Day 4

I wake in an unfamiliar bed. This by itself wouldn't be odd if 
not for the clear evidence that until recently I was not alone.

And I am naked.

I don't feel hung-over, yet I don't remember last night. I have 
bruises on my body that suggest a carnal encounter, but they 
appear days old.

There is a note on the pillow beside me in an unfamiliar 
handwriting, instructing me to read the contents of a folder on 
the kitchen table. Intrigued, I wrap myself in a dressing gown 
that is curiously both familiar and unfamiliar and search for 
the kitchen.

---

I have just got to the pictures from our honeymoon when Henry 
returns to the house, sweaty and out of breath from his run. 

He kisses the top of my head on his way to the sink for a glass 
of water. "Morning, love."

I instinctively touch the spot his lips just touched and 
discover a still-healing scar just near it. Obviously from the 
accident.

"Leave it be," Henry says without looking at me and I snatch my 
hand away instinctively. Interesting. This must be a routine 
exchange for us.

He leans against the counter, sipping his water. "Have you 
eaten yet?"

"Er...no. Not hungry."

"You never are. You should at least take your pill."

I look at the tablet he left sitting beside the folder along 
with a glass. I had filled the glass with water while the 
laptop was booting, but I couldn't quite bring myself to take 
the pill yet. It looked harmless enough, but I was wary of 
taking drugs I couldn't easily identify, even if my notes claim 
it is an experimental form of nootropic that I helped design 
myself.

Henry sidles closer to get a closer look at the laptop screen, 
currently displaying a picture I had obviously taken of him 
post-coital, grinning happily, his abdomen smeared with seminal 
fluid.

"Ah. Venice," he murmurs. "We didn't leave that hotel room for 
four days." He ghosts his finger over the screen, tracing the 
line of his own hip. "You can't make out the bruises yet. As I 
recall, this was the afternoon you decided to test your ability 
to make me come untouched. It took you nearly an hour from 
start to finish, but you managed."

An image springs to mind of Henry pinned to a bed beneath me, 
crying out brokenly. But I'm not sure if it's a memory or my 
mind simply offering it up as speculation. Combined with 
Henry's current proximity, it is having a curious effect on me. 
Possibly because he is still sweaty and slightly breathless, so 
I can readily imagine what he would look like after a vigorous 
round of shagging. I swallow, force my breathing to remain 
even, and reach for the laptop trackpad, opening a different 
image. This one is of Henry reaching for me, a dark, hungry 
look in his eyes, his cock very erect. "What about this one?"

Henry chuckles. "That was after you spent dinner flirting with 
the waiter. You knew it would make me jealous. You were trying 
to wind me up. I got a bit...possessive."

This time the image is clear. Henry looming over me, pinning me 
down, growling "you're MINE" in a low voice. Definitely a 
memory.

I am beginning to feel warm despite the lingering chill in the 
air from his reentry into the house. "Is that how you got 
that," I ask, gesturing at the bruise beneath his left eye. "By 
being possessive?"

He glances down at my hands. "No, that was an accident."

Suddenly the soreness I feel in the knuckles of my right hand 
makes sense.

"Can I show you my favorite picture," he asks, already 
scrolling through images, this most recent curious detail 
seemingly forgotten. He locates an image of me sprawled on a 
bed. Compared with some of the other images in the folder, it 
is unremarkable. I am naked, but there is nothing particularly 
sexual about it. I look like I am half asleep. "This was our 
first night in Paris," he explains. "We were exhausted from the 
long trip, changing from train to tube to cab. The room had a 
nice, big bath, which is rather unusual for a hotel like that. 
We shared a shower, practically holding each other upright 
while we cleaned the grime of the underground off." 

Henry slips behind me, wrapping his arms around my chest, his 
warm breath tickling my ear as he continues. "We were too 
exhausted to have sex properly, but we couldn't keep our hands 
off each other. Couldn't stop exploring. Practically giddy with 
the knowledge that we were really married. On honeymoon in the 
city of love." He kisses my neck tenderly. "It was gloriously 
intimate. Sensual if not sexual. We fell asleep tangled up in 
each other. I have never felt closer to you. Or any other man 
for that matter." He nuzzles beneath my ear in a way that makes 
me shiver involuntarily. "You haven't showered yet today?"

"Er...no," I answer belatedly. 

I feel him smile. "Join me," he murmurs in my ear before he 
nips the lobe. He dips one hand between my legs to fleetingly 
cup my burgeoning erection and then he's gone, headed for the 
bath.

No, it can't be that easy.

I force myself to focus on the words on the screen, skimming 
through the last few months of entries. Aside from a mysterious 
altercation with one neighbor and efforts to help the other 
identify a cause of death for a 16th century skull, it seems 
fairly mundane. Domestic. Dull enough, apparently, that I spend 
an inordinate amount of time obsessing over my bee colony in 
the back garden. But the unique challenges of my condition 
provide adequate distraction and my determination to improve my 
treatment of it seems to be paying off. Just yesterday, I woke 
with my memory intact for the second time in as many months.

Treatment. Right. The pill.

I swallow the tablet and try to focus on the screen again. But 
this proves difficult as I can hear the water running in the 
upstairs bath. Once I find an email wherein Henry rather 
colorfully announces his intentions to perform analingus on me, 
all hope of concentration is lost.

People seem determined to make assumptions about my sex life - 
or presumed lack thereof. I've never understood why people make 
such a fuss over something so trivial, so primitive. But I am 
human and not above being aroused by the thought of taking my 
very attractive husband up on his offer.

I check the clock in the corner of the laptop screen. I will 
have plenty of time for this later, taking into account the 
average time needed for a healthy adult male to achieve orgasm.

I close the laptop and make for the upstairs bath.

---

"Not yet," he pleads.

I snatch my hand away from his bobbing erection and grip his 
hip instead, steadying him as he leans back until my cock is at 
the desired angle inside him, as indicated by his contented 
sigh and faint shudder.

A primitive noise escapes my throat at the sight of Henry 
riding me, his eyes unfocused, panting with exertion. I run my 
hands over his skin, feeling the muscles in his thighs tremble 
with the effort of controlling his movements, his abdominals 
quiver as I trace an old scar.

My hands settle on his backside, pulling him tight against me 
and he growls. I manage to sit up without dislodging him and 
take full advantage of the discovery I made in the shower that 
his neck is especially sensitive.

He tangles one hand in my hair encouragingly, the other 
gripping my shoulder, bracing himself as he continues to roll 
his hips.

It is awkward and I can't thrust properly, so after a moment I 
lose my patience with this arrangement and pull him back down 
to the mattress, rolling us over, slipping free only for a 
moment. He groans as I push back inside, arching his back. 
"Love it when you get rough with me," he breathes.

"I know."

He laughs and reaches a hand for his cock, stroking languidly, 
drawing it out.

I swat his hand away. "Not yet."

He makes a mewling sort of noise and pulls me into an 
uncoordinated kiss that is all tongues and teeth.

"Nearly an hour you said?" I gasp into his mouth.

"Not gonna last that long, love," he pants, squirming beneath 
me as if to illustrate.

Neither will I. Despite the obvious evidence that we have had 
sex regularly - recently even - and the nagging sense of 
familiarity I have with so many things about my new life, this 
still feels new and overwhelming. I can feel the tension 
building fast, the pleasure curling in my abdomen, my balls 
drawn up tight.

I pull out and flip him over before the thought has fully 
formed in my mind. I manhandle him into position - kneeling 
almost upright with his hands braced on the bedstead. It takes 
a couple thrusts to reestablish a rhythm. Then I slide one hand 
beneath him, wrapping it around his rather generous erection. 
He whimpers encouragingly and pushes back against me, his body 
pliant and eager, his entire focus on the building orgasm. I 
tangle my other hand in his short hair and pull his head back 
roughly, making him yelp. 

"Come for me," I growl directly into his ear. 

He does immediately, as if he was waiting my permission, 
moaning and shuddering as he spills onto my hand.

I bury my face in his neck and let go, feeling the tension 
break so forcefully it is almost painful.

I manage to roll onto my back, away from him, before I 
collapse. 

After a minute or so of silence broken only by our collective 
efforts to regain our breath, he chuckles. 

"What," I prompt breathlessly.

"Now I have to shower again," he says, his voice muffled by the 
bedclothes.

"Mmm. Me too."

He laughs and turns over to face me. "That was brilliant."

"Stop it."

"No, honestly. You're usually so uncertain and hesitant when we 
do this. I hardly ever get to see this confident, wild side of 
you. It's thrilling."

I frown, eyeing the bruise beneath his eye. "I didn't hurt you, 
did I?"

"No, darling. Although sitting might be difficult for a while." 
He smirks.

Much as I hate to admit it - and would never do so verbally - 
it turns out I am not above male sexual pride. By the impish 
look in his eyes, I suspect he knows this already.

He leans in to kiss me. "Come on. You can admire your handiwork 
while we clean up," he says before heaving himself from the bed 
and heading back to the bath.

---

"When did you take up smoking?"

John takes the pipe from his mouth and exhales a stream of 
smoke. "Since the Queen went above board."

I recognize these words from my notes. "That doesn't make 
sense, John."

He shrugs. "Yes, well. It is your mind palace, my boy. What was 
the question?"

I sigh and repeat. "TS..."

"Ah! Right. Was that related to a case?"

"Perhaps..." I look down at the inscription on the ring again. 
Those initials are the easiest to read. Presumably, this would 
make them the most important. But why are they only initials? 
Is it because all the attempts at whole names are largely 
unreadable? There is an Am or an An, followed by a G and a 
couple scribbles that start with J. One of them looks at first 
glance like it could be "John", but upon closer inspection I 
can't be sure of the last two letters. The N could be an H and 
the H something else entirely.

"What case was that again?"

"Something about a missing woman, I think. Or was she 
murdered?"

It is unlike John to forget such an important detail of a case. 
But then, I remind myself, I am not really talking to John. I 
look into his face - a face I couldn't erase from my mind 
palace if I tried. "I miss you," I whisper.

He reaches out to fold my hand around my ring. "You have the 
answers already," he says softly. "You just have to remember."

A mobile buzzes, shaking me from my nineteenth century 
construction. I blink at the mobile perched on the coffee table 
beside my laptop. The screen is still lit, announcing a text 
from Lestrade. I asked him what he knew about "TS" before I 
entered my mind palace, already suspecting it had been related 
to an old case. I pick up the mobile and open the message, 
groaning at the unhelpful response. 

'What, as in Eliot?'

'No, as in my last case with John,' I fire back. 

There is a pause, then a response of 'I can't recall any TS 
being involved. How are you? Haven't heard from you since the 
wedding. How's married life treating you?'

I bite back another groan, even though the only other person 
who could hear it is holed up in his office. 'Fine. Don't 
suppose you have any cases for me?'

'No, nothing the yard can't solve. Hey, nice work on that 
ancient skull, by the way.'

'How did you know about that?'

'It was in the papers. Your neighbor identified the remains and 
the deceased's cause of death? Figured you must have had a hand 
in it.'

'I don't remember.'

Another pause, then 'right. Sorry mate.'

I go to put the phone down, then hesitate. There is one other 
piece of the puzzle Lestrade might be able to assist me with. I 
glance at the closed study door before I resume typing. 'What 
do you know about my husband?'

'What do you mean?'

'I did some digging, but I couldn't find much about him.'

'What is there to know? What are you trying to find?'

I hesitate. Is this the paranoia I read about in Henry's 
description of the early days of my condition? 'I don't know. 
Something's off, but I'm not sure what, exactly.'

'Off? How?'

This isn't working. I sound ridiculous. 'I don't know. Let me 
know if you find anything.' I put the mobile down and stifle 
another groan. At least I sounded sober, which is more than I 
can say about the message I seem to have left Mycroft yesterday 
when I was ill. 

Wait...why was I ill?

I search though my journal entries again, but they don't offer 
any explanation beyond a possible side effect of the nootropic. 
I seem to have suffered more frequent bouts of illness in the 
weeks following my accident, but now it seems to correlate most 
predictably to the rare occasions when I make sudden 
improvements in my memory. Perhaps indicative of an adjustment 
in dosage or the need for one. 

Henry emerges from his study and disappears into the kitchen. I 
hear him fill the tea kettle and turn on the stove. He sticks 
his head around the corner a few moments later. 

"There you are. I'm just putting the kettle on. Would you like 
some tea?"

That actually does sound lovely. I start to stand. 

"No, don't get up. I'll bring it to you."

I settle back down and set about adding my latest visit to my 
mind palace to my notes. I add the bit about Lestrade being 
unhelpful where the initials on my ring are concerned, but omit 
the questions about Henry.

I close the laptop when Henry arrives with two steaming mugs of 
tea.

"Anything new," he asks as he holds out one to me.

"No," I grumble.

"Have you tried your mind palace?"

"It turns out strategies to store memories aren't exactly 
effective when one is prone to losing their memories."

He gives me a sympathetic look. "I'm sorry, darling. Is there 
anything I can do to help?"

I am tempted to ask him about TS, but some instinct tells me I 
shouldn't. Instead, I find myself asking "how did you get your 
scar?"

He looks puzzled, as if that was not what he expected me to 
say.

I gesture at his torso. "My notes say you told me, but there 
are no details." I sip at my tea tentatively. Earl Grey, I 
note, with a hint of something darker, richer.

"Ah, well. That's probably because it was my own fault for 
turning my back on a delirious patient in a war torn country."

I cast about for a hint of memory of the conversation, but come 
up empty. "You were a medic?"

"Médecins sans Frontières," he says with flawless 
pronunciation. "That should be in your notes too. Normally we 
kept well away from the fighting, but we had to treat soldiers 
as well as civilians. This one was so lost in fever that he 
became convinced that I was an enemy spy sent to kill him 
instead of a doctor trying to save him."

Henry sips at his own tea while I try to fit this detail into 
the overall picture. There is an unmistakable ring of truth to 
it, but something is wrong somehow. Incomplete, perhaps. 
Rehearsed.

"I suppose that incident taught me a lesson in dealing with 
patients with cognitive issues," he continues. "Working with 
you was far easier. You tried to strangle me and I took many 
blows but you never once took a weapon to me."

I look at his blackened eye again and wonder briefly if he is 
lying to cover up the fact that *I* stabbed him. No, the wound 
is too old. 

He smiles softly and reaches a hand to play with a lock of my 
hair. "You are getting better, Will. We're making real progress 
with your treatment."

Will. I even changed my name. No doubt in part so I could 
escape the fame my detective work brought. Or, more accurately, 
the fame that John's publicizing of our cases brought.

This brings me to another thought. "Did you treat John too? 
After the accident?"

"No, I never had a chance. His injuries were too severe. He 
never made it to hospital." His hand comes to rest on my neck. 
"You really loved him, didn't you?"

"Love...so many meanings ascribed to the word and yet it is 
entirely inadequate." I swirl the tea in my cup, watching it 
slosh gently. "I suppose I did. And I know he loved me too, 
though not necessarily in the way I might have once hoped. He 
was a constant. Someone I could trust with the most intimate 
knowledge."

Someone I would die for. Someone I would kill to protect.

"Rosie--"

"--is the reason you keep regular correspondence with Mrs. 
Watson. I think your brother may be keeping watch over them as 
well."

Of course he is. I suppose this is another reason for the 
distance. It is harder for him to meddle. "Did my brother offer 
you money to spy on me?"

Henry's hand falls from my neck as he sips his tea. "Not 
exactly," he says after a pause. 

I groan. "That's a yes."

"He offered me a job as your personal live-in physician. But by 
that time I was already falling in love with you and I couldn't 
take his money."

If he had, he could have quit his job. Or at least reduced his 
hours. But he was too proud. Too noble. In many ways, he 
reminds me of John.

Except...

I think of the hungry look in Henry's eyes as he knelt before 
me this morning. The desperate noises he made against my lips 
as I prepared him. I may have once desired that with John, but 
I told myself it was just as well he never felt likewise as it 
would have been a distraction. I was happy with our 
arrangement, once I grew accustomed to Mary's presence. I may 
have still had moments where I wondered what could have been, 
but those thoughts were easily dismissed as foolish. Yet here I 
was, less than a year after John's death. I don't even believe 
in marriage.

"I assume you proposed?"

He chuckles and sets his empty teacup on the coffee table. 
"Yes, well...it was quite a process. The first time I asked you 
lectured me about ridiculous traditions and absurd sentiments. 
I was more careful when I broached the subject after that, 
speaking in broader, theoretical terms. You never remembered 
the conversations, of course, but I think I wore you down 
subconsciously." He smiles wistfully and slides his palm along 
my thigh. "That night we made love and - although you've called 
me a sentimental idiot for saying this - I honestly felt you 
open to me in ways you never had before. Not just your body, 
but your heart and mind. You were still gasping for breath and 
trembling in my arms when I whispered the question in your ear. 
To my surprised delight, you said yes." He gives a small shrug. 
"Of course, within the hour, you were rationalizing your 
response as a combination of understanding the practical need 
for me to have spousal privileges given your medical condition 
combined with the endorphins released during orgasm, but I 
choose to believe that was just bluster coming from a man who 
refuses to admit that deep down he's really a romantic."

I snort and open my mouth to refute this nonsense, but he cuts 
me off by laying a finger on my lips. 

"I know you, my love," he murmurs. "I have had the unique 
privilege of seeing you on those rare occasions when you let 
the cold, logical airs you put on for the rest of the world 
slip. I have wiped away your tears when you grieved for John 
Watson. I have soothed your fears when you became so ill you 
were convinced you were dying. I know who you really are, Will. 
I know you are capable of loving so deeply that you are 
paralyzed by it. That you can't help but dread that one day the 
thing you love will be taken from you too soon. Like John. Like 
Victor. Like Redbeard."

For a horrible moment I feel as if I am being vivisected. 
Stripped bare before a man who was little more than a stranger 
to me hours ago. I am reminded of the deficiencies of my memory 
and wonder when I told him about my childhood pet being put 
down when he was barely middle aged because it was discovered 
he had cancer. Or about my best friend from Uni whose life was 
cut short at an even earlier age by a drug overdose.

Is this why I ran away from London? From Rosie and Mary and 
Mrs. Hudson? I am not foolish enough to believe in curses or 
other superstitions, but it would be easy to blame myself for 
John's death. He knew my work was dangerous, certainly, but 
maybe this was my way of protecting his family and mine from 
suffering the same fate.

Henry takes the teacup from me and sets it on the table, 
gathering my hands in his. "I know you are too logical to 
believe in curses or any vows I make that I would move heaven 
and Earth to stay with you. I understand and have accepted the 
conditions of our relationship because I know at least a part 
of you loves me, even if it is only because I fill the void 
left by John Watson." He kisses me. A gentle, tentative brush 
of his lips against mine. "I love you," he murmurs. "More than 
anything in the world. More than my own life."

He releases my hands so he can cradle my face and kisses me 
again. Just as gentle, but less tentative. I relax and let him 
take control. I think I understand now why I said yes.

"Do you want more tea," he asks, nuzzling my cheek. 

"Ah...no, thanks."

"Mmm...well, I do." His hands fall from my face, one giving my 
thigh a quick squeeze before he gathers both cups and heads 
back to the kitchen. I hesitate a moment, looking at the closed 
laptop and thinking, before getting up to follow him.

"Does 'TS' mean anything to you," I ask, hovering in the 
doorway.

"No. Why?"

There is something odd about his answer, but I'm not sure what, 
exactly. "I don't know. It's probably nothing." My eyes land on 
the jar of honey I saw on the table his morning and I realize 
why John's words were so familiar. I pick up the jar so I can 
inspect the label. 

Queen. Above board. Of course. That's why I am spending so much 
time fretting over the hive.

"Something wrong, Will?"

I put the jar back down. "No, I just...thought I remembered 
something."

"Really? What did you remember?"

"Nothing. I was wrong."

He eyes me with more concern than suspicion, but says nothing.

I must be hiding something from him, but what? And now I 
realize what it was about his earlier answer that bothered me. 
He answered too quickly. As if it was a reflex.

"Maybe you should try your mind palace again," he suggests 
conversationally. 

"Maybe."

He smiles and kisses my cheek on his way out of the kitchen, 
disappearing back into his study.

---

Just as I suspected, there is a memory stick hidden beneath the 
lid of the hive, above the crown board. Clever, but can I 
remove it and return it without arousing Henry's suspicion? I 
have no doubt that the information on it is important, but it 
is obvious I am keeping it hidden from him in the one place I 
know is mine alone. Is the need to know what is on the drive 
worth the risk after I have gone to such bother to ensure its 
safety?

I slide the stick in my pocket and close the hive. I won't know 
anything certain until I know what is on it.

---

The fact that the drive is password protected with John's 
never-uttered middle name reinforces my belief that it is mine 
alone. The contents remove any further doubt. Although there is 
nothing particularly alarming about the events in this 
alternate journal, the fact that they differ from the ones I 
read this morning is unsettling. 

I read quickly, mindful of the time. The last entry is from 
yesterday afternoon and isn't entirely coherent. I copy the 
rest of my notes from yesterday onto the drive - although I 
can't be sure of their accuracy if Henry has access to them - 
along with what little I have as yet today. I note the fact 
that I cannot do more with Henry in the next room, but now that 
I have read my theories about the true nature of the alleged 
nootropic medicine I am taking I hope to prove my suspicions 
that it is causing my memory loss and not treating it.

Of course there is a chance the tablet I took this morning will 
be enough to affect my memory, but I am betting the effects 
will be minimal. There must be a reason Henry prescribed two 
tablets per day.

I return the stick to the hive quickly, feeling like a little 
boy again hiding dirty magazines or, later, drugs from my 
parents. The twin rushes of adrenaline at the danger of being 
caught and disappointment that it proved to be so *easy*.

I settle back at the laptop and enter a few hive observations 
to justify the two trips he doubtless heard me make. 

Then I go into my mind palace to confront the one person who 
knows exactly what has really been going on these past months.

Henry sits in the chair John and I set out for clients. Except 
his posture is more relaxed than the chair's usual occupants, 
as if he is perfectly at home in 221b. He even appears to be 
wearing one of my dressing gowns and nothing else.

"There are far too many variables here and I can't be certain 
which ones are true and which are false. I know you are lying 
to me, but I don't know why or to what extent." I run my 
fingers gingerly over the scar on my scalp. "I *was* in an 
accident. I remember enough details to be sure of that. But did 
it cause my current condition? This rare form of amnesia seems 
too bizarre and unlikely to be real, but the alternative is 
even more absurd. It would imply that you concocted an 
elaborate scheme to abduct me and convince me that I have a 
rare condition requiring experimental treatment in order to 
trick me into continually dosing myself with the drug that 
causes the amnesia-like symptoms."

"Diabolical," he agrees with a smirk.

"But if it's real, why bother lying and deceiving me at all?"

"When have I lied? Has anything in your journal actually 
contradicted me or is it all just supposition?" He stands and 
moves closer to me. Close enough that the mere two inches of 
height advantage he has on me feels intimidating. "Has it 
occurred to you that your paranoia is merely your mind 
rejecting the simplest of answers precisely because it is *too* 
simple? That you have been on a steady diet of difficult cases 
for so long that the sudden lack of them is driving you to such 
bored madness that you have begun inventing elaborate plots 
where there are none?"

The dressing gown falls open and my eyes fix on his scar. I 
reach to trace it with a forefinger. "How did you get this?"

I asked the question rhetorically, of course, but he answers by 
mirroring my movements, pressing his hand over the concealed 
scar Mary gave me. "How did you get yours?"

I think about the collection of scars on my body, including the 
new one on my scalp and a wild thought occurs to me. What if 
the lies are masking his guilt over my condition? Treatment 
aside, what if he caused the accident?

"The angle is wrong," he says, answering my thoughts with the 
ease of someone quite literally in my head. "I wasn't in a car 
when it happened. And the wound was obviously made deliberately 
by a blade and healed long before your accident."

"That doesn't mean you couldn't have been on the scene," I 
argue.

"No," he admits, his smile fond and infuriatingly serene. "But 
a doctor doesn't always have to be part of the cause of a 
condition to feel guilt for their inability to cure it." His 
hand, still pressed low against my chest, circles to the small 
of my back, tugging me closer with very little effort, pressing 
my clothed body against his mostly naked one. "Is life with me 
really so intolerable that you must believe it to be founded on 
lies?"

This, combined with the memory of Mary's deception, prompts a 
deduction on the problem I have been puzzling over all morning. 
"*You* are TS, aren't you?"

His lips twitch faintly, but otherwise there is no change in 
his expression. Not that such a thing would mean anything here. 
"Why did you change your name? Are you hiding from someone? 
From the person who gave you that scar?" I correct myself 
immediately. "No, the scar is too old for that to be likely."

He brushes his lips against my clavicle. Not exactly a kiss.

"What is it? Timothy? Thomas? Tobias? You look like you could 
be a Toby."

He chuckles softly. "Why does my name matter so much?"

"Because I suspect it is connected to the case I was working 
with John, but I can't remember the details."

"You think I could be a killer?"

"Yes," I say with an ease that surprises even me. He cocks an 
eyebrow at me and I run through the deduction out loud. "Yes, I 
think you are capable. If I believe your story about how you 
acquired that scar it means you were blindsided by a violent 
man intent on killing you and impervious to reason and yet you 
got away with a single wound. You remind me of both John and 
Mary - people who once killed for a living and are more than 
capable of doing it again to protect those they love."

"Hmm...but who have I killed to protect whom?"

My head is beginning to ache. 

"Maybe I wasn't protecting anyone," he continues. "Maybe I 
discovered I *liked* killing people. Maybe I tried to kill you 
but something changed and I decided that having you by my side 
- under my control - was far more intoxicating. Maybe I killed 
John instead because he tried to stop me from taking you."

It almost makes sense, and yet it seems entirely absurd. Henry 
- or TS - may be capable of violence, but he is not a murderer. 
And I don't think he would ever have intended to kill *me*.

"Your love is incompatible with any desire to do me harm."

"If the love is pure, perhaps, but what if it's obsession? I 
couldn't kill you if I had to *have* you. Perhaps that explains 
why you sometimes confuse me with Moriarty." He leans close and 
whispers "you are mine," in my ear. 

"You don't scare me."

He chuckles and runs his fingers delicately around to the front 
of my trousers. "I could have you right here until you begged 
for mercy."

The familiar phrase calls to mind a familiar response. "I don't 
beg."

He smiles knowingly. "Yes, you do."

I sigh, shake my head and pull away from him, emerging from my 
mind palace with no more information than I had before. I 
always knew there were limits to what my mind palace could do, 
but being confronted so blatantly by those limitations is 
maddening.

But there is something bothering me about the accident, isn't 
there?

I pore over the details I have again - a brief accident report 
and John's coroner's report. Neither offer many details - 
though it is curious that the medical report corroborates 
Henry's story that he bled out in the ambulance. Why, then, did 
I write in my journal that the body I saw in my mind palace was 
burned beyond recognition?

I try to dig a little deeper. The signature of the doctor who 
registered the certificate is illegible, but the coroner's is 
clear. Unfortunately, her name is so common that a simple 
search of it yields results for characters in a popular 
American television program and a series of crime novels as 
well as an actress known for her roles in pornographic films 
(though clearly this last one does not bear the title 
"doctor"). 

I keep digging, but there are too many false results to sift 
through and my growing headache makes concentration difficult.

I rummage around in the loo until I find a bottle of 
paracetamol and swallow the pills dry. Henry appears in the 
door as I'm putting the bottle away - no doubt drawn by the 
noise of my search.

"Headache?"

I grunt in response. Obviously. I resist the urge to flinch as 
he comes closer and reaches for me. He cradles my face gently, 
tipping my head up and peering into my eyes. 

"Any nausea?"

I shake my head and he tightens his grip, stilling the 
movement. 

"Just say yes or no, love." He lets go with one hand so he can 
hold up his finger for me to track. "Follow my finger. Eyes 
only. Any dizziness?"

"No."

"Feeling faint?"

I catch his hand, stopping him. "I'm fine, Doctor."

He smiles and leans in to kiss my fingers. "You should take a 
break from that computer screen. I can make some tea if you 
like."

"Don't think the added caffeine will help."

"I'm pretty sure we still have some herbal."

I consider refusing, but tea does sound nice. And perhaps I can 
ask a few questions and get him to talk some more. Perhaps I 
can trick him into giving me the answers my imagined version of 
him can't.

---

He massages my shoulders while we wait for the kettle to boil. 
I groan and slump in the kitchen chair as my muscles loosen.

"You really shouldn't spend so much time at that computer."

I hum vaguely.

The kettle whistles and he kisses the back of my neck before 
going to fetch it. I watch him pour water over a bag in a 
single cup. He isn't having any this time. Perhaps because he 
had a second cup earlier.

"Did you know the doctor who signed John's coroner report?"

He hesitates, blinks, as if surprised by the question. 
"Erm...no, I don't think so."

This answer is more genuine and less rehearsed than the one he 
gave about TS. Though that doesn't necessarily mean it is true. 
"What about the coroner? Did you know her?"

"It was a big hospital, darling. I hardly knew anyone outside 
of A&E." He brings the cup to me. "I did know the medic who 
brought him in though. He recognized you and asked after you a 
few days after the accident."

I swish the tea in the cup, watching the water turn darker. 
"Was he cremated?" 

Henry eases back in his chair. "Is this about you seeing your 
coroner friend working on him?"

"I told you about that?"

He nods. "You concluded yourself that you deliberately chose to 
see him that way because you couldn't bear to think of him laid 
out on a slab the way you remembered him."

He is choosing his words carefully, as if he fears upsetting 
me.

"What happened to the man who gave you that scar," I ask, 
sipping my tea.

"Erm..." he stutters, seemingly thrown by the shift in my line 
of questioning. "He died."

'Did you kill him,' I wonder, but I don't ask. I'm almost 
certain he did. How else would he be so certain of the fate of 
one soldier? At the very least, the man must have died while in 
his care.

"Let's not talk of death anymore tonight," he declares. He 
pulls his mobile from his pocket. "Tomorrow is Valentine's 
Day." 

I groan.

"I know. It's a ridiculous commercial holiday, the only purpose 
of which is to sell cards and chocolates. But it's our first 
together and I want to get you something." He taps purposefully 
on his phone screen. "And after our conversation earlier, I 
think I may have found the perfect gift."

He hands the mobile to me and I stare at the picture of a 
beautiful tri-colored Cavalier spaniel. 

"She was surrendered to the human society yesterday. Her name 
is Bella, but she's barely a year old, so you can change that."

"Why?"

"Well, you could keep the name if you don't mind the fact that 
she's obviously named after a character from a teenage love 
story about vampires."

What? "No, why do you want to buy me a dog?"

"Because I want to make you happy. Because I want to give you 
something you can love. Because I love you."

My mind races with alternative explanations. Because he needs 
leverage or insurance. Because taking care of a dog would keep 
me distracted. Because he is very literally trying to buy my 
love.

I look at the large, soulful eyes on the mobile screen. Why do 
they always look so pitiful in these pictures?

"I called and told them we were interested in looking at her, 
but if you don't want..."

"Grainne Ni Mháille."

"Sorry?"

"Before Redbeard died, I tried to convince my parents that he 
should have a mate. I had male and female names already 
prepared. If it was a girl, I would name her after the most 
famous, fearsome woman pirate of Ireland. Grace O'Malley." I 
look up at Henry. "We never got another dog."

A slow smile spreads across his face as he realizes what I am 
saying. "Gracie. It's lovely." He kisses me. "Shall we go meet 
her?"

---

I don't know why I agreed to adopt a dog any more than I know 
why I agreed to marry Henry. Or maybe I do. Dogs are so much 
simpler than people - their needs more basic, their motives 
pure. I do not know yet to what extent Henry is lying to me. 
Part of me probably craves the simplicity the company of a dog 
offers. And honestly, part of me probably just couldn't say no. 
It has been so long since Redbeard died.

Grace, née Bella, takes to me easily, hoping into my arms and 
excitedly licking my face. 

We stop at a pet shop, buy a temporary ID collar and enough 
supplies for at least two dogs her size and spend the evening 
acclimating her to her new environment. She is housebroken, but 
without a fence I will need to use her leash just to let her 
wee in the garden. She is able to jump on furniture, but Henry 
and I both agree that the bed should stay strictly off limits. 
She is playful, but grows bored of her toys quickly.

"She's already taking after you," Henry notes with a laugh when 
she turns her nose up at a ball she was chasing not five 
minutes before.

I still don't know what Henry's motives are for buying Grace 
for me, exactly, but his delight at seeing the two of us 
together seems genuine.

I add a page to my folder about Grace and clip a picture of her 
begging for food while Henry cooks dinner into my journal. This 
inspires me and I locate a printer in my study. I print two 
pictures: one of Grace peering excitedly through the window 
from the backseat of Henry's car and one of Henry lying in bed, 
engrossed in a novel. I write their names beneath each picture 
and leave them where they will be most visible to me each 
morning - the small table on my side of the bed. Not that I 
anticipate needing this tomorrow as I successfully avoided my 
evening dose of "medicine", being sure to store it in a safe 
place in my study out of Grace's reach.

I finish my journal - the one Henry has possibly redacted - 
while having one last cup of tea for the evening. Chamomile. 
Henry joins me this time, curled at the other end of the sofa 
with the same book he has in the picture. Grace lies between 
us, lifting her head curiously whenever either of us moves, but 
otherwise contentedly napping. I contemplate both of them. I 
cannot theorize about Henry's possible ulterior motives in this 
journal directly, but maybe if I take it from another 
perspective...

"Do you ever think about having children?"

He looks surprised by the question, but his momentary glance at 
Grace before he answers is telling. "Not really. Why?"

"You seem the sort of person who would want a family. I don't 
see anything in my notes to suggest we ever discussed it."

"We haven't." There is a note of wariness in his voice. "Where 
is this coming from?"

"I just thought maybe you were using this as a sort of 
experiment. See if I can handle caring for a species with 
simpler needs first."

"No," he answers quickly, firmly. He puts his book down and 
reaches for my hand. "Put this in your journal because I don't 
ever want you to question it again: all I need, all I want to 
make my life complete is you. I have no plans to bring a child 
into our home and I certainly am not using Gracie to test you. 
Her sole function is to make you happy."

'So that I will be compelled to stay with you,' I think. "That 
implies that you believe I was unhappy before," I say.

His grip on my hand tightens, making me acutely aware of the 
wedding ring pressing into my flesh and probably his. Something 
dark passes over his face for a moment. Anger, fear and 
insecurity mar his features. "I think there is a certain degree 
of melancholy that is to be expected of someone with a 
condition such as yours," he says carefully. "And I think 
Gracie is better suited to helping you deal with it than I am."

I remember the notes on the memory stick. I vowed to escape 
Henry and my life here on two separate occasions. I made plans. 
As far as I know I at least attempted to follow through on 
them, but somehow I always wound up back in this house and 
never with any evidence that he had forced me to come back in 
any way. Something or someone (likely him) had changed my mind 
and I had chosen to return of my own free will.

Grace suddenly notices our linked hands above her and licks my 
wrist before crawling into my lap. I free my hand from Henry's 
grip so I can scratch behind her ears. 

Henry's hand slides beneath my chin, gently coaxing my head up. 
My eyes meet his and he murmurs. "It's so nice to see you 
smile."

I didn't realize I was smiling. My mouth falls slack in 
surprise. Henry leans in to kiss me, a slow, gentle kiss that 
disrupts my breathing just enough to leave me panting when he 
lets up.

Grace jumps from my lap, obviously having grown tired of my 
distracted petting, and wanders into the kitchen.

Henry takes the opportunity to move closer, deepening the kiss. 
His tongue brushes alongside mine confidently - reclaiming 
territory he has already thoroughly explored. 

It is easy to give in to his advances. My body practically does 
it on instinct. My muscles slacken and I allow him to take 
control, to press me into the back sofa cushions. I feel his 
hand on the inside of my thigh - a courtesy warning - before he 
cups me through my trousers, rubbing with the barest of 
pressure. I let my legs open wider, granting him access.

"That's it, darling," he purrs, trailing kisses along my jaw, 
over my cheeks. His hot breath warms my ear before he nips 
playfully at the lobe and licks the sensitive skin beneath. 

"Have..." I clear my throat and try to force my voice into a 
lower, less embarrassingly breathy register. "Have we done this 
before? Had sex on this sofa?"

"Mmm...is that what you want?"

I miscalculated. His hand is still between my legs, but his 
touch is still light, almost teasing. His kisses are leisurely. 
His breathing and pulse are only slightly accelerated. He did 
not begin this foreplay with the presupposition that it would 
lead to intercourse. He is content with the foreplay alone. 

He brushes his fingers lightly over the zip on my trousers. "Do 
you want to come?"

"No...I...don't know." I wince. I never did like saying those 
words.

He chuckles softly. "Well..." He brushes his lips over my 
suprasternal notch; as low as he can reach without abandoning 
his teasing below my waist to undo a button. "Perhaps we should 
continue this in the bedroom and see where it takes us."

A tentative "woof" emanates from the floor. Henry blinks, looks 
down and laughs again. "After you settle Gracie in for the 
night."

---

By the time I finish letting Grace out in the garden, my 
clarity of thought has returned. I write a summary of our 
conversation in my notes.

'I believe Henry is worried about the strain my condition could 
be putting on me both mentally and emotionally,' I write. 'He 
is trying to find ways to make me happy, to make my life here 
more bearable.'

Constructing a life he hopes I will be reluctant to simply 
abandon. I wonder if - had either of us been female - he would 
have gone the route of trying to bring a child into our home by 
flushing birth control pills or putting pinpricks in 
prophylactics. Or would he have drawn the line at orchestrating 
a pregnancy? Would such a scenario even work?

I shake my head and chastise myself for absurd speculations. If 
he thought a child would be more effective leverage he could 
have adopted one or used a surrogate. More likely, he is trying 
to prove his love for me. And this is a far more effective way 
to try to buy my loyalty, isn't it? 

I think of how effortlessly he seems able to bend me to his 
will. I may not trust the things he tells me about his past or 
my present are true, but I have no trouble believing his 
declarations of love and devotion. His determined focus on 
pleasing me in every way seems to have awakened long-neglected 
desires in me. Not sexual, or at least not JUST sexual. It 
wasn't simple arousal I felt when he was kissing me and 
touching me intimately. It was a pleasure as simple as I'd felt 
when he massaged my shoulders at the kitchen table. Pleasant. 
Comfortable. Soothing. 

Like a narcotic.

I wonder if I've fallen back on my old habits in recent months; 
taken anything other than the drug Henry gives me. It occurs to 
me that this could just as easily be how he buys my loyalty. 
That I always come back to him willingly in search of my next 
hit. But I am very familiar with what addiction feels like. I 
stashed away the evening pill without a second thought. I have 
no symptoms to alleviate, no craving for a hit. In fact, I feel 
no different at all for having not taken the dose.

Perhaps my imagined version of Henry is right. Perhaps I am 
simply bored and imagining complicated plots because I am 
unable to accept something as dull as amnesia could be the 
answer.

I reassure myself - as I return the laptop to the kitchen 
counter to charge overnight - with the knowledge that I should 
know the answer to that in the morning. I did not take the 
pill. If my memory is intact, I can be reasonably certain that 
it is causing my symptoms and not treating them. If, however, I 
regress to the same state I found myself in this morning...then 
none of this speculation will matter. I will forget everything. 
I may not even find the data stick in the hive.

I make sure Grace is settled on her covered foam bed and her 
water bowl is full before I climb the stairs to the bedroom. 

I glance at Henry, who has resumed his reading laid out in bed, 
naked but for the bedding pulled up to his waist, before going 
into the bath.

The sight of him reading - barely halfway through his book - 
prompts a train of thought that continues as I brush my teeth, 
empty my bladder and wash up. Like any normal person without a 
condition that affects his memory, Henry is able to read his 
book over the course of several days or even weeks, confident 
that he can simply return to the place he last stopped and 
continue reading. He will remember what he has read before. He 
remembers all the details of the past few months of my life 
that have been deleted. The memories I have recorded in my 
journal as well as the ones I haven't. If he has been altering 
my journal - and the small differences between it and the one 
on the memory stick prove that someone has been - then he 
remembers what really happened and why the memories were 
deleted.

Someone has been.

I have to consider the possibility that I am the one making the 
changes myself for reasons I have forgotten, either by choice 
or by accident. The note in the folder I read every morning is 
in my handwriting. It is not a forgery. Regardless of all the 
evidence that something is suspect here, I am - to some degree 
at least - a willing participant in my own deception.

I strip off my clothes, folding the trousers and shirt and 
tossing the rest in the laundry basket automatically. I pause 
briefly to note that I knew where everything is meant to go. I 
may not remember all the details of the past few months, but I 
haven't forgotten everything completely either. It is as if 
certain data is corrupted or hidden from me. It is 
simultaneously frustrating and fascinating. 

And the fact that I'm fascinated by it might very well explain 
my willingness to allow this to go on as long as it has.

Henry is waiting when I emerge from the loo, his book tucked 
away on the table beside the bed. One hand is beneath his head. 
The other rests on his abdomen, fingers just brushing the edge 
of the sheet. He smiles and stretches the nearest hand out 
toward me in invitation.

I climb beneath the covers and allow him to pull me into his 
arms. 

"What's wrong, darling," he asks softly, his fingers running 
delicately along my temple. "Do you still have a headache?"

"No." I really don't, I realize. 

He kisses me softly, slowly, as if he is trying to kiss away 
whatever fear or sadness he sees in my eyes. I am afraid and I 
am depressed, but I doubt it is for exactly the reasons he 
suspects. 

I reach to trace the lines of his face. His jaw. His cheek. His 
nose. As if I can commit him to memory through touch. He holds 
still, indulging me. He catches my hand as I am tracing over 
his lips and kisses the pads of my fingers.

"I want to remember you," I say softly, almost pleadingly.

A sad, sympathetic look flickers in his eyes for a moment. As 
if he knows I won't. But of course he does, I remind myself. He 
thinks I took the pill.

'Why do you want me to forget you?'

He pulls me tighter against him. "You will."

He seems to genuinely believe this. Or desire it. Which would 
make giving me a drug to cause amnesia-like symptoms counter-
productive. Unless the drug-induced amnesia wasn't his idea in 
the first place. Could I be doing this to myself?

I am so lost in thought that I barely notice he has resumed 
what he began back on the couch. His leg has slipped between my 
thighs. His hand presses the small of my back, coaxing me 
closer. He kisses me slowly, leisurely.

Have we done this before, I wonder? Is this what we did that 
night in Paris? All the passion and desire of foreplay without 
the need for intercourse?

He pushes me gently onto my back and kisses slowly, wetly down 
my body, tracing my pectoral muscles with his fingers, his 
tongue dipping into my navel. He isn't exploring. It is obvious 
he has done this before and is demonstrating his intimate 
knowledge of me. He is playing my body like a well-tuned 
violin. Encouraging the pleasurable feelings without tipping me 
over the edge into arousal. Still waiting for permission to go 
further.

It is soothing. Perhaps too soothing, I think as I feel my 
eyelids growing heavy and my body relaxing into the mattress.

I am startled by a chuckle beside my ear. "Am I boring you?"

I struggle to open my eyes and realize I must have drifted 
momentarily to sleep. "'m sorry," I mumble, reaching for him 
clumsily. "Go on..."

He cradles my cheek in one warm palm. "You're really tired, 
aren't you, love?"

I sigh. I really am. And it's annoying because I had been right 
on the verge of an important thought. At least I'm pretty sure 
I was, but now I don't recall what I was thinking about.

Henry pulls my unresisting body back into his arms, curling 
himself around me, one hand splayed low over my abdomen, 
pressing me into him, grounding me. "Sleep, my love," he 
whispers, his breath warm against my ear.

"Love," I mumble sleepily before giving into the encroaching 
darkness.