Day 3

There is a faint hissing noise coming from somewhere nearby. I 
struggle to open my eyes. I am in a car - one that has 
obviously recently crashed. The bonnet is crumpled, half 
obscuring what little I can see through the spider web of 
cracks in the windscreen. Everything is blurry. 

I try to recall how I got here. I was working a case, wasn't I? 
Weren't John and I close to catching the suspect?

John.

Something prevents me from turning my head fully to look at the 
driver's seat, but I can see enough to know that he is slumped 
over the steering wheel. I call his name, but there must be 
something wrong with my ears as I can barely hear my own voice.

Everything shifts for a disorientating moment and I realize my 
eyes are closed and there is a soft pillow beneath my cheek. 

A dream. No. A memory.

I pry my eyes open just long enough to verify that I am in a 
bed, then lie quietly waiting for my nerves to settle. It is 
morning. The light is just beginning to creep into the room. 
But it must be early as Henry is still sleeping beside me.

Henry.

My eyes pop open. I remember.

I take a minute to think and consider my options. I still can't 
be certain that the drug is causing my memory loss instead of 
treating it. The results of changing the variables have been 
inconclusive thus far. But for now, that is irrelevant. What 
matters is the effect Henry believes the drug has and what I 
choose to tell him. If he thinks it really is a cure to a 
legitimate medical condition, it probably doesn't matter either 
way. But if he is deliberately causing my condition then I 
could potentially be stepping into a minefield. If I tell him I 
remember yesterday, he may realize I lied to him last night. He 
may know I didn't take the evening dose. But what if I lie now 
and fake a relapse of amnesia? I'm sure I could maintain the 
act for today, but what about tomorrow? How many times can I 
avoid taking the pill before he becomes suspicious? And what if 
he catches me in the lie? It could compromise the entire 
experiment.

The truth then. Or at least some degree of it. According to my 
notes, I told him about my unexpected improvement one month ago 
and he responded with trepidation, not suspicion. But my notes 
indicate that I didn't know whether I had taken the previous 
evening's dose or not. 

I will have to take my chances. Better to feign ignorance and 
make adjustments as needed than try to over-anticipate how he 
will react.

Henry's breath hitches and he makes a small noise in the back 
of his throat, like an aborted attempt at speech. I turn toward 
him as he rolls onto his back and my eyes fall to the 
burgeoning erection now outlined beneath the sheet.

Henry described my sexual advances the other day as especially 
aggressive. Was I hoping he wouldn't notice I hadn't taken my 
evening dose if I distracted him sufficiently? Did I forget 
anyway because he noticed and made me take it after all?

I pull the sheet down gently, exposing him completely. His 
penis lies against his hip, swelling lazily. I remember the 
first time I noticed the cycles the male reproductive system 
goes through every night, mortified to find myself waking up 
hard after dreams that weren't even remotely sexual in nature. 
These days, I've learned to mostly ignore it. It's quite 
fascinating to watch it happen to somebody else, however.

I run my fingers along the inside of his thigh and watch his 
cock twitch slightly. I slide closer, positioning myself over 
his lower body, and kiss a slow, soft trail over his abdomen, 
feeling the wispy hairs tickle my nose. He hums and shifts, his 
legs parting further, his body welcoming my attention without 
conscious thought.

I grip his hips gently, my fingers fitting over the faint 
bruises already coloring his skin, and lick the head of his 
cock before taking it into my mouth. His pre-seminal fluid is 
already bitter, but he probably lives on tea and coffee, so 
that's to be expected.

He sighs and hums, his back arching languidly as he wakes. His 
hips thrust instinctively in my grip. I hold tighter. He 
mumbles something indistinct, his voice still thick with sleep, 
and his fingers tangle in my hair, massaging the back of my 
head clumsily. His cock swells in my mouth and I shift so I can 
take it more easily, applying a bit more suction now.

He gasps and stills. "Oh...Will..."

Suddenly he's pushing me away, sitting up. "What..." He cups my 
face between his palms and coaxes me to look into his eyes. 
"You remember," he breathes.

I say nothing, watching silently as surprise, hope and then 
apprehension flit across his face in quick succession. I wait 
for the anger. For the realization that I have uncovered his 
deception. But it doesn't come. Will it happen later when he 
notices the tablet is missing? Will he demand to know where I 
stashed it? Has this happened before?

I am working on a lie, but I don't want to use it until it 
becomes necessary. I don't know if I can count on myself to 
remember anything I tell him.

"Are you all right," he asks warily.

Oh. Right. I became sick last time I regained my memories. Is 
he expecting that to happen again? Does he know what caused it? 

"I'm fine." 

There is something else in his eyes - something more guarded. 
Disgust? Fear? But of what? He can't be afraid of me, can he?

I have a sudden memory of holding him down, fucking him 
brutally into the mattress, his neck arched back as if to 
scream.

False? Real? I can't tell. I shake it away. 

"Is..." I put my hand on his thigh. "Is this okay? I thought 
after last night..." I trail off, letting him finish the 
thought himself. "If you would rather penetrate me, I can try 
to locate the lubricant."

A short chuckle bursts from him, surprising us both, it seems. 
"No, what you were doing was fine. Very good, in fact."

"Then why did you stop me," I ask innocently.

That seems to catch him off guard. He searches my face again, 
something like confusion in his eyes. He lies back slowly, 
uncertainly, and waits to see what I will do.

I am potentially playing a dangerous game here. This is about 
more than sex. Right now, I hold all the power over him, but I 
have no doubt he could take that back from me in an instant if 
I push too far. He may seem willing to trust me...or at least 
he wants me to believe he does. But is he testing me? To what 
end? 

I curl my hands behind his knees and pull him toward me, 
sliding him down the bed and spreading his legs on either side 
of me. He gasps, but does not protest the vulnerable position. 
I run my hands up the insides of his thighs, opening them 
wider.

He hisses as I roll his balls gently with the fingers of one 
hand and sighs as I wrap the other around the base of his cock. 
I bend to take him in my mouth again and he moans. 

"Will..."

It takes a few tries to establish a comfortable rhythm and then 
I am merciless. There's just one problem. He seems to be having 
trouble maintaining an erection. I angle my head so I can look 
up at him. His eyes are on the ceiling. Obviously he is 
distracted. 

I pull off, wet the forefinger of the hand on his balls with 
saliva and thrust it inside him, finding his prostate easily. 
He makes a noise like a choked whimper and his cock twitches 
and fills my mouth. I set up a new rhythm, which I am able to 
maintain for a few minutes before my jaw begins to ache, but I 
still can't seem to keep his focus.

And that's when his alarm blares.

I pull off him and sit back as he fumbles for his mobile and 
silences it. The erection I fought so hard to maintain wilts 
entirely.

He sighs and pulls me into a kiss. "I'm sorry love. That was 
rubbish. Do you need to finish..."

I consider asking where the lube is so I can fuck him properly, 
but that would take too long. Besides, I am not particularly in 
the mood for it either. And I can feel the beginnings of a 
migraine threatening. "It's fine," I say, resigned, and roll 
back to "my" side of the bed.

He pulls my hand up to his mouth, pressing his lips to my ring. 
"I'm sorry," he repeats. Then he crawls from the bed and 
disappears into the bath.

I stare at the ceiling, thinking, while he showers. I go into 
my mind palace - to 221b - and retrieve the ring from the music 
stand. I hesitate as I notice something odd about it. I step 
closer to the window, holding it up to the light. There are 
faint markings on the inside that I don't remember seeing last 
night. An inscription of some sort, but too small to make out.

"He's worried about you."

I freeze. I would know that voice anywhere. I turn slowly, 
almost expecting to find it had just been a figment of my 
imagination. But John Watson is sitting in his chair by the 
mantle, reading a newspaper. My John Watson, in modern trousers 
and soft jumper. Clean shaven. 

I realize suddenly that I am still naked. This is not unusual. 
Why would I bother imagining myself wearing clothing? I have a 
brief, irrational impulse to find something to cover myself, 
but I brush it aside. 

"John." 

That can't possibly be my voice, can it? It sounds too high and 
broken. 

He folds the paper and smiles up at me. 

"You're..." I stop myself before I can say "dead" like an 
idiot. He knows that. He's not real. He's just a projection, 
like Moriarty.

"Here," he finishes. "Of course I am." He sets the paper down 
and stands, moving closer to me as he speaks. "I am your 
conductor of light, remember?"

Right. This is why I always found myself speaking to him, even 
when he wasn't there. He once accused me of simply using him as 
a replacement for the skull on the mantle, but he always had an 
uncanny ability to help me focus when I became overwhelmed with 
data. For grounding me in reality and guiding me. He could see 
the client where I saw little more than an interesting case. 
"Worried?"

"It's obvious, isn't it? You've already worked it out."

"Henry loves me," I say slowly.

John nods encouragingly. 

"Whether the pills are to make me remember or make me forget, 
his basic drive is the same. He loves me and fears losing me." 
I rub at my temple, feeling the faint twinges of a headache 
again. "But I *know* this already. He isn't a danger to me."

"You still fail to grasp the situation," another voice says 
before my brother steps into the room from the kitchen. Has he 
been here the whole time or did he just sense an opportunity to 
prove that he is smarter than me? "You are so focused on 
solving the puzzle that you are not seeing the bigger picture."

"Which is?"

"Why?"

I concentrate, pulling together all of the fragments of 
thoughts and conflicting data and reformulate my hypothesis. 
"Either the pill is designed to make me forget because Henry 
wants to control me and force me to stay in this role as his 
husband..."

"Or your amnesia is real and he is genuinely treating you as a 
doctor and concerned husband," John finishes.

I focus on John's face. On the soft, sentimental look in his 
eyes. "Either way, he loves you," he continues. "And he wants 
you to love him too. The question is whether he is trying to 
achieve that by manipulation or hoping you will come around to 
it in your own time."

"It's too late, I'm afraid, Doctor Watson. My brother is 
already in far too deep."

I glare at Mycroft. "How do you figure that?"

Mycroft scoffs. "Please. He's an intelligent doctor who 
practically worships you. You can't help but become attached."

I feel a snarl building at the back of my throat. I've already 
come to something like this conclusion myself, but hearing it 
from Mycroft in that smug tone...even in my mind palace, he is 
insufferable.

John takes my hands in his. "Look at me," he says softly.

I look into his face and try to forget my brother's presence. 

"You know what is really going on. This has happened before. 
You have the answers. You just need to find them again."

"I miss you," I mumble. 

He just smiles, a bit of sadness in his eyes, and I have a 
momentary thought that wherever he is perhaps he misses me too. 
But that's absurd, of course. The dead don't miss the living.

I return to the bedroom and realize Henry has already finished 
his shower and is now in the kitchen making breakfast. I wash 
up a bit, wrap myself in my dressing gown and join him.

I smell bacon before I reach the kitchen. Henry barely looks up 
from the pan of eggs he's scrambling and asks "did you eat 
anything last night?"

I hesitate a moment, wondering if I should make an excuse, 
before deciding that he must be used to my habits. "No. I 
wasn't hungry."

He spoons a generous helping of egg onto a plate with a wedge 
of toast and a couple slices of bacon before handing it to me. 
"Then eat that and don't argue with me."

I take the plate to the table, where he has already placed a 
full glass of juice and the morning tablet. I pick up the 
tablet and, still feeling Henry watching from the corner of his 
eye, perform a simple sleight of hand, feigning swallowing it, 
then drink the juice. When I am certain he isn't looking, I 
slip the tablet into my pocket. It was far too easy. And if he 
retrieved this pill from the container, he must have noticed 
last night's dose is missing. This presents two possible 
solutions. Either he thinks I'm taking the pills and they are 
or aren't working depending on their intended purpose, or he 
knows I'm not taking them but isn't confronting me about it. 
But why?

This will all make more sense when I know what the pills do. In 
the meantime, I'm afraid all this doubt and second guessing 
will drive me insane.

I reach for the honey automatically and spread some on my toast 
before offering the jar to Henry as he joins me at the table. 

"Ah, no." He holds up a similar jar filled with jam. "Never 
much cared for honey. Is that the label Lillian was working 
on?"

I tilt the jar so he can see it better. "Yes. Do you like it?"

He smiles a little. "She's very talented. Do you really think 
you'll have enough to sell?"

"Not sure yet. Maybe later. I just wanted to be ready."

"Mmm."

We lapse into silence as we begin eating. The food seems to 
calm my stomach a bit. 

"So what were you doing yesterday when I called that prompted 
you to answer in French?"

For an alarming moment I can't remember. Then I realize that's 
because I filed his language skills away with other details 
that I deemed irrelevant and not because I have actually 
forgotten. "Your volunteer work for Médecin Sans Frontières 
were mostly in French speaking countries. I was testing a 
theory."

I think I feel him relax a little at that. Interesting.

"Je t'aime de tout mon coeur, mon chéri," he says suddenly. "Je 
ne peux pas vivre sans toi. Je ne veux pas vivre sans toi. J'ai 
le sens qu'un lien invisible entre ton couer et le mien. Et si 
quel que chose à briser ce lien, mon coeur cesserait de battre 
et je mourrais. Je suis a toi, pour toujours."

He lifts my hand to his lips and presses a kiss to my fingers. 
I have a sudden, wild urge to tell him everything. To compel 
him somehow to give me the answers I want.

I bite my tongue. Not yet.

He must see something in my face because he huffs in amusement. 
"Yes, I know. Sentiment. I am wearing you down, though. Six 
months ago, you would have mocked me for that."

"Six months ago, I wouldn't have remembered you coming home 
practically in tears because you lost a patient that reminded 
you of me."

The fork he had picked up again freezes halfway to his mouth 
and he sets it back down. "He didn't look anything like you. I 
just..."

"I know. You had to tell his wife."

"Not yet. She hasn't woken up. She doesn't know." He picks at 
the remainders of his breakfast, decides he isn't hungry and 
turns his attention on his tea.

This could partly explain his lack of interest this morning. He 
is anticipating having to deliver the news to the grieving 
widow today.

"Will...I'm sure you recorded in those notes you keep what 
happened to you the last two times you made a miraculous 
recovery like this. I want to believe that won't happen again, 
but it would be foolish to ignore the pattern. If you 
experience anything like the symptoms you described in your 
notes, I want you to ring me immediately."

He doesn't know why it's happening? Or he wants me to think he 
doesn't? If he thinks the pills are treating a real condition, 
he might believe they are simply working. But why would I be 
getting sick then? On the other hand, if they are causing it, 
wouldn't he realize I wasn't taking them? Why would he allow 
for a possibility that it won't happen?

His love for me may be clear, but his behaviors are still 
confounding.

"Will?"

"Yes. Yes, I'll call you if I am ill."

He nods and falls silent for a while. I finish my breakfast. He 
continues to push his around his plate distractedly while he 
drinks his tea. He seems to be avoiding what he really wants to 
say just as much as I am.

"You kept asking for him," he says, breaking the silence 
abruptly. "Demanding to speak to him. You didn't believe he was 
dead. You were convinced I was lying to you. Keeping him from 
you. When I first showed you the autopsy report and you saw the 
picture of his body..." He closes his eyes as if he is reliving 
the memory.

I wait a moment for him to continue. He doesn't. "What happened 
to the picture?"

He looks dazed for a moment. As if he was so lost in his 
memories he forgot where he was. "Ah...after a few weeks you 
made me promise never to show it to you again."

"How many times?"

He understands the question without needing clarification. 
"Three. I couldn't stand watching you go through that anymore 
so I destroyed it after that."

He sighs and sets his fork down again. "Look...I know I can 
never live up to John Watson, but I would move heaven and Earth 
if it would prove to you the depth of my loyalty and love."

"You don't have to," I say quietly. "It's obvious."

He blinks, makes a couple aborted attempts at speech, then gets 
up to clear his breakfast dishes, turning his back to me. 

Emboldened by this confirmation of how much leverage I have in 
this relationship, I follow and wrap my arms around him. I kiss 
his neck, taking full advantage of the fact that I actually 
remember just how sensitive he is there.

His breath catches and the tension eases from his shoulders. 
The dishes he was rinsing clatter unceremoniously to the sink. 
He turns the faucet off and leans into me, tilting his head to 
give me better access.

It would be so easy to take control, to convince him that he 
can trust me, I think as I trail kisses up to the hinge of his 
jaw. All I have to do is play the role he wants me to play. "Je 
t'aime, mon mari," I whisper in his ear.

He goes still. His breathing stops for a moment. Then he turns 
in my arms. I go to kiss his lips, but his hands on my chest 
hold me at bay. He searches my face, tiny frown lines appearing 
between his eyebrows.

I give him my best sheepish smile. "Sorry. I guess it's easier 
to say it in French."

He relaxes a bit and this time when I go to kiss him, he lets 
me. 

"I have to go to work," he mumbles after a few lazy kisses.

I hum and nip at his chin before starting down the other side 
of his throat. 

He makes a choked whimpering sort of noise and tangles his hand 
in my hair, guiding me back to his lips. "Later," he whispers 
into my mouth. He kisses me one more time before reluctantly 
prying himself away, wobbling for a moment or two and 
straightening his clothes somewhat dazedly. 

"The keys are in the..." he begins before faltering. "You know 
that. Right."

I watch in amusement as he fishes his car keys from the bowl. 
He comes back for one last kiss - this time a chaste one on my 
cheek. "Call me," he says again.

I finish loading the dishes into the washer, listening as he 
retrieves his coat. Once I am sure he is gone, I retrieve my 
mobile from the counter, locate Lillian's number in the 
contacts and press "call".

---

I don't tell Lillian what the pills are for. I say they are 
part of an experiment and that Henry must not know about it. As 
I suspected, her distrust of Henry is strong enough that she 
agrees easily, although she warns me that it may take a while 
to convince someone in the lab to run an analysis. 

It isn't until after I leave the tablets with her that I think 
to collect a DNA sample from the rim of the glass Henry left in 
my study/lab. I'm not sure I will need it, really, but the 
opportunity to collect information seemed too good to pass up. 
I save the sample in a drawer and note it in the journal on the 
memory stick, along with more details about last night and this 
morning.

'The purpose of the tablets aside, it is clear to me that 
whatever is going on here is more complicated than I originally 
assumed. If he is doing something to insure I stay here with 
him, it is far more subtle and less physical than simply 
drugging me into compliance. I feel a connection to him. Maybe 
it's his obvious intelligence or maybe it's because he reminds 
me of John, but I find myself craving his company and finding 
pleasure in his affections. Much as I hate to admit it, Mycroft 
may have been right. Henry's devotion to me compels him to 
provide for my every need, both of the body and the mind.'

I stop typing as the mild nausea I'd been experiencing suddenly 
becomes a lot less mild and I have to expel the entirety of my 
breakfast into the toilet. Vomiting increases my headache. As I 
sit on the floor of the master bath waiting for it to subside, 
I nip into my mind palace for a bit and find Mary has taken 
John's place in the flat.

"You know he's lying to you," she says as she tries to settle 
Rosie on her hip. Rosie was still too young to be able to hold 
her head up when I last saw her, but I can easily imagine what 
she would look like now, months later. A perfect combination of 
John and Mary's features.

"Obviously. I just don't see what purpose it serves."

"Of course you do. That's why you're talking to me right now."

Rosie fills the silence with happy squealing noises as I 
contemplate the former assassin holding her, lightly bouncing 
her in an unconscious soothing motion. For all of her faults, 
she loved John. It was the one thing she never lied about. 
Their meeting may have been the result of a manipulation, but 
she genuinely cared about him.

"He's terrified of losing you," she says. "He will do whatever 
it takes to protect this life he's created for himself. This 
identity."

These last words trigger a realization. Mary Morstan was an 
assumed name. A fresh start. An orphan with few ties to others.

"His name isn't Henry."

"His *name* isn't important. Our names don't define who we are. 
You should understand that, William."

"No, but it might tell me who he *was*." I take off my wedding 
ring and squint at the inscription inside again. It's still 
mostly unintelligible, but I can almost make out a "T" and an 
"A" and something that is either a "J" or an "I". 

A phone rings, startling me back to the real world. I pull my 
mobile from my pocket and bite back a groan as I read Henry's 
name on the screen.

"I'm fine," I answer.

"Then why didn't you answer the first time I called?"

First time? "I forgot my mobile when I went to check the hive."

It's a terrible lie and I can tell he doesn't believe it. "I'm 
going to try to get someone to cover the last few hours of my 
shift so I can come home early."

"I'm *fine*," I repeat stubbornly.

"You probably can't hear it, love, but your breathing is 
slightly erratic and you are slurring your words."

"I'm. Fine. Just a bit peaky."

"You are a brilliant man, but you are shite at judging your 
health. Do you have a headache?"

"A bit," I mumble. 

"Take some paracetamol if you think you can hold it down. Drink 
some tea if you can't. I'll come home quick as I can manage."

"It's hardly an emergency."

He sighs. "I know sweetheart. But after yesterday, I don't 
think anyone would object to me getting off early to take care 
of my poorly husband."

I bite my tongue. Arguing any further would be pointless. And 
what would I gain? A few more hours of time to research and 
write in my secret journal? I still don't have any solid leads 
to follow yet.

"I love you."

I make a non committal noise. 

He hangs up. I take a deep breath and heave myself up from the 
floor. I will have to work faster.

---

I am straining to make out the inscription on my ring, but the 
letters are hopelessly garbled. TS? Are those initials? J-
o...John? A-m-or...is that an n?

"Poor Sherlock," Moriarty lilts, appearing beside me. "Not so 
clever after all."

I lash out in frustration, only to find nothing but empty air 
in the direction his voice emanated from moments ago. 

I shake away the disorientation and continue typing, 
documenting everything and trying to predict the possible 
scenarios that could play out once Henry returns. Will he force 
me to take the tablet? Can I make him tell me what it does even 
if I will forget again tomorrow? TS. Why does that sound 
familiar?

My thoughts are tumbling over each other too quickly. Blurring. 
I can't tell what's real, what's a memory and what is wild 
speculation. 

I research my symptoms, which the wisdom of the Internet 
identifies as any number of things between food poisoning and 
Lupus. Possible side effects of certain medications or symptoms 
of withdrawal from others. In short, they could be the result 
of me taking the pill, not taking the pill or having a 
heretofore undiagnosed and possibly terminal illness.

What if none of this is real, I wonder. What if I'm still 
trapped in that car with a head injury and I'm lost in my mind 
palace?

Okay. Clearly that last one is absurd. It sounds like the plot 
of one of John's ridiculous movies. 

In a fit of madness, I attempt to call Mycroft. He doesn't 
answer, which is just as well. He would probably just assume 
I'm high.

I record as much as I possibly can on the memory stick and 
return it to the hive before the next wave of illness consumes 
me.

I am on the floor, my forehead pressed to something cool and 
hard. My face is burning, but my body is shivering.

I am on the floor of 221b. John is sitting beside me.

"This isn't a side effect. You are suffering from withdrawal."

"I know," I stammer through chattering teeth.

"You can't keep going like this. It could kill you."

"Don't th-think it's up to...me."

"Not entirely, no. But it might be easier if you don't fight 
him."

I roll on my back and frown up at John.

"Think about it. He said you were worse after the accident - 
the amount of time you could retain memory shorter. Your memory 
is improving and this is the second time in as many months that 
you have gone longer than twenty four hours without a relapse. 
Assuming the drugs are meant to *cause* the symptoms instead of 
treat them, the only reason that would be happening is if..."

"He's reducing the dosage," I finish. "He wants...to get me 
off-f the drugs, but he's afraid doing it t-too fast will kill 
me."

"He's probably right if this is a derivative of 
Benzodiazepine."

I groan and press my palms into my eyes. "But WHY. Why did he 
ne-ed me to forget in the first-t place? Who is he?"

"You know who he is," Moriarty's voice purrs. "You just don't 
remember."

I lash out blindly in his direction, this time feeling my fist 
strike solid flesh. The dark figure looming over me falls back 
with a yelp. I scramble in the opposite direction with the 
frantic intention of getting away. But I'm too tired. I can't 
think. I can't...

I stop fighting and everything goes black.

---

A man is singing an old folk tune. Something just short of a 
lullaby. His voice is soft and clear. I can feel the vibrations 
of it in his chest, beneath my cheek. I hear a whimpering noise 
that can't possibly have come from me and he stops.

"Are you awake, love," Henry asks gently, nearly a whisper. As 
if he fears disturbing me from my sleep. 

"Mmm...s'nice..." I recall reading in my notes that my husband 
has a lovely singing voice. I wonder how often I've had chance 
to hear it. I try to shift in his arms, but my body feels 
leaden and something is preventing my arms from moving.

"Softly," Henry says. "Can you sit up?"

That seems to have been a rhetorical question as he unwraps the 
blanket he must have bundled me in, sets me upright and fumbles 
to unwind something from my wrists. He tied my hands with the 
sash from a dressing gown?

He lowers me to the floor, placing a pillow under my head, 
replacing the blanket and disappearing for a moment. I hear a 
cupboard open somewhere. Then his hands are brushing my hair 
from my forehead and inserting something plastic in my ear.

Aural thermometer, I realize when I hear a soft click and it is 
removed.

I finally manage to get my eyes open as he is readying some 
sort of equipment. I don't see what it is because I am too 
focused on his face and the angry red mark below his left eye 
that will doubtless turn into a bruise. That explains my tied 
hands. He couldn't trust me not to hit him again until he knew 
I was cognizant.

My focus snaps back to his hands as he rolls up my sleeve and 
wraps a rubber tourniquet around my arm. "No...what..." I try 
to sit up, but he presses me back down.

"Shh...it's all right."

He picks up a hypodermic and a bottle of medicine. I watch him 
draw the clear fluid into the needle with practiced efficiency, 
my mouth going dry. This is how he does it. He will inject me 
with the drug I failed to take willingly and I will forget all 
of this by tomorrow morning.

"No, don't..." I grab for his hands and try to wrest the needle 
from him. The sudden movement sets my stomach heaving and I get 
sick on Henry's shirt. There's nothing left in me but bile and 
it hurts to bring it up.

Henry wipes my face with a soft cloth and continues his efforts 
to reassure me that everything is "fine".

"Here," he murmurs, pressing the medicine bottle into my hand. 
"You can see for yourself. It's just an anti-emetic. And a mild 
sedative."

The label bears his claim out, though it's possible the label 
doesn't accurately reflect the contents of the bottle. It's 
also possible I am still paranoid.

Ultimately, does it matter? If what John said is true and this 
is withdrawal, I don't actually want to stop him giving me the 
drug, do I? Galling as it is to think that I am willingly 
participating in this deception, it is quite possible that the 
alternative is worse.

I close my eyes and force myself to stay still as he injects 
the contents of the needle into my veins. Even though it 
shouldn't, it feels like a defeat. Though I am not quite sure 
who the victor is in this. I doubt it's Henry if his goal 
really is to wean me off the drug.

"What's your name," I ask. I doubt I will remember any of this, 
but I need to know. 

He looks alarmed. He checks my pupils as he says "I'm Henry, 
darling. I'm your husband."

"No, I mean your real name."

Understanding washes over his face. "Henry is my real name, 
love." He starts unbuttoning my shirt. "Let's get you cleaned 
up."

"It may be now, but it wasn't always, was it?"

He hesitates before sliding my joggers off. "You are not the 
only one with a past you would rather forget, *Sherlock*."

A general feeling of discomfort rolls through me, dulled by the 
drug he injected. 

He stands and strips down to his pants, carefully setting aside 
any articles of clothing that have sick on them. Then he turns 
on the tap in the shower and reaches for me.

He doesn't say anything else as he supports me under the spray, 
washing sweat and sick from my body with practiced efficiency. 

He fetches fresh clothes for me while I towel myself dry, 
dresses himself in joggers and a soft pullover, then leaves me 
with instructions to meet him in the kitchen.

I move slowly, gingerly, as if any sudden movement might bring 
about the nausea again, although the symptoms seem to be going 
away.

Henry is at the kitchen table, texting on his mobile when I 
make it down the stairs. He sets it down and invites me to sit 
while he goes to the stove to pour tea from the kettle.

I peek at his phone, guessing the lock code on the first try 
(the date on our marriage certificate, obvious) and find the 
message he just sent still on the screen. 'Just a minor 
setback. Everything is under control now.'

It was sent to Mycroft.

Henry sets a mug down in front of me and takes the mobile from 
my hand. "He was concerned. He said he got a strange hang up 
from you."

"And of course he called you because he would never trust my 
assessment of my own mental state," I mutter. I swirl the tea 
bag in the steaming water, watching it turn darker. The text is 
more convincing than any other evidence I have uncovered so far 
to support the theory that my condition is real. Mycroft trusts 
Henry to watch over me and report back to him. Just as he once 
did with John.

I sip at the tea. It is herbal. Medicinal. Soothing.

"My name is James," my husband says softly. "Or it was. And 
this isn't the first time you've caught me out. But I didn't 
lie to you. Not exactly."

He plays with the paper tab attached to the tea bag. It is a 
different color than the one on mine, I note. The tea smells 
like some sort of citrus.

"James what?"

He winces. "I can't bear to say it anymore. It was *his* name."

"Your father?"

"No. I barely knew my father. My ex." He takes a deep breath. 
"I became very good at hiding the bruises...the broken ribs..."

I frantically try to remember reading anything about this in my 
journals. "He beat you?"

James...no, Henry averts his eyes from me. "He was 
schizophrenic, although we didn't know that initially. We were 
young, still in Uni. His symptoms didn't even begin to manifest 
until a year after we were married. He...he was lovely when he 
remembered to take his medicine, but..." He hesitates and 
reaches for his shirt, pulling the hem up to reveal the scar I 
noted last night on his abdomen. "He became convinced I was 
sent by the government to spy on him. He got hold of a kitchen 
knife and attacked me. Luckily he wasn't very skilled with 
weapons."

My eyes travel from the old scar to the new bruise I have given 
him. I have no idea if the story he is telling me is true, but 
if it is it would suggest he makes a habit of marrying men with 
obvious mental instabilities.

Or the side effects of the drug he gave his previous husband 
resulted in far more violent behavior. 

Henry lets the shirt fall again, covering the scar as he 
reaches for my hand. "You are nothing like him, darling."

"Am I?"

I let the question hang in the air for a few moments, waiting 
for him to say something. Anything. Finally, I decide there is 
no point in being cautious now. It is highly probable I won't 
remember any of this and he knows that. I can get my answers, 
even if I can't guarantee I will remember them. 

"I know the drug isn't meant to help me remember. It's to make 
me forget."

I watch his reaction carefully for a spark of anger or 
surprise, but there is none. He looks almost relieved. "Yes."

That was easier than I expected. "Why?"

"Because you asked me to."

That can't possibly be true. Can it? "Why," I repeat. "That 
doesn't make sense."

He sighs and lets go of my hand. "Would you like some more 
tea?"

"No, I would like some answers."

"I'm coming to that." He retrieves a plate of biscuits from the 
center of the table and pushes it toward me. "Eat some of 
these."

"I'm not hungry."

"You haven't eaten in twenty-four hours without sicking 
everything back up. You'll feel better if you put something in 
your stomach."

"Does the drug cause nausea if it's taken on an empty stomach?"

He frowns. "You still think it was in the injection I gave you, 
don't you?"

I stare at him silently.

"What did you do with the pills you didn't take?"

"Toilet." It's an easy enough lie.

He nods. "Right. Okay. From the beginning." He takes a healthy 
swallow of his tea and leans toward me, clearing his throat. 
"You got a concussion in the accident. For several days you 
were confused and suffering frequent lapses in memory. You 
asked for John repeatedly and became upset when I reminded you 
of what had happened. I gave you benzodiazepine to relax you 
and help you sleep. As long as you were in hospital, I could 
control the dosage. But when you were released you started 
experimenting with different cocktails, designing your own 
custom blend that you hoped would make you forget. You said you 
couldn't bear it any longer. You wanted to 'delete' your memory 
of John Watson entirely. It didn't work, of course, but by the 
time you realized your mistake you had developed a dependency. 
Mycroft couldn't get through to you anymore, so he called me."

"I wasn't living with you already?"

Henry glances at the laptop charging on the counter. "No. You 
were still in the flat you shared with John, which I'm sure is 
part of the reason your plan didn't work." He finishes his tea 
as he gathers his thoughts. "Your dependency on the drug made 
simply stopping it too dangerous. Mycroft and I devised a plan 
to reduce the dosage gradually. You moved in with me so I could 
better monitor your progress and hopefully keep you from 
relapsing."

"Why didn't you just tell me this? Why construct an elaborate 
lie about a rare amnesia?"

"We didn't at first. But we all came to agree that it was the 
best and safest way to manage your condition. You've read your 
notes. The articles. You can become quite paranoid and 
violent." 

I remember twisting his arm behind his back and shoving him 
into a wall. Or was that Mycroft? "Who agreed?"

"You, me and Mycroft."

A sharp bark of a laugh escapes me before I can stop it. "Of 
course. So is any of it true?" I take another sip of tea and 
hold up my left ring finger. "Whose idea was this?"

He flinches. "The only lie is in the exact nature of your 
condition. We had to alter the events of the first few weeks, 
but you helped by writing those notes and letters." His hand 
covers my arm and he waits until I meet his gaze. "This is 
real. I fell in love with you. And despite your insistence that 
you don't feel such emotions, I like to think that you love me 
too in your own way."

It sounds plausible. It makes sense. But I'm pretty sure the 
only part of the story that is absolutely true is the last. His 
love for me and our marriage. The rest may contain certain 
elements of the truth, but I am not certain where those truths 
give way to lies and what purpose those lies serve. 

I slowly reach for a biscuit and take a small bite. It is 
plain. Bland. The kind one would eat to avoid upsetting their 
stomach.

Henry smiles and reaches to toy with my hair, smoothing rumpled 
curls into some sort of order. "One day this will all be over, 
darling. One day you won't need the drug anymore and your 
memory will be restored." 

I'm not sure if that would be better or worse than the 
alternative. 

Henry stands suddenly and goes to the sink to pour a glass of 
water. He fetches the pill box from the cupboard and shakes the 
pre-sorted tablet designated for tonight into his palm.

He sets the tablet and glass on the table before me as he 
returns to his seat. "I will not force you to take it, but as 
your doctor I strongly advise it. It is quite possible for your 
symptoms to get worse. Withdrawal from this could kill you. And 
as your husband who loves you desperately, I beg you not to 
take that risk."

He doesn't need to appeal to my sympathy. I may be drawn to 
danger and risky behavior, but regardless of how that makes me 
look to the casual observer, I don't want to die.

Still, I hesitate a while before picking up the tablet. Even 
longer before swallowing it.

Henry's smile as I set the empty glass back down is not one of 
victory, but rather relief. I may have doubts about some of the 
details of the stories he has just told me, but there are a few 
things I can be reasonably certain of. The drug is causing my 
memory loss, but Henry is carefully controlling the dosage - 
likely reducing it gradually. He fears losing me and the trauma 
of losing his patient yesterday coupled with the potential 
danger I faced with the onset of withdrawal today genuinely 
terrified him.

"You should rest. I'll wake you when dinner is ready."

I begin to protest, but think better of it. I can use the time 
to write in my journal and maybe call Mycroft. I nod.

He smiles, kisses my forehead and clears the empty teacups from 
the table. 

I retrieve the charged laptop and retreat into the bedroom.

---

"Will," a voice calls gently. A hand rubs my shoulder. "Wake 
up, darling."

For a moment I struggle to remember where I am. The voice 
calling me is familiar, but I can't place his name. I open my 
eyes and focus on the dark haired man sitting beside me. James? 
No...Henry.

The fog lifts slowly and I reach for the laptop I remember 
using moments - minutes? hours? - ago. 

"It's in the kitchen, charging."

I hesitate. "Did you read it?"

"Just the last bit. Sorry. I try to respect your privacy, but 
you left it open."

How many times has he used that excuse? I'm pretty sure I 
didn't write anything damning as I knew it was a possibility he 
would read it. He couldn't possibly have changed anything in it 
yet, could he?

I roll onto my back and look up at him. "You said you would 
wake me when dinner was ready."

"I've only started it, but I thought I should check with you, 
see how you feel."

"Mmm...better." I can smell cooked meat now, spiced with some 
sort of herbs. 

"Think you can handle Spaghetti Bolognese?" 

Basil and oregano. That's the smell. "Sounds lovely." I'm not 
really surprised to find that I actually am hungry. It's been 
more than twenty-four hours since I last ate and I don't have 
any work requiring my full mental focus at the moment. Then 
again, it could be a side effect of the drug.

He smiles, gives my arm a squeeze and stands to leave. Then he 
hesitates a moment. "Would you like me to bring the laptop 
back?"

"No. I'll come down."

I wait until he is back in the kitchen before I attempt getting 
up. I am amazed by how much better I feel. My head is clearer. 
The queasiness is entirely gone. I realize this is probably why 
I have stayed with Henry. Why I continue to take the "medicine" 
of my own free will. But there doesn't seem to be much harm in 
continuing like this. Or, more accurately, there is far greater 
harm in *not* allowing Henry to continue his treatment.

Assuming he really is decreasing the dosage. I frown at the 
wall over the toilet as I empty my bladder. Did I reach that 
conclusion myself or did he tell me that's what he's doing?

No, I'm pretty sure I deduced it.

Henry is stirring a pot of sauce at the stove when I reach the 
kitchen. There is a laptop open on the table, but it doesn't 
look familiar. I peek at the screen to find it open to what 
looks like Henry's work email. 

"Yours is on the counter."

I look up, startled, but he doesn't seem to have even turned 
his head. I remember Mary doing that. 'I have eyes in the back 
of my head,' she joked. 'I always know what you're doing.'

I retrieve my laptop from the counter where it was charging and 
take it to the seat across from Henry's.

Henry fills a glass with water from the tap and sets it beside 
me as he returns to the table. "You should stay hydrated."

I thank him automatically. It isn't until I notice his 
hesitation before sitting back down that I realize the exact 
words I used were 'thanks, John.' "I'm sorry, I..."

"No." He waves me off. "It's all right. I'm used to it."

Didn't Molly once say I do that to a lot of people? I shrug it 
off. Henry is already focused on his computer screen, the 
moment forgotten. I sip at the water and focus on my own, which 
is still open to my journal. A random jumble of letters at the 
bottom suggests I fell asleep as I was typing.

I review the entry for today, not really expecting to find 
anything different from what I remember yet. Except I remember 
talking to Lillian this morning. Did I not note that? What did 
we talk about?

Oh. Right. I gave her the pills. Did I note that in the other 
journal before returning it to the hive? What did I tell Henry 
I did with the pills? Flush them?

And then I come to a baffling note between the list of 
developing symptoms and wild speculations about their causes 
and waking up to Henry singing.

'Called Mycroft. Left a message on his voicemail. I don't 
remember what I said, exactly, but it must have alarmed him 
enough to call Henry and compel him to come home more quickly.'

I remember calling Mycroft twice today. Granted, my memory of 
the first call is hazy, but I don't remember leaving a message.

I pull up the phone history on my mobile. There are two calls 
to Mycroft in the recent history, as expected. One for a 
duration of just under three seconds, which was probably as 
long as I listened to the generic outgoing message he never 
bothered to change before hanging up. The other call, however, 
is logged as lasting one minute and forty-three seconds. Long 
enough for me to have left a message. But I didn't leave a 
message...did I? I try to recall details from before I lost 
consciousness, but the memories are too corrupted. I can't 
remember what was real and what was in my mind palace. 

"Something wrong?"

I shake myself and meet Henry's questioning gaze. "No, I 
just...have you spoken to Mycroft recently?"

"Not since he called me this afternoon. Why?"

"What did he say?"

"He was worried about you. Apparently you left a barely 
coherent voicemail about the medicine making you sick and my 
name not being Henry. You don't remember that?"

I stare at the call log, trying to make sense of this evidence. 
I remember speaking to Mycroft today, but only in my mind 
palace. My sense of reality at the time the call was logged is 
highly suspect, but I do remember trying to call him. And I 
remember telling somebody my suspicions about the drug's true 
purpose and Henry's false identity. Could I have done something 
I don't remember doing while I was lost in my head?

Henry comes around the table suddenly, taking the mobile from 
my hands and setting it aside. "It's all right, darling," he 
says, squeezing my hands. "You were very ill. I'm guessing you 
don't remember accusing me of trying to take advantage of you 
either. You thought I was Moriarty."

I think I remember that part, but now I'm not certain of 
anything. A wave of depression washes over me as I come to 
several realizations at once. It is already starting. I am 
forgetting. Soon, I won't remember anything I haven't written 
in my journal for the past forty-eight hours. I won't remember 
the memory stick in the hive. I may not even be able to record 
anything more on it until Monday when Henry goes back to work. 
And there's nothing I can do to stop it.

"Is this what Alzheimer's feels like," I ask numbly. 

I see genuine pain and sympathy cross Henry's face before he 
gathers me in his arms. In a way, he is suffering through this 
with me. Whatever this is. He doesn't want me to forget him, 
but he doesn't want to lose me either. 

I cling to him, pathetically grateful for his presence and 
strength, letting the feeble words of comfort he murmurs in my 
ear soothe my fraying nerves. 

"I love you," he whispers.

'I know,' I think as I bury my face in his neck.

---

I can't sleep. My mind is racing, but it is stuck on the same 
frustrating loop. For whatever reason, when I sleep I will 
forget. I have chosen this artificial state of amnesia 
willingly. I feel helpless to stop it, but fighting seems 
pointless. If I stop taking the drug, the withdrawal could kill 
me. I guess in a way, it was inevitable I would end up like 
this eventually. But instead of dying alone and pathetic on the 
floor of the flat I used to share with John, I am living the 
life I always thought I would after I retired from consulting 
work, being cared for by a man who loves me more than I 
deserve.

I turn to look at him laying beside me. He isn't asleep yet, 
but he's making a valiant effort. I go over his features again 
in the dim twilight of the bedroom, storing details in my mind 
palace even though I don't know if I will be able to retrieve 
them in full later or if, like the scribblings on my ring, they 
will be corrupted. Have I done this before? Is that why I 
recognize him even if I am unsure of who he is?

I quickly realize that simply looking isn't enough. I slip 
closer and press my lips to his shoulder.

"Mmm...can't sleep?"

I hum vaguely and kiss a trail up his neck, feeling the texture 
of his skin beneath my lips, the roughness of his stubble.

He shifts slightly, welcoming my attentions, but murmurs "not 
sure I'm up for it tonight, love."

I catch his gaze as his eyes open, the ocean blue muted in the 
darkness. "I'm not expecting anything." I kiss his lips 
lightly. "You can sleep if you like."

He chuckles as I resume kissing back down his throat, creating 
a pleasant vibration against my lips. "I see. So I'm just to be 
a living sex doll for you to rut against, am I?"

I let my teeth sink into the meatiest part of his pectoral 
muscle until he hisses. "No," I murmur into his skin before 
turning my attention on his nipples, making his breath catch. 

"That wasn't an objection."

"Mmm." He is sensitive here too. I experiment with different 
combinations of lips, tongue and fingers until they stiffen. He 
twines his fingers in my hair lazily, gently encouraging my 
attentions.

He makes a small whimpering sort of noise as I trace the scar 
on his abdomen with a series of soft, almost reverent kisses.

He squirms as I run my fingers along the gently stirring length 
of his penis. I keep my touch light and careful, just feeling 
the weight of it, the texture of the skin. I wonder how many 
times I've touched him like this. Made him come apart. Made him 
beg.

I give a quick kiss to the still soft shaft and crawl back up 
the bed, draping myself over him and tucking my head into the 
curve of his neck. 

He chuckles and wraps his arms around me. "Git."

I twine our legs together, deliberately pressing my own 
disinterested cock into his hip. Neither of us is in any state 
to be engaging in anything more strenuous than heavy petting 
tonight. He is still tired and stressed and I am still 
recovering. My explorations hadn't been about sex. I wasn't 
entirely certain what they had been about, really. I just felt 
a need to try to understand him. To know him on a more visceral 
level than my notes could convey. I try to store some of the 
details in my mind palace - the smell of him, the taste of his 
skin, the sound he makes when I scrape my teeth over sensitive 
flesh - even though I know I probably won't be able to recover 
the data.

Henry seems to understand. He holds me tightly, tilting my chin 
up so he can kiss my forehead, my cheeks, my lips. He doesn't 
say anything, yet I sense this is an apology. I hold tight and 
let him soothe me into a restless sleep.