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