief accident report and John's
coroner's report. Neither offer many details - though it is curious that the
medical report corroborates Henry's story that he bled out in the ambulance.
Why, then, did I write in my journal that the body I saw in my mind palace
was burned beyond recognition?
I try to dig a little deeper. The signature of the doctor who registered the
certificate is illegible, but the coroner's is clear. Unfortunately, her
name is so common that a simple search of it yields results for characters
in a popular American television program and a series of crime novels as
well as an actress known for her roles in pornographic films (though clearly
this last one does not bear the title "doctor").
I keep digging, but there are too many false results to sift through and my
growing headache makes concentration difficult.
I rummage around in the bathroom until I find a bottle of paracetamol and
swallow the pills dry. Henry appears in the door as I'm putting the bottle
away - no doubt drawn by the noise of my search.
"Headache?"
I grunt in response. Obviously. I resist the urge to flinch as he comes
closer and reaches for me. He cradles my face gently, tipping my head up and
peering into my eyes.
"Any nausea?"
I shake my head and he tightens his grip, stilling the movement.
"Just say yes or no, love." He lets go with one hand so he can hold up his
finger for me to track. "Follow my finger. Eyes only. Any dizziness?"
"No."
"Feeling faint?"
I catch his hand, stopping him. "I'm fine, Doctor."
He smiles and leans in to kiss my fingers. "You should take a break from
that computer screen. I can make some tea if you like."
"Don't think the added caffeine will help."
"I'm pretty sure we still have some herbal."
I consider refusing, but tea does sound nice. And perhaps I can ask a few
questions and get him to talk some more. Perhaps I can trick him into giving
me the answers my imagined version of him can't.
---
He massages my shoulders while we wait for the kettle to boil. I groan and
slump in the kitchen chair as my muscles loosen.
"You really shouldn't spend so much time at that computer."
I hum vaguely.
The kettle whistles and he kisses the back of my neck before going to fetch
it. I watch him pour water over a bag in a single cup. He isn't having any
this time. Perhaps because he had a second cup earlier.
"Did you know the doctor who signed John's coroner report?"
He hesitates, blinks, as if surprised by the question. "Erm...no, I don't
think so."
This answer is more genuine and less rehearsed than the one he gave about
TS. Though that doesn't necessarily mean it is true. "What about the
coroner? Did you know her?"
"It was a big hospital, darling. I hardly knew anyone outside of A&E."
He brings the cup to me. "I did know the medic who brought him in though. He
recognized you and asked after you a few days after the accident."
I swish the tea in the cup, watching the water turn darker. "Was he
cremated?"
Henry eases back in his chair. "Is this about you seeing your coroner friend
working on him?"
"I told you about that?"
He nods. "You concluded yourself that you deliberately chose to see him that
way because you couldn't bear to think of him laid out on a slab the way you
remembered him."
He is choosing his words carefully, as if he fears upsetting me.
"What happened to the man who gave you that scar," I ask, sipping my tea.
"Erm..." he stutters, seemingly thrown by the shift in my line of
questioning. "He died."
'Did you kill him,' I wonder, but I don't ask. I'm almost certain he did.
How else would he be so certain of the fate of one soldier? At the very
least, the man must have died while in his care.
"Let's not talk of death anymore tonight," he declares. He pulls his mobile
from his pocket. "Tomorrow is Valentine's Day."
I groan.
"I know. It's a ridiculous commercial holiday, the only purpose of which is
to sell cards and chocolates. But it's our first together and I want to get
you something." He taps purposefully on his phone screen. "And after our
conversation earlier, I think I may have found the perfect gift."
He hands the mobile to me and I stare at the picture of a beautiful
tri-colored Cavalier spaniel.
"She was surrendered to the human society yesterday. Her name is Bella, but
she's barely a year old, so you can change that."
"Why?"
"Well, you could keep the name if you don't mind the fact that she's
obviously named after a character from a teenage love story about vampires."
What? "No, why do you want to buy me a dog?"
"Because I want to make you happy. Because I want to give you something you
can love. Because I love you."
My mind races with alternative explanations. Because he needs leverage or
insurance. Because taking care of a dog would keep me distracted. Because he
is very literally trying to buy my love.
I look at the large, soulful eyes on the mobile screen. Why do they always
look so pitiful in these pictures?
"I called and told them we were interested in looking at her, but if you
don't want..."
"Grainne Ni Mháille."
"Sorry?"
"Before Redbeard died, I tried to convince my parents that he should have a
mate. I had male and female names already prepared. If it was a girl, I
would name her after the most famous, fearsome woman pirate of Ireland.
Grace O'Malley." I look up at Henry. "We never got another dog."
A slow smile spreads across his face as he realizes what I am saying.
"Gracie. It's lovely." He kisses me. "Shall we go meet her?"
---
I don't know why I agreed to adopt a dog any more than I know why I agreed
to marry Henry. Or maybe I do. Dogs are so much simpler than people - their
needs more basic, their motives pure. I do not know yet to what extent Henry
is lying to me. Part of me probably craves the simplicity the company of a
dog offers. And honestly, part of me probably just couldn't say no. It has
been so long since Redbeard died.
Grace, née Bella, takes to me easily, hoping into my arms and excitedly
licking my face.
We stop at a pet shop, buy a temporary ID collar and enough supplies for at
least two dogs her size and spend the evening acclimating her to her new
environment. She is housebroken, but without a fence I will need to use her
leash just to let her wee in the garden. She is able to jump on furniture,
but Henry and I both agree that the bed should stay strictly off limits. She
is playful, but grows bored of her toys quickly.
"She's already taking after you," Henry notes with a laugh when she turns
her nose up at a ball she was chasing not five minutes before.
I still don't know what Henry's motives are for buying Grace for me,
exactly, but his delight at seeing the two of us together seems genuine.
I add a page to my folder about Grace and clip a picture of her begging for
food while Henry cooks dinner into my journal. This inspires me and I locate
a printer in my study. I print two pictures: one of Grace peering excitedly
through the window from the backseat of Henry's car and one of Henry lying
in bed, engrossed in a novel. I write their names beneath each picture and
leave them where they will be most visible to me each morning - the small
table on my side of the bed. Not that I anticipate needing this tomorrow as
I successfully avoided my evening dose of "medicine", being sure to store it
in a safe place in my study out of Grace's reach.
I finish my journal - the one Henry has possibly redacted - while having one
last cup of tea for the evening. Chamomile. Henry joins me this time, curled
at the other end of the sofa with the same book he has in the picture. Grace
lies between us, lifting her head curiously whenever either of us moves, but
otherwise contentedly napping. I contemplate both of them. I cannot theorize
about Henry's possible ulterior motives in this journal directly, but maybe
if I take it from another perspective...
"Do you ever think about having children?"
He looks surprised by the question, but his momentary glance at Grace before
he answers is telling. "Not really. Why?"
"You seem the sort of person who would want a family. I don't see anything
in my notes to suggest we ever discussed it."
"We haven't." There is a note of wariness in his voice. "Where is this
coming from?"
"I just thought maybe you were using this as a sort of experiment. See if I
can handle caring for a species with simpler needs first."
"No," he answers quickly, firmly. He puts his book down and reaches for my
hand. "Put this in your journal because I don't ever want you to question it
again: all I need, all I want to make my life complete is you. I have no
plans to bring a child into our home and I certainly am not using Gracie to
test you. Her sole function is to make you happy."
'So that I will be compelled to stay with you,' I think. "That implies that
you believe I was unhappy before," I say.
His grip on my hand tightens, making me acutely aware of the wedding ring
pressing into my flesh and probably his. Something dark passes over his face
for a moment. Anger, fear and insecurity mar his features. "I think there is
a certain degree of melancholy that is to be expected of someone with a
condition such as yours," he says carefully. "And I think Gracie is better
suited to helping you deal with it than I am."
I remember the notes on the memory stick. I vowed to escape Henry and my
life here on two separate occasions. I made plans. As far as I know I at
least attempted to follow through on them, but somehow I always wound up
back in this house and never with any evidence that he had forced me to come
back in any way. Something or someone (likely him) had changed my mind and I
had chosen to return of my own free will.
Grace suddenly notices our linked hands above her and licks my wrist before
crawling into my lap. I free my hand from Henry's grip so I can scratch
behind her ears.
Henry's hand slides beneath my chin, gently coaxing my head up. My eyes meet
his and he murmurs. "It's so nice to see you smile."
I didn't realize I was smiling. My mouth falls slack in surprise. Henry
leans in to kiss me, a slow, gentle kiss that disrupts my breathing just
enough to leave me panting when he lets up.
Grace jumps from my lap, obviously having grown tired of my distracted
petting, and wanders into the kitchen.
Henry takes the opportunity to move closer, deepening the kiss. His tongue
brushes alongside mine confidently - reclaiming territory he has already
thoroughly explored.
It is easy to give in to his advances. My body practically does it on
instinct. My muscles slacken and I allow him to take control, to press me
into the back sofa cushions. I feel his hand on the inside of my thigh - a
courtesy warning - before he cups me through my trousers, rubbing with the
barest of pressure. I let my legs open wider, granting him access.
"That's it, darling," he purrs, trailing kisses along my jaw, over my
cheeks. His hot breath warms my ear before he nips playfully at the lobe and
licks the sensitive skin beneath.
"Have..." I clear my throat and try to force my voice into a lower, less
embarrassingly breathy register. "Have we done this before? Had sex on this
sofa?"
"Mmm...is that what you want?"
I miscalculated. His hand is still between my legs, but his touch is still
light, almost teasing. His kisses are leisurely. His breathing and pulse are
only slightly accelerated. He did not begin this foreplay with the
presupposition that it would lead to intercourse. He is content with the
foreplay alone.
He brushes his fingers lightly over the zip on my trousers. "Do you want to
come?"
"No...I...don't know." I wince. I never did like saying those words.
He chuckles softly. "Well..." He brushes his lips over my suprasternal
notch; as low as he can reach without abandoning his teasing below my waist
to undo a button. "Perhaps we should continue this in the bedroom and see
where it takes us."
A tentative "woof" emanates from the floor. Henry blinks, looks down and
laughs again. "After you settle Gracie in for the night."
---
By the time I finish letting Grace out in the garden, my clarity of thought
has returned. I write a summary of our conversation in my notes.
'I believe Henry is worried about the strain my condition could be putting
on me both mentally and emotionally,' I write. 'He is trying to find ways to
make me happy, to make my life here more bearable.'
Constructing a life he hopes I will be reluctant to simply abandon. I wonder
if - had either of us been female - he would have gone the route of trying
to bring a child into our home by flushing birth control pills or putting
pinpricks in prophylactics. Or would he have drawn the line at orchestrating
a pregnancy? Would such a scenario even work?
I shake my head and chastise myself for absurd speculations. If he thought a
child would be more effective leverage he could have adopted one or used a
surrogate. More likely, he is trying to prove his love for me. And this is a
far more effective way to try to buy my loyalty, isn't it?
I think of how effortlessly he seems able to bend me to his will. I may not
trust the things he tells me about his past or my present are true, but I
have no trouble believing his declarations of love and devotion. His
determined focus on pleasing me in every way seems to have awakened
long-neglected desires in me. Not sexual, or at least not just sexual.
It wasn't simple arousal I felt when he was kissing me and touching me
intimately. It was a pleasure as simple as I'd felt when he massaged my
shoulders at the kitchen table. Pleasant. Comfortable. Soothing.
Like a narcotic.
I wonder if I've fallen back on my old habits in recent months; taken
anything other than the drug Henry gives me. It occurs to me that this could
just as easily be how he buys my loyalty. That I always come back to him
willingly in search of my next hit. But I am very familiar with what
addiction feels like. I stashed away the evening pill without a second
thought. I have no symptoms to alleviate, no craving for a hit. In fact, I
feel no different at all for having not taken the dose.
Perhaps my imagined version of Henry is right. Perhaps I am simply bored and
imagining complicated plots because I am unable to accept something as dull
as amnesia could be the answer.
I reassure myself - as I return the laptop to the kitchen counter to charge
overnight - with the knowledge that I should know the answer to that in the
morning. I did not take the pill. If my memory is intact, I can be
reasonably certain that it is causing my symptoms and not treating them. If,
however, I regress to the same state I found myself in this morning...then
none of this speculation will matter. I will forget everything. I may not
even find the data stick in the hive.
I make sure Grace is settled on her covered foam bed and her water bowl is
full before I climb the stairs to the bedroom.
I glance at Henry, who has resumed his reading laid out in bed, naked but
for the bedding pulled up to his waist, before going into the bath.
The sight of him reading - barely halfway through his book - prompts a train
of thought that continues as I brush my teeth, empty my bladder and wash up.
Like any normal person without a condition that affects his memory, Henry is
able to read his book over the course of several days or even weeks,
confident that he can simply return to the place he last stopped and
continue reading. He will remember what he has read before. He remembers all
the details of the past few months of my life that have been deleted. The
memories I have recorded in my journal as well as the ones I haven't. If he
has been altering my journal - and the small differences between it and the
one on the memory stick prove that someone has been - then he remembers what
really happened and why the memories were deleted.
Someone has been.
I have to consider the possibility that I am the one making the changes
myself for reasons I have forgotten, either by choice or by accident. The
note in the folder I read every morning is in my handwriting. It is not a
forgery. Regardless of all the evidence that something is suspect here, I am
- to some degree at least - a willing participant in my own deception.
I strip off my clothes, folding the trousers and shirt and tossing the rest
in the laundry basket automatically. I pause briefly to note that I knew
where everything is meant to go. I may not remember all the details of the
past few months, but I haven't forgotten everything completely either. It is
as if certain data is corrupted or hidden from me. It is simultaneously
frustrating and fascinating.
And the fact that I'm fascinated by it might very well explain my
willingness to allow this to go on as long as it has.
Henry is waiting when I emerge from the bath, his book tucked away on the
table beside the bed. One hand is beneath his head. The other rests on his
abdomen, fingers just brushing the edge of the sheet. He smiles and
stretches the nearest hand out toward me in invitation.
I climb beneath the covers and allow him to pull me into his arms.
"What's wrong, darling," he asks softly, his fingers running delicately
along my temple. "Do you still have a headache?"
"No." I really don't, I realize.
He kisses me softly, slowly, as if he is trying to kiss away whatever fear
or sadness he sees in my eyes. I am afraid and I am depressed, but I doubt
it is for exactly the reasons he suspects.
I reach to trace the lines of his face. His jaw. His cheek. His nose. As if
I can commit him to memory through touch. He holds still, indulging me. He
catches my hand as I am tracing over his lips and kisses the pads of my
fingers.
"I want to remember you," I say softly, almost pleadingly.
A sad, sympathetic look flickers in his eyes for a moment. As if he knows I
won't. But of course he does, I remind myself. He thinks I took the pill.
'Why do you want me to forget you?'
He pulls me tighter against him. "You will."
He seems to genuinely believe this. Or desire it. Which would make giving me
a drug to cause amnesia-like symptoms counter- productive. Unless the
drug-induced amnesia wasn't his idea in the first place. Could I be doing
this to myself?
I am so lost in thought that I barely notice he has resumed what he began
back on the couch. His leg has slipped between my thighs. His hand presses
the small of my back, coaxing me closer. He kisses me slowly, leisurely.
Have we done this before, I wonder? Is this what we did that night in Paris?
All the passion and desire of foreplay without the need for intercourse?
He pushes me gently onto my back and kisses slowly, wetly down my body,
tracing my pectoral muscles with his fingers, his tongue dipping into my
navel. He isn't exploring. It is obvious he has done this before and is
demonstrating his intimate knowledge of me. He is playing my body like a
well-tuned violin. Encouraging the pleasurable feelings without tipping me
over the edge into arousal. Still waiting for permission to go further.
It is soothing. Perhaps too soothing, I think as I feel my eyelids growing
heavy and my body relaxing into the mattress.
I am startled by a chuckle beside my ear. "Am I boring you?"
I struggle to open my eyes and realize I must have drifted momentarily to
sleep. "'m sorry," I mumble, reaching for him clumsily. "Go on..."
He cradles my cheek in one warm palm. "You're really tired, aren't you,
love?"
I sigh. I really am. And it's annoying because I had been right on the verge
of an important thought. At least I'm pretty sure I was, but now I don't
recall what I was thinking about.
Henry pulls my unresisting body back into his arms, curling himself around
me, one hand splayed low over my abdomen, pressing me into him, grounding
me. "Sleep, my love," he whispers, his breath warm against my ear.
"Love," I mumble sleepily before giving into the encroaching darkness.
Notes:
While this story is obviously rooted in the BBC show "Sherlock"
specifically, I depart from it whenever I felt the writers insistence on
constantly trying to outsmart themselves did a disservice to the spirit of
the original stories. This meant dialing Sherlock's abilities back from
the godlike powers he seemed to have by the end and ignoring pretty much
everything that happened in season four, ESPECIALLY the whole superhuman
sister who killed his best friend who he remembered as a dog. So in this
story, Victor is restored to the friend he met in Uni who helped solve his
first case. And Redbeard is restored to what he was in previous seasons: a
beloved childhood pet.
The throwaway about Henry looking like a "Toby" is just a cheeky reference
to the fact that "Toby" is the name of the character Tom played in the
first entry on his IMDb page.
The death certificate referenced is a mockup made by Megabat (included
below). I incorporated her winking nod to a character from Silent Witness
into the story, as well as my own discoveries on Google upon searching the
name.
I put a lot of thought into what Sherlock would name the dog Henry
bought for him. I tried asking a role playing account runner on Twitter
for input which somehow made me despised by that corner of the fandom
before coming up with it on my own during a brainstorming session with my
friend Emilio. I found out later that Tom once had a cat named Grace. This
is entirely a coincidence. Her personality and behavior are based on three
different dogs (only one of which was this particular breed) I knew, who
are all now deceased.
The theory that Sherlock can use solving cases as a replacement for drug
abuse is used heavily in the American adaptation "Elementary", but I'm
sure they aren't the first or only ones to do that. I also have Sherlock
using sex (or perhaps Henry in general?) as a replacement here.
© Megabat
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