Day 5

I am running, but I can't remember why. It is too dark to see 
where I am going even if I did know where I am in the first 
place. Something is chasing me and even though I am not sure 
what it is, exactly, I am terrified it will catch me.

I turn a couple corners blindly, cursing the way this slows me 
down, wondering if I'm just going where my pursuer wants me to 
go.

Something wraps around my wrist and I am forced to an abrupt 
stop. 

I yell the first word that always comes to my mind when I am in 
imminent danger. "John!"

Suddenly there are arms around me and I flail as I realize I am 
no longer upright.

"Shhh," a voice whispers. "It's all right. It was just a dream. 
You're safe."

I cling to the owner of the voice instinctively, fighting to 
get my bearings.

"Shh," he repeats, a hand rubbing my back. "It's all right, 
love."

Love. I force myself to wake up more completely so I can better 
deduce my current situation. I am naked and so is the man 
holding me. He is familiar and we are obviously intimate, but 
his name escapes me.

Where am I?

The man pulls back so he can see my face - as clearly as such a 
thing is even possible in the dim early-morning light. "Do you 
know who I am?"

I'm sure the proper etiquette when one finds oneself in a 
position such as this is to lie. Pretend to remember picking 
him up in a pub and going back to his flat for sex. But I don't 
think I met this man in a pub. I shake my head.

I feel his chest move, as if he is exhaling a long-held breath. 
"I'm your husband, darling," he says softly.

---

I sit at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of somewhat weak, but 
still sufficiently soothing herbal tea, staring at the blinking 
cursor on the laptop screen. 

After getting me a glass of water and failing to convince me to 
come back to bed, Henry gave me a folder containing notes with 
basic information, articles he wrote for a medical journal 
detailing my unique condition, and John's obituary and 
coroner's report. I reacted badly to these last items, 
stubbornly denying that they could be real. John couldn't be 
dead. I'm not sure if that was guilt or simple denial of a 
painful truth. 

Guilt...it was an accident, a car crash. But were we following 
a lead on a case at the time? Did his life as my blogger - his 
thirst for excitement and danger - ultimately lead to his 
demise?

Grace grows bored of my distracted petting and pads from the 
kitchen, settling in her bed by the sofa with a rather dramatic 
sigh.

I have lost track of time. The sun is coming up. Henry will 
probably be awake again soon.

I close the laptop without adding anything to the journal I 
found on the desktop. I don't have anything to add at the 
moment.

I return to the bedroom and climb beneath the covers gingerly, 
still wrapped in my dressing gown. He shifts slightly, but 
doesn't wake. 

I study him in the morning light while I gather my thoughts. 
It's not that I have no memories at all of recent months, I 
realize, but that the few memories I have are brief, devoid of 
context and - according to the suspicions I voiced in my 
journal - not always reliable. The human mind isn't perfect 
when it comes to recording memory. Even my own. Data can become 
corrupted. Dreams can become confused for reality and people 
can convince themselves of events that never happened. I always 
thought I was better than that, but it seems my superior 
intellect has been damaged by events beyond my control.

My memories of the past eight months are there, I'm sure. But I 
cannot access some of them and others have been corrupted. Like 
a hard drive infected with a virus.

Or like a degenerative disease I have always feared I would 
develop. I can live with the damage my drug use has done to my 
body. But a disease that destroys my mind...unravels the very 
essence of who I am until there is nothing left but 
transport...

No. According to my journal and the articles Henry has written, 
I am showing signs of improvement. My memories from before the 
accident are untouched. I don't need to reverse the forward 
march of a disease that is robbing me of my ability to think. I 
just need to repair the damage that is impeding my ability to 
properly store and retrieve data.

Henry sighs softly and rolls toward me. I let my eyes trace 
over his features. Some part of my mind recognized him this 
morning without knowing why. I didn't know his name and my 
instincts tell me he is a liar, but I know I can trust him with 
my life. I am uncertain he could say likewise. 

The two-day-old bruise beneath his eye is dark and impossible 
to miss. I hit him when I was delirious with illness, mistaking 
him for Moriarty.

I have a sudden flash of memory. Of shoving him into a wall, 
pinning him with my body, yanking his head back with a fistful 
of his short hair. Making him hiss with startled pain. I don't 
know if this is a memory or if it is connected to his current 
state in any way, which is distressing.

If I were to make a sudden movement toward him, would he 
instinctively cringe away from me? Would I want to test such a 
theory?

His breathing changes and his forehead wrinkles slightly. He is 
waking up. I wait for his eyes to open and give him what I hope 
is a reassuring smile.

He blinks sleepily and a smile spreads across his face. 
"Morning," he whispers. "Feeling better?"

"Yes."

He hums and reaches for me, making a displeased noise when he 
finds my hip. "You're overdressed."

"I am only wearing a dressing gown."

"Mmm...yes, exactly." He tugs the sash loose and snakes a hand 
through the opening, reaching around to cup my arse in a 
blatantly possessive gesture. "My plans for the day only 
require you to wear clothing if you must leave this bed for any 
reason."

'You are mine,' he growls in my fragmented memory.

My earlier memory of him changes. I am pushing him onto the 
bed, pulling his head back by a handful of his hair as he 
shouts in pleasure. Is that from yesterday or is it older?

"I would have thought your plans for Valentine's Day would 
involve more than simply spending the entire day having sex." 
My breathing hitches as he tugs the lower half of my body flush 
with his.

He chuckles. "Well, I do have a nice dinner planned for 
tonight, but seeing as it's Sunday I really was hoping to spend 
most of the day making love to you." He stresses the words 
"making love" pointedly, as if he is correcting my crude choice 
in vocabulary.

He kisses me lazily. He has morning breath, but I'm sure I do 
as well. It isn't all that unpleasant. I yield to it.

"Mmm...already had tea, I see," he murmurs against my lips. 

"Er...yes. I found a herbal in the cupboard."

He stops kissing and leans back, looking me in the eye. "Are 
you all right? You usually only drink that if you're not 
feeling well."

"It was either that or chamomile as far as I could tell."

He grunts. "Don't suppose you had anything to eat as well?"

"No."

"Hmm." He gives me one last kiss, squeezes his handful of my 
arse and then pulls away. "Come on. I'll make you breakfast. 
And don't tell me you're not hungry," he says as he pulls on 
his dressing gown. He looks at me pointedly as he ties the 
sash. "I won't have you fainting on me from low blood sugar."

---

He takes a bloody age preparing me, exploring every inch of me 
with his fingers, lips and tongue as if he has never done it 
before. He stretches me open gently, thoroughly, as if I were a 
virgin. Initially, I was grateful for it as he is rather 
generously endowed, but now I am growing impatient.

"As lovely as this preamble has been, I do wish you would get 
on with it, dear."

He grins at me and rolls his hips, driving deeper inside me at 
an angle that brings him in close enough contact with my 
prostate to send a burst of pleasure up my spine. An 
undignified squeak escapes my mouth without my permission.

He chuckles. "Sorry, darling, I didn't realize I was boring 
you."

I groan as he resumes his leisurely thrusts.

"Shh, patience, love," he murmurs, nuzzling my ear. "Just 
relax. Don't think."

I snort. "Has that ever worked before?"

He kisses wetly along the curve of my jaw and murmurs "yes" 
against my lips. 

His upper body pulls away suddenly and he braces himself above 
me. With no further warning, he thrusts so powerfully that I 
yelp, flailing to grip the bedhead. It's all I can do to hang 
on as he continues moving at a relentless pace.

And then, just as suddenly as he began, he stops, returning to 
his slow, gentle thrusts.

"That's it," he murmurs, breathless. 

It takes me a dazed moment to realize what he means. My body 
has gone pliant, eagerly accepting him. "Oh. That's...oh..."

He chuckles and kisses me, deep and insistent, his tongue 
tangling with mine. 

I let go of the bedhead and run my hands over his back and 
arse, feeling the muscles move beneath his skin as he thrusts. 

He pulls his head back, licking at my lips almost tentatively, 
teasing. Then he braces himself again, the only warning I get 
before he switches to brutal fucking again.

I grab for the bedhead again, but my coordination is off. I 
hiss as I bruise my knuckles in the effort and wind up gripping 
the edge of the mattress instead. My cock is so swollen it is 
almost painful, the foreskin pulled back entirely to expose the 
slick, sensitive head. I want to touch it, but I'm afraid it 
would be too much. I am overwhelmed.

He slows again and I groan in frustration, the sound muffled as 
he kisses me, alternating between deep, hungry kisses and 
shallow, teasing licks and nips. 

He's kissing me the same way he's fucking me, I realize. And 
it's driving me to the edge of madness. I twist my fingers in 
his hair and force him to stop pulling back, taking control. He 
groans into my mouth, his hips losing rhythm.

For a while we fall into a sort of duel. My tongue invading his 
mouth as ruthlessly as his cock does my body. Both of us trying 
to force the other past the point of no return first. Then he 
shifts his weight, pulls my left hand from his hair and licks a 
hot stripe across my palm before bringing it between our 
writhing bodies, wrapping it around my swollen cock.

A helpless noise escapes me. "I can't...too much..." I am 
burning up. My heart is pounding.

"It's all right," he pants against my lips, his voice sounding 
just as undone as I feel. "I've got you."

My other hand falls from his head as he sits back on his heels, 
dragging my lower body along with a firm grip on my hips. The 
nearly forgotten pillow beneath me wedges between his knees and 
my bowed back. 

I cry out, the sound raw and primitive, as he redoubles his 
thrusts. 'I'm going to come,' I think wildly, tugging 
desperately at my cock, the fingers of my free hand digging 
into the mattress as if that will keep me anchored. I am so 
close. I can feel the beginnings of orgasm curling in my 
abdomen, my balls drawing up tight. Everything else falls away 
until there is just this, here, now. 

And then a sound outside the closed door pierces my 
concentration. My mind goes on high alert, my attention turning 
toward the intrusion, trying to identify its source.

"Wait," I gasp. 

Henry doesn't react, continuing to thrust with a single minded 
purpose. He didn't hear it.

I open my mouth, intent on trying to get his attention again, 
but he suddenly stops moving, his face going slack. A sound 
somewhere between a groan and a shout rumbles from deep in his 
chest. I hold still as he continues to thrust instinctively, 
clumsily, lost in pleasure.

And then I hear it again. A "woof", followed by a plaintive 
whine. Grace is right outside the closed bedroom door. 

I wait until Henry goes still, his body relaxing, and roll him 
off me, wincing as his softening cock slides wetly from my body 
and scrambling awkwardly from the bed.

I stagger about, my legs refusing to work properly, as I fetch 
my dressing gown and slippers. I am painfully hard.

Grace woofs happily as I open the bedroom door and runs in 
excited circles while I grab my coat and her leash. 

It feels illicit to be standing in the front garden freshly 
fucked, my body slick with various fluids beneath scant 
coverings. But the February chill helps cool my overheated 
skin. I calm as my arousal wanes.

"Your timing is impeccable," I mutter.

Grace ignores me, sniffing at a patch of grass near a shrub 
that is close enough to the road to be a tempting target for 
passing neighborhood dogs. She squats over it, then moves to 
inspect the base of a small tree.

I sigh and scan the houses along the street, idly wondering how 
many other couples are in flagrante delicto at the moment. 

When Grace is finished, I bring her back inside, hang my coat 
and put away her leash. She bounds for the kitchen, where Henry 
is waiting, wrapped in his own dressing gown. He bends to pat 
her head, then folds a glass of water into my hand. I drink it 
in one go - being actually quite thirsty after my recent 
exertions - and hand the empty glass back.

"More," he asks.

I shake my head.

He sets the glass on the counter and reaches for me. I slip 
into his embrace easily, comfortably. 

"You're freezing," he notes.

I bury my face in his neck, feeling his still somewhat sweaty 
skin warm my nose. 

He holds me for a while in contented silence, broken only by 
Grace's soft snorts as she forages beneath cabinets for 
forgotten crumbs like a pig seeking truffles. "I think she's 
hungry," he finally says.

"She's already had breakfast. We can't overfeed her."

Henry hums and I recall the picture by the bed of her watching 
him cook. I wonder if he will be the pushover who feeds her 
table scraps whenever she begs. I suspect he will.

"Come on," he says suddenly, unwinding his arms from around me 
and taking my hands. "Let's warm you up."

---

My hands curl into fists against the wall of the shower and I 
moan, pushing my hips back wantonly. I had suspected this was 
his intention when he was so thorough about his cleaning of our 
previous encounter from me, but I didn't anticipate he would do 
it right here in the bath. 

I can't hear him humming over the spraying water, but I can 
feel the vibrations. My hips twitch in his hold and I struggle 
to catch my breath as his tongue snakes inside me again. I 
wonder if I can come from this alone. According to my notes it 
has happened at least once. Recently.

The water is both too hot and too cold. I fumble for the 
controls and manage to shut it off. I groan as the sounds the 
water was covering become clear; the lewd, wet noises bouncing 
off the tile walls. We are both panting and making small, 
desperate noises. He is humming and grunting softly. I think I 
might be whimpering, but I can't seem to stop.

I look down and see my swollen erection bob between my shaking 
legs, the exposed tip glistening with beads of fluid that drip 
slowly to the floor. Further back I can see Henry's cock 
hanging between his spread thighs, just as swollen, having 
recovered from our earlier activities.

Thinking about how that cock felt inside me less than an hour 
ago makes me squirm involuntarily, the muscles around his 
tongue clenching. Henry groans and releases my hips, reaching 
his right hand between my legs to wrap around my cock and his 
left down to wrap around his.

"Oh, fuck..." I claw at the tiles blindly for a moment, then 
give in with a loud moan, thrusting into his fist in small, 
jerking motions.

The buzzing in my head is broken by a bark.

"Nononononono..." I am so close. I pound my fist on the tile 
and make a noise somewhere between a pained yelp and a guttural 
growl.

Grace barks again and this time there is an accompanying sound 
of nails scratching wood.

Henry can hear her this time. He lets go and stands up. I 
nearly collapse to the base of the tub. 

"I've got it," he grumbles. "Go lie down."

I stay in the shower, wet and shivering, for a long while after 
he leaves, afraid my legs are shaking too much to let me walk 
and not wanting to risk falling on the unforgiving tile. I 
finally manage to slowly climb out, dry myself, and make my way 
to the bed.

I hear the squeak of one of Grace's toys and marvel that people 
with small children manage to make more than one of them. How 
could she possibly have such a knack for interrupting just as 
I'm about to...

Oh.

Henry returns to the bedroom, his hastily tied dressing gown 
parted widely to expose his damp chest and tented slightly over 
his still half hard cock.

"I think I've deduced the problem," I announce as he closes the 
bedroom door.

"What?"

I moan loudly in a fair imitation of the sounds I made in the 
shower.

Grace barks, as I expected.

After a pause, Henry's face twitches with amusement and he 
opens the door. "It's okay, sweetheart," he calls just loud 
enough to make it clear she is nearby but not directly outside 
the door. "Daddy's fine."

He chuckles as he shuts the door and comes to sit on the edge 
of the bed. "She thinks I'm hurting you?"

"She doesn't understand the noises we're making. She thinks 
we're in distress."

He laughs harder.

"Oh, come off it," I say bitterly. "I feel like my balls are 
going to burst."

He sighs, amused, and runs his fingers down the center of my 
chest. "Well, you'll just have to learn to be a little quieter 
then." He toys with one nipple, gently pinching and rubbing 
until it hardens - more than it already was in the cool air of 
the bedroom - beneath his fingers. He moves to the other 
nipple, flicking idly. "We could put up a proper fence so she 
can be outside when we make love and you can make all the 
noises you want, but that might have to wait until spring."

I can't formulate a response. I can't think about how we might 
best reduce further disruptions to our sexual activities. Right 
now all I can think about is the ache between my legs and the 
long, slender fingers dancing across my chest. The fact that he 
has reduced me to this base creature should probably horrify 
me, but I am, after all, human. And a sexual high is far more 
socially acceptable than a chemical one. 

Is that why - aside from the mysterious pill I take twice daily 
- I am currently clean? Does my husband's ability to satisfy me 
sexually preclude any need for less savory stimulation?

"Will?"

I focus on Henry, who is looking at me as if he is waiting for 
an answer to a question I can't recall him asking. My mind must 
have wandered. "Mmm?"

He smiles and traces his fingers down my body, stopping at the 
line of pubic hair and circling back to my abdomen, drawing 
seemingly random patterns on my skin. "What would you like me 
to do? Bearing in mind that we should try not to make too much 
noise."

My mind offers up several possibilities all at once. I cannot 
choose.

His smile grows wider and he pulls away, standing to remove his 
dressing gown, dropping it carelessly on the floor. He climbs 
back on the bed, hovering above me, and kisses me slowly, 
leisurely, as if his need isn't almost as desperate as mine.

I reach to grip the back of his head, trying to pull him closer 
without taking control entirely. I let my hands rest there, 
toying with a couple mussed curls of hair, as he kisses down my 
neck. He keeps moving down, planting soft, wet kisses in his 
wake, his tongue darting briefly into my navel. My fingers itch 
with the impulse to tighten my grip and guide his mouth where I 
am most desperate to have it, but I resist.

"Patience," he murmured earlier after I bemoaned the amount of 
time he spent preparing me. "It's better if you don't try to 
rush it."

And then his mouth wraps around the head of my cock and my 
fingers curl in his hair and it takes all of my self control 
not to pull his head down and fuck his throat. Would he let me? 
I remember throwing him on the bed, wrenching his head back as 
I fucked him without restraint. Did he want me to be rough with 
him or did I get carried away?

I let my hands fall away, reaching to grip the edge of the 
mattress as he settles between my legs, spreading my thighs 
wider and licking delicately at my anus.

I bite my lip, determined not to beg. His tongue moves in 
maddening circles, stopping only so he can bite at my gluteal 
muscles and give me the filthiest kiss that has ever been 
bestowed on my body. When his tongue finally pushes inside me 
again, I yelp.

Henry stops and my head clears a bit. I hold my breath. Maybe 
she didn't hear.

My hopes are dashed a moment later when Grace barks.

Henry sits up, splaying a warm hand across my abdomen, pressing 
me firmly into the mattress. He holds the forefinger of his 
other hand to his lips.

I hold still, barely daring to breathe, feeling like a little 
boy trying to avoid being caught out awake past bedtime.

'This isn't going to work. I've already sabotaged my chances 
again.' 

I hear the soft snorts of Grace snuffling the door frame. Then 
a huff. Then silence.

Henry smiles and I feel my body relax. "Think you can do better 
than that, darling, or am I going to have to gag you," he asks.

His tone makes it clear he is just teasing me, but I answer in 
all seriousness "that depends on what you want to gag me with."

His smiles falters as he processes my words, his eyes darkening 
with arousal. I give him a look I hope is appropriately wicked 
and eye his cock.

He groans. "Tempting as that sounds, we've tried it before. It 
did not go well and I would rather not put you through that 
again." I frown and he kisses me softly. "If I continue where I 
left off..." he traces a delicate finger up the underside of my 
cock, his touch gossamer light, making me suck in a breath. "Do 
you think you can find another way to keep quiet?"

I nod. 

He laughs. "You can breathe, Will."

I didn't realize I wasn't. I take in a shaky breath and bite 
back a whimper as he rubs his thumb idly over the head of my 
cock.

"So beautiful," he murmurs. "You can make noises, just try to 
avoid anything too loud or sharp." He brings his thumb to his 
mouth and laps the drop of pre-ejaculate he just swiped away. 

"Fuck..." I squirm.

He gives me a pointed look, obviously understanding exactly 
what he is doing to me and, moving with the grace of a large, 
predatory cat, situates himself back over my lower body.

He teases me with a couple wet kisses to my abdomen and hip 
before taking me in his mouth. My back arches and I reach to 
grip the bedhead, groaning. He is spectacularly good at this. I 
breathe in shallow gasps, trying to relax into the pleasure 
while maintaining full control over my senses as his tongue 
swirls around the head of my cock, prodding at the sensitive 
spot on the underside. I have never thought of myself as loud 
while engaging in sexual activities, but the effort of holding 
in any possible vocalizations brings everything else into 
sharper focus. I can hear every tiny creak of the bedsprings, 
feel the drops of sweat sliding down my neck, smell the 
unmistakable musk of sex in the air. 

I hear the pop of a lubricant tube cap and wonder how he 
managed to retrieve that for a second before his fingers are 
inside me, easily finding my prostate, and my thoughts scatter. 
I gather the nearest pillow to my mouth to muffle the 
whimpering noises I can't seem to stop. I am too warm. Burning 
up. All sensation narrows to the places he is touching me, the 
pleasure he is coaxing from me.

I feel a spasm in my pelvic muscles and suck in a breath. I'm 
going to come. No...I am coming. My body is shaking and I 
whimper into the pillow helplessly, using it to muffle the 
string of nonsense syllables and half-formed words falling from 
my mouth with each pulsing wave.

Suddenly Henry is looming over me again, pushing his cock into 
my unresisting body. I reach for him instinctively, gripping 
his shoulders, his arse, trying to get him closer. He kisses me 
hungrily, groaning into my mouth as he shudders to a stop.

He eases down onto his elbows and I wrap rubbery arms around 
his back. Our panting breaths mingle as we calm and he nuzzles 
me in a way that is almost more suggestive and erotic than 
anything he just finished doing between my legs.

"Gorgeous," he whispers.

"Mmm..." 

My body is still trembling, my muscles contracting greedily 
around his softening cock. He makes a noise that sounds almost 
pained. I grip his shoulders, my fingers straining for purchase 
on his slick skin, suddenly afraid he might try to pull away. 
He doesn't. He kisses me slowly, softly, unhurriedly. 

My body relaxes and I feel the odd, not exactly pleasant 
sensation of his soft penis sliding from me. He murmurs 
reassurances and carefully detangles himself with vows to 
return momentarily, then disappears into the bathroom.

As my breathing calms, I feel myself sinking into the mattress. 
I feel as if I have been doing wind sprints and I'm sure I will 
be sore once the endorphins wear off. I close my eyes and try 
to figure out what the nagging thought at the back of my mind 
is. I'm pretty sure it was important.

I startle as a wet cloth touches my abdomen.

"Sorry," Henry says. "Were you falling asleep already?"

"Do I often fall asleep after sex?"

He smiles. "No, but that was rather a marathon, wasn't it? 
Think I could use a bit of a kip myself."

He has a bit of hair sticking up awkwardly. I reach to fix it 
as he bends to clean the mess between my legs. And suddenly I 
realize what the nagging thought was. In the throes of passion, 
when I had been overwhelmed and on the brink of orgasm, a name 
had crystallized in my mind amid the cascade of thoughts. That 
name hadn’t been Henry, nor, as I might have feared, John.

It had been Josh.

My mind reels. There must be a reason that name would spring to 
my mind in the heat of passion. But what could that reason 
possibly be? It must be something from the months I’m missing.

Henry isn’t his real name.

The thought intrudes on me like a memory almost forgotten. Is 
it a deduction I have made before or just something I'm coming 
up with now?

He kisses my lips, startling me from my thoughts. I look up at 
his smiling face. 

"What are you thinking about, darling?"

I debate the wisdom of asking him and decide it is worth the 
risk. "Do I know anyone named Josh?"

His smile falters. "No...why?" He is lying. Obviously.

"Thought I was remembering something, but I don’t have a 
context."

This seems to ease the wariness in his eyes. "Someone from a 
case?"

I pretend to consider that for a moment. "Maybe."

He touches my hip with light fingers over hand-shaped bruises 
that are already beginning to form. "Should I get you some 
paracetamol?"

I consider this for a moment. I am sore, but for now the 
lingering pleasurable feelings are out-weighing the ache. His 
comparison to a marathon is apt. The buzz is similar to a 
runner's high. "Maybe later."

As he leaves me to finish cleaning himself up in the bath, I 
recall my notes about a barely legible inscription on the 
inside of my wedding band - visible only in my mind palace. I 
close my eyes and nip in for a moment. 

As I hoped, amid the barely legible squiggles are the letters 
J, O and H. I probably once assumed they were supposed to spell 
"John", but now I see the faint "S" between the "O" and "H". I 
concentrate on the letters, tracing them with my eyes until 
they stand out.

Josh.

I turn the ring between my fingers, inspecting the other 
markings, but all I can make out are random letters and the 
initials TS. They must be names, but how many are there? And 
how are they significant?

I return to the present as the bed dips beneath his weight. He 
draws the covers up and pulls me into his arms. His skin is 
cooled enough to make me shiver slightly as he wraps his long 
limbs around me, fitting my body into the curve of his.

"I love you," he whispers between soft kisses to my neck and 
shoulders.

I know he is lying to me, but not about this. He cares deeply 
for me. I reach to cover the hand he has pressed to my chest 
and feel the band on his own ring finger. I need to sort 
through all the conflicting data, but...it can wait a couple 
hours.

I relax and let myself drift to sleep.

---

There is a hiss coming from somewhere. I open my eyes to 
twisted metal and broken glass. 

Oh. The car. John had been driving and then suddenly everything 
had gone dark.

John.

I struggle to turn my head, to look. But where John had been 
sitting all I see is a body so badly burned it is 
unrecognizable.

I wake with a start. Oh. A dream. That didn't really happen, 
did it?

I blink at my surroundings, which I recognize yet cannot quite 
identify. I sit up and groan as my entire body aches. There's 
too much light coming from the window for it to be morning. How 
long was I asleep?

I catch sight of some photographs lying on the table beside the 
bed and reach for them. 

The image of a familiar man reading in bed triggers a memory of 
him hovering over me, thrusting inside me, whispering in my 
ear. The other picture - a beautiful King Charles spaniel - 
prompts a memory of stroking my hand over soft fur.

Henry. Grace.

Your name is William. You are suffering from amnesia. John 
Watson is dead. 

When did I read that?

I stumble into the loo, feeling what I hope is just Henry's 
semen trickle from me.

I am just finishing washing up, cataloging all the bruises and 
scratches on my body, when he knocks tentatively and, without 
waiting for a response, peeks into the room. "Will? Are you 
alright sweetheart?"

He is holding a glass of water in his left hand. I look 
automatically to the band circling his ring finger. My husband. 

"Do you know who I am," he asks tentatively. 

I nod. My eyes linger on the bruise under his eye and I feel a 
faint twinge in my hand. "Henry," I murmur.

He is obviously relieved at that. He steps closer and unfurls 
his right hand, holding it out to me. Two paracetamol tablets 
sit invitingly on his palm. "Thought you might be needing these 
now."

He is only wearing pants beneath his dressing gown. The smell 
of him - of us mingled together - hits me and the memories grow 
clearer. My fingers twisting in the sheets as I strain to keep 
quiet, gripping his backside tightly in an effort to draw him 
deeper inside me.

I take the pills from him gratefully and drain the glass of 
water. Henry hovers beside me, resting a hand on my hip and 
studying my face intently. "What's wrong, darling?"

Sweetheart. Darling. Normally I would have balked at such 
ridiculous endearments, but he does it with such sincerity and 
naked adoration that I find myself enjoying it and craving his 
attention.

Whether by coincidence or because he can read the desire on my 
face, he sets the glass on the counter, cradles my face in his 
hands and kisses me softly, his lips barely parted. A tender 
demonstration of affection.

A whimper slips from me before I can stop it.

He pulls back just enough to look me in the eyes, searching 
intently. Right. He's some sort of doctor, isn't he?

I shake my head in answer to his unasked question and bury my 
face in his shoulder, shivering as he wraps his arms around me.

"It's all right," he whispers in my ear as he unconsciously 
sways, instinctively comforting me. "Shh...it's all right, 
love."

---

I finish reading my journal for the second time today and stare 
at the blinking cursor, nursing my second cup of Earl Grey 
mixed with something stronger. Apparently it is a blend that 
Henry discovered I like months ago.

Months. I have been living like this for months. Much of what I 
just read seems familiar to me and I have a recollection of 
reading it all earlier this morning, but certain details are 
muddled, the data corrupted.

I try to piece together the events of this morning from the 
data I have gathered and things Henry has told me, 
reconstructing memories as they try to unravel. I woke from a 
nightmare. Unable to go back to sleep, I read my journal. I 
texted Mary, who assured me Rosie is well. We had an odd sort 
of exchange wherein we both seemed to be trying to express 
sympathy for our mutual loss without saying the words outright. 
I note in my journal the selfishness of this. It is bad enough 
that I have to begin the grieving process over again every day 
without forcing her to pick at her own wounds. She is capable 
of moving on where I can't. I shouldn't keep holding her back. 
All future conversations with her should be restricted to 
Rosie's welfare.

There is a lewd picture of me on Henry's phone (his lock code 
was absurdly easy to crack) from later this morning. My hips 
are propped on a pillow, my legs splayed open, my cock arching 
upward, my mouth open mid-demand that he get his arse back on 
the bed and fuck me already. There are no other pictures after 
that, but I recall now being interrupted by Grace and 
discovering she is disturbed by loud noises that are similar to 
distress.

"I'll have to build a more solid fence in the spring so we can 
let her out in the garden when we make love," Henry said when I 
recalled this detail. "But for now we might just have to gag 
you." He said it in a joking tone, but the thought of using 
something to muffle any errant noises from me during sex 
obviously excited him. Or, more accurately, the thought that I 
couldn't help myself from making those noises and needed to be 
muffled appealed to his pride in his sexual prowess.

He has spent almost the entire afternoon fretting over me, 
making me regret my moment of vulnerability in the loo. His 
concern and devotion are obvious, even if I doubt he is being 
entirely honest. The problem is I am not really sure *how* he 
is lying to me. I just know something isn't right. Even if I 
can no longer trust my memory, I trust my instincts.

When I manage to get some time alone, I go into my mind palace, 
hoping to gather more data I may have stored.

John is waiting for me. Not the 19th century John with the 
comical moustache, but my John, dressed in jeans and a soft 
jumper, tending to a dying fire in the mantle of 221b. He 
stands, brushing soot from his hands and gestures at the tea 
tray on the table. "Tea?"

"Ah, no." I watch as he pours himself a cup. "You look well."

"For a dead man, you mean." He smiles wryly, then reaches for a 
familiar jar of honey, adding a spoonful to his cup. "You look 
very thoroughly shagged."

I wince. "That obvious?"

He chuckles. "Extremely." He takes his usual chair and gestures 
to mine. "Have a seat. If you can sit, that is."

"Glad you're amused," I mutter as I go to retrieve the ring 
perched on my music stand instead. I peer at the markings - the 
only legible ones of which are still TS and Josh. "How much do 
you know about my husband?"

"I know he's a doctor and he took care of you after the 
accident."

The accident that killed John. "Did you ever meet him? Before 
the accident, I mean?"

"I don't think so."

"What is his name?"

"Henry."

"Are you sure? I haven't called him anything else?"

John sets his tea cup on the table and reaches out his hand. 
"Can I see that?" I hand him the ring and he twists it in his 
fingers, squinting at the markings. "Can barely even read most 
of this. You think his real name is Josh?"

"I don't know. But the initials TS are familiar to me. Are they 
related to our last case?"

"Maybe. I don't remember the details of the case, honestly. I 
don't think we'd been on it for long."

Right. My mind palace is a fantastic memory tool, but it is 
limited to my memories. This is not really John - only my 
memory of him.

"Obviously it's important or you wouldn't have put it here," 
John continues. "You put it on your wedding ring, so it must be 
directly connected to Henry. He could have been a suspect. Or 
related to the victim."

A spark of hope reignites in me. I may not be able to recover 
my memories, but maybe I can still use my mind palace to solve 
this mystery. And John - even if he is just a projection of my 
own memory of him - can still act as my conductor of light, 
guiding me to a logical conclusion. "He has no family. None he 
is in contact with anyway. Only child. Both parents are dead."

"Why would he change his name?"

"Maybe he was a witness?"

John nods thoughtfully. "That might explain why you changed 
your name as well. You could be hiding from a powerful enemy."

"One that has already proven themselves capable of murdering 
anyone who gets too close and making it look like an accident?"

John's eyes meet mine. Were they always such a dark blue? "You 
know even if that were true, it wouldn't be your fault."

"Yes, but that might explain why I ran and changed names. To 
try to protect Mary, Rosie, Mrs. Hudson..."

"But that doesn't make sense. If someone were looking for you 
that would only put them in even *more* danger. He could flush 
you out of hiding just by threatening to harm them. Unless..."

"Unless they think I'm dead."

John shakes his head, laughing wryly. "You faked your death and 
assumed a new identity. Of course."

"No. That doesn't make sense. Why would I still be in contact 
with everybody?"

"You're not, though, are you? You occasionally call or text 
from a number that is probably unlisted. You always initiate 
the conversation."

I realize this is true. The only person who has ever initiated 
a conversation according to my notes is Mycroft, and he often 
calls Henry instead of me just as he used to call John when he 
wanted to check up on me. Mycroft would know how to reach 
somebody in witness protection. Does that mean Henry - or 
whatever his real name is - is officially dead as well?

"Most likely," John says, reminding me that he is literally in 
my head. "But then the question would be how did you really 
meet? Did it happen as your notes claim or was he your handler? 
Your contact? Did Mycroft assign him to protect you?"

I shake my head. "No. I'm not just an assignment to him. He 
obviously genuinely loves me."

"The fact that he is in love with you doesn't necessarily mean 
you weren't an assignment to begin with."

I open my mouth to reply, but before I can speak, Grace appears 
beside me and barks urgently. I blink down at her and 221b 
disappears, taking John with it. Grace wags her tail and barks 
again. 

"Gracie!" Henry appears in the doorway, her leash in his hand. 
His hands are slightly damp. "I'm sorry, I turned my back on 
her to get the leash and she disappeared."

I sit up, still finding my bearings, my thoughts swirling 
chaotically. Do I confront him with what I know? Am I sure I 
really know anything?

What do I have to lose?

"Who are you?"

His smile disappears instantly, his eyes widening with alarm. 
"I'm your husband..."

"I know what you told me. I'm asking for the truth. What is 
your real name?"

Grace runs in excited circles, then runs past Henry, most 
likely headed for the front door. 

Understanding slowly replaces the fear in his eyes. He nods. 
"Get your coat. We can talk while we're walking Gracie."

---

His name was Josh Amberley. He was a doctor at the London A&E 
where I was taken after the accident. All the events in my 
journal are more or less accurate, but omit the one detail that 
Henry - he insists this is his current legal name - now 
confirms: the man who tried to kill me, the one who 
successfully killed John, is still out there.

"But why did I delete this from my notes? Why am I not using my 
anonymity to help catch this Gruener?" Andrew Gruener is the 
name of the mysterious killer I am on the run from. It rings a 
bell somewhere in the muddled recesses of my mind.

"You do," Henry says. "On the days when you remember. But it's 
dangerous. As long as he believes you are dead then you and 
everyone you care about are safe. Mycroft and I believed it 
might be better - safer - if you were occasionally allowed to 
forget."

I scoff. "Typical Mycroft. Justifies his meddling as being for 
my own good."

"It's not just Mycroft." He steps in front of me as Grace 
becomes distracted sniffing a patch of grass. "Look. This plan 
may have been mostly your brother's and based in part on your 
previous plot to fake your death, but I am far from an 
unwilling participant in this." He cups my face between his 
hands and speaks in a low, forceful voice. "I love you. More 
than anything in this world. More than life itself. I gave up 
the life I had to join you because I couldn’t bear to live 
without you."

Grace tugs at the leash and Henry reluctantly lets go so we can 
continue the walk.

"What's the plan then? Lay low until my memory improves and 
then try to take down Gruener?"

"Right now, all we're trying to do is keep you safe. That and 
helping you get better are my only concerns."

"How many people has he killed? How many more will die before I 
can stop him?"

"You were never able to prove that he killed anyone. All the 
deaths you claimed he was responsible for were ruled 
accidental. There was never any evidence to suggest they were 
orchestrated, as you said they were."

Accidents. The picture becomes clearer. "He killed John."

"That's what you claimed he told you, but there was no evidence 
and it wasn't exactly a confession. Nobody believed you."

"Except you."

Henry nods. "Although I can't exactly fault them. You were in 
the early stages of your condition and your memory was even 
less reliable than it is now. You were paranoid. Easily 
agitated." He sighs. "I was already falling in love with you, 
so I was hardly in a position to be objective, but where others 
saw grief and desperation exacerbated by a head injury I saw 
genuine fear and conviction. I don't know if he killed anyone 
before or since, but I believe he is a threat to you. Which is 
why when you convinced Mycroft that you needed to die again and 
retreat from London I offered to join you. To take care of you 
and help manage your cover."

"You mean lie to me."

He exhales with a soft but audible burst of air. "If I were 
lying to you, why would I be telling you all of this now?" He 
faces me again as Grace stops to urinate, taking my hands in 
his. "You know how obsessed you get when you're working on a 
case. You once stayed awake for three days tracking him, afraid 
you would lose your memories again if you slept. By the time I 
convinced you that you were doing nothing Scotland Yard 
couldn't you had driven yourself half mad." 

His fingertips are slightly wrinkled, I note. Combined with the 
dampness of his hands earlier it is obvious he was cleaning 
when Grace interrupted him. 

He ducks his head, staring intently into my eyes. "Look, I know 
you are impatient and I know it is difficult for you, but you 
need to let this go. At least for now."

At one point in my journal, I described myself as a housewife, 
but I am not entirely certain what my domestic role is. Henry 
does the cooking, the cleaning. He takes care of my every need. 
I write in a journal every day and have sex with him almost 
every night. He is so utterly devoted to me that he doesn't see 
this as one-sided. He would do anything for me - including lie 
to protect me from harm.

"Will?"

I focus. "I don't deserve you."

He blinks, surprised, then laughs softly. He lets go of my 
hands and frames my face lightly between his fingers. "You 
deserve more than I have it in me to give." He leans into me, 
brushing his lips against mine softly, almost cautiously. As if 
I am made of glass. "I wish you could see yourself as I do," he 
whispers against my lips.

Love is a construct. An effort to define the intangible 
feelings of attachment one feels for a parent, a child, a 
friend, a sexual partner. I understand how it works and I have 
felt it in many forms. But never quite like this. As if I have 
discovered some previously unknown part of myself. Something I 
never realized I was missing but suddenly can't bear the 
thought of losing again. 

We've been stopped for a long time, I realize suddenly. I look 
around, dazed, but we are practically alone. It is too cold for 
most people to be venturing out. I look down at Grace, who 
hasn't objected to this pause in our walk. She is sitting on 
the curb, panting heavily, her tongue lolling out of her mouth.

Henry follows my gaze and laughs again. "Poor thing, she's 
tired."

"We've barely circled the block."

"Yes, well..." He lifts her into his arms and nuzzles her soft 
head. "She is still a puppy. She needs to build endurance." He 
smiles at me. "Let's go home."

---

Grace heads straight for her water bowl when we return. I go 
into my study and retrieve my violin. I need to think.

I go back over the details of my journal and compare them to 
what I know now. John and I were working a case. The suspect 
arranged for us to be involved in an "accident" that killed 
John and left me with amnesia. Henry - then known as Josh - was 
my doctor. He fell in love with me. And when it became clear 
that the killer was still a threat he joined me in hiding, 
helping to treat my condition, biding time until I can gather 
the evidence to solve the case.

And what will happen to him when I solve it? When my condition 
improves enough that I no longer need him?

'By then I will have fallen in love with him.'

My fingers falter on the strings. Of course. That's why he is 
so desperate to prove his devotion to me. That's why he only 
tells me these details when I am already remembering them. He 
tells himself it is to keep me safe, but in truth he fears the 
day I no longer have a reason to remain in hiding. He fears he 
will lose me.

'I long for those days in Venice when I could spend hours in 
bed just worshipping your body.'

In effect, we are still on our honeymoon. Sheltered from the 
world. He dreads the inevitable day the honeymoon ends.

"Very romantic."

I stop playing. I was so lost in thought I didn't hear him 
approach. I had been playing Tchaikovsky's Romeo and Juliet 
theme. I look at him holding a steaming mug of tea in one hand 
and a folder in the other, cocking his head in amusement. 
"Romeo and Juliet isn't actually a love story..."

"It's a tragedy, yes, I know. I am as well versed in 
Shakespeare as you. Still, it is the universally recognized 
love theme."

"Is that the case on Gruener?"

He holds up the folder. "Yes. I figured you would want to go 
through it. Although very little has changed since you last 
read it."

I put the violin down and reach for it eagerly. But it is much 
too thin. It can't contain much more than the folder I consult 
every morning before opening the journal. "Is this all of it?"

He shrugs. "He's a ghost. The only evidence you ever really had 
was his confession to you."

I glance at the first page in the folder and groan. "He's a 
spy."

"An assassin. Probably why some of the people he claims to have 
killed were never found."

The spy who didn't come in from the cold. Who developed a taste 
for killing and has the skills to get away with it. My eyes are 
drawn to Henry's mug as he blows delicately across the surface 
of the hot tea. "Do you have any more of that?"

---

We talk at the kitchen table over tea and ginger nuts - another 
thing he knows I like. He shows me the data we have collected 
on a memory stick that he plugs into my laptop. Andrew Gruener, 
it turns out, really is a ghost. His history is just as 
obviously a fabrication as Mary's. There are hardly any 
pictures of him other than an old MI-5 file photo of a dark 
haired man with non-descript features. He is the perfect agent 
- one who can blend into a crowd, look like anyone, or simply 
be utterly unmemorable.

The folder also contains details of the murders he claims to 
have committed. Lengthy accounts I seem to have written exactly 
as Gruner described them to me. Waiting for his victims on a 
rooftop perch, by the side of the road or in a car parked 
around the corner. The satisfaction he felt as he watched their 
heads explode or their bodies roll to a stop on the pavement 
after being broken on the bonnet of the car.

"These were hits," I murmur.

"It seems that way," Henry agrees. "You couldn't find any 
unsolved murders that matched the details he gave you, which 
you took to mean either they were state sanctioned 
assassinations or he made them up to convince you he was 
dangerous." Henry scrolls up and points to the screen. "But 
these are different. These are the ones he orchestrated to look 
like accidents. Faulty wiring, damaged break lines, poisons 
that cannot be detected, an air embolism. You could never prove 
these victims existed, but even if you could find them the only 
evidence you had that they were murdered came from private 
conversations you would forget and he would deny ever having."

Genius. "He told me all of these things after the accident? 
There was nothing from before?"

Henry nods. "He called you. Sent emails through anonymous 
accounts from public computers. He taunted you, but you 
couldn't prove the two of you ever spoke." He gestures to the 
screen. "These were just the murders you remember him telling 
you about. There may have been others. Things he told you 
before you started writing them down so you wouldn't forget."

"But I must have noticed him before the accident. I must have 
been following a lead. Done something to get his attention."

Henry winces almost imperceptibly. "No. The accident was how he 
got your attention. You didn't know he existed before. Your 
initial theory was that he wanted you to notice him. That he 
wanted to be caught. But you quickly revised that theory. You 
think he wanted to prove that he is smarter than you. That he 
could literally get away with murdering people and even you 
couldn't prove anything."

"He claims he caused my accident. You said he confessed, but it 
wasn't really a confession. That seems inconsistent with the 
rest of the murders he claims to have committed. He couldn't 
possibly have known the accident wouldn't kill both me and 
John."

Henry hesitates, his finger hovering over the laptop trackpad a 
moment before abandoning it and turning toward me. "Your injury 
always made it difficult to determine what, exactly happened. 
There were no other witnesses, no cameras. No evidence that 
there was another car at all. It looked as if John swerved 
suddenly to avoid something and collided with a tree nearly 
dead on." He runs a finger along his lower lip, hesitating. 
Then he sighs and forges ahead. "Gruener claimed there was 
another car - the one he was driving. He said the damage to 
your car was severe enough to mask the damage he initially did 
when he forced you from the road."

"He didn't intend for me to survive," I realize. What better 
way to prove himself smarter than me than by getting away with 
my murder?

"No, I think he did. The crash wasn't enough to kill either of 
you as long as you were properly secured and the airbags 
deployed."

"So he didn't intend to kill John."

Something that looks almost like disappointment flashes across 
his face. As if he hoped I would remember this part. As if he 
wishes he didn't have to tell me this. "You read the coroner's 
report, darling," he says quietly. "The cause of death was a 
puncture wound to the femoral artery. By the time the 
paramedics arrived, he had lost too much blood. His injury was 
consistent with car crash victims, so nobody checked to make 
sure there was a bit of metal in the wreckage that could 
conceivably have done the damage during the accident."

I can see it clearly in my mind now. The man from the photo 
prying open the door or simply reaching through the shattered 
window. His hand gloved so he wouldn't leave fingerprints. 
Driving a sharpened piece of metal into John's femoral artery. 
Did he leave it there or did he toss it on the floor to be lost 
among the debris? Was John conscious? Did he know what was 
happening? Did he know...

I lunge for the laptop and scroll up to the murder I know I 
will find before Henry can stop me. 

'The pain brought him 'round a bit. I watched him strain to try 
to look at you, obviously concerned. He said your name in that 
moment of consciousness as his blood spilled over my hand. Your 
name and nothing else. Sherlock.'

I'm going to be sick.

Henry closes the laptop and maneuvers me to face him, cradling 
my head in his hands. He is speaking to me, but I can't 
understand the words. Everything makes sense suddenly. Why I 
ran away from London. Why I faked my death again. Why I would 
choose to forget this part of the story. Why the very mention 
of the name I have used for most of my adult life makes me 
uncomfortable. My notes suggest I changed it because I couldn't 
bear to think of my old life, but that's not quite right. I 
can't bear remembering how it ended.

But it isn't simple grief I'm feeling. I didn't lose my only 
friend to an accident. He was murdered by a psychopath 
determined to prove he is smarter than me. And in a cruel twist 
of fate, he left me with a condition that would prevent me from 
being able to remember it.

No, that can't be right. He would want me to know what he had 
done. My amnesia would have ruined his plans.

"He lied," I conclude. "It's too elaborate. There are too many 
variables to control, too many risks. He's too methodical and 
detailed."

A sad smile flickers across Henry's face as I focus on him and 
he slowly lets his hands fall from my face, gathering my hands 
instead. I have come to this conclusion before, I realize. I go 
back over our earlier conversation in my mind. 'Nobody believed 
you. There was never any evidence.'

"He didn't kill John. He wanted me to believe he did because it 
gave him power over me."

"That is one of your theories," Henry agrees.

"But I must have believed he was a credible threat or I 
wouldn't have run." Unless... "Mary."

Henry squeezes my hands. "You suspected he might be bluffing, 
but you couldn't risk it. You promised John you would protect 
them."

Them. Of course. I had already failed to prevent Rosie from 
losing one parent. If there was even a chance she could lose 
both...

"It isn't about getting away with murder. It was about proving 
he is more clever. I'm not hiding. I'm waiting for him to slip 
up." The pieces are falling into place rapidly in my mind. 
"Someone who gets off on killing as he claims he does wouldn't 
just stop. If he is, in fact, killing anyone. But killing Mary, 
Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade is too much of a risk - too much of a 
coincidence to ever be mistaken for an accident no matter how 
careful he is." I reach for the laptop, scrolling past the 
description of John's death to find a collection of accidental 
deaths I have been compiling - ones that Gruener could 
conceivably be responsible for. 

Henry's hand closes gently around my wrist. "All you can do 
right now is gather evidence. Until your condition improves..."

"He cannot know I'm alive. He has to think he's getting away 
with it." I look into Henry's eyes - a blue so light they 
almost appear grey. "I'll be careful."

He looks wary. Resigned. I think again of my theory that he 
fears losing me once I no longer need him.

Need him.

Of course.

"Gruener threatened you too," I say as the realization 
crystallizes in my mind. "That's why you agreed to go into 
hiding with me. You were in just as much danger as the others, 
but you were more important to me."

He blinks, looking stunned for a moment. "Do you really think 
so little of me?"

Oops. Instinctively, I do what I always do when people point 
out that something I have said is "not good". I try to justify 
it. "No, but people are never entirely altruistic. You couldn't 
possibly have agreed to fake your death and go into hiding for 
the indefinite future - having to care for someone who barely 
remembers you - just because you love me."

Henry's fingers twitch on my wrist. "Just because..." He shakes 
his head. "You really don't understand, do you? I’m not some 
martyr who made a gallant sacrifice. I didn't simply *agree* to 
this arrangement. I *love* you. More than I knew it was 
possible to love anyone before." He cups my cheek, preventing 
me from turning my head and staring intently into my eyes, as 
if he can force me to see this the way he does. "Yes, I was in 
danger, but I would gladly have died for you had this been 
something simple like stepping in front of a bullet to save 
you. If anything were to happen to you, my life would be 
forfeit anyway. But you didn't need me to die. You needed me to 
*live*. To continue treating you and keeping you safe. Taking 
care of you is not a burden. I take the vows I made very 
seriously. In sickness and in health. I am yours and you are 
mine."

You are mine.

The words echo through my mind. He has said them before.

I don't know what to say to his declaration. I don't think he 
expects me to say anything. He leans in to kiss me, a tender 
brush of his lips that seems far too gentle and restrained 
after such an impassioned speech. 

"Do your research," he murmurs. "Compile your data. But do not 
do anything that would compromise you. Even if you think it 
won't affect us here...I cannot bear to watch you mourn the 
loss of another."

This might be the selfish part, I think. He has watched me 
mourn John every day for the better part of a year. He is 
probably tired of consoling me. 

He stands slowly, then hesitates. "Would you like some more 
tea, darling?"

I glance at the mostly empty cup. "Maybe later."

He nods and presses a lingering kiss to the top of my head, 
carefully avoiding the mostly healed scar from the accident. 
"I'm going to finish cleaning and then I'll start dinner."

I should offer to help. But right now this work is more 
important and I can't waste time on mindless activities if I 
will forget all the progress I make tomorrow. He probably knows 
this. "Okay."

He squeezes my shoulder before leaving the kitchen.

---

"Since when do you smoke?"

Molly shrugs and takes a slow drag. I wonder if I still have 
the occasional cigarette as I watch the smoke curl around her. 
Is my lingering craving for nicotine haunting my mind palace?

"Do you have an ID yet," I ask, indicating the charred body on 
the slab.

"You know who he is."

I thought I did. My notes indicate it is John, but it doesn't 
make sense. "How did he die?"

She is frowning at me the way she always does when she suspects 
I am mocking her. "Car crash. The car caught fire before he 
could get out."

"But it didn't catch fire. Something isn't adding up."

"That's because you're not observing," Mycroft sighs. He has 
appeared unannounced, standing over the charred body.

Even in my mind palace he has to remind me of my shortcomings. 

I join him, standing on the opposite side of the slab, 
retrieving the notes Molly has made. 'Male,' I read. 
'Approximately forty years old. Six feet tall.'

I stop reading. This isn't John.

I skim the description of the injuries to the body. Among the 
expected impact injuries and fire damage is an old, healed 
bullet wound. Not to the shoulder, but to the chest.

I look down at the body and find the hole right where Mary put 
it. It doesn't look "old".

"Of course, finding a body that matches your general 
description was easy," Mycroft explains. "We've had to 
improvise on some of the details."

Molly stands beside Mycroft, her arms folded over her chest. By 
"we", he obviously means her. 

"Is his body here too?"

Molly nods toward the freezer compartment. "Already finished."

Of course. It makes sense. Molly was instrumental in helping me 
fake my death before. I would have reached out to her again. 
Except... "You said he died in a car crash..."

"Yes, well," Mycroft sighs. "The pool of recently deceased 
people matching your physical description who donated their 
bodies to science is rather limited. As I said, we had to 
improvise."

I drop the file on an equipment tray and face him. "Whose idea 
was it to keep all of this from me?"'

"You already know the answer. We agreed this arrangement was 
for the best given your mental state."

"So yours."

He gives me a withering look.

"Sometimes you have to lie to protect the people you love," 
Molly says with a sort of quiet forcefulness. I turn to her and 
her eyes bore into mine. "You of all people should know that."

Henry is a liar. 

Henry loves me.

These are the two conclusions I have always been certain of. 
Continuing themes in my notes. I'm not sure if I've ever 
thought of them as being so closely related with such clarity. 
Molly may not be quite the conductor of light that John was, 
but she understands people and she is far more sensitive to 
their emotions.

She makes an exasperated noise. "I don't just mean *Henry*." 
She jerks her head in Mycroft's direction.

Yes, of course I know my brother's meddling and overprotective 
instincts stem from whatever filial love he has always denied 
being capable of feeling. But neither of us has any use for 
public acknowledgement of such sentiments. And I still resent 
the fact that he's probably enjoying being able to control me 
through Henry even as I realize my condition necessitates the 
arrangement to an extent.

I nod and grunt vaguely.

My mobile buzzes, saving me from going any further with this 
conversation.

I return to my study, where I have holed myself up to do my 
research and write my notes for today. I texted Lestrade before 
going into my mind palace, informing him that I remember 
everything and asking for more possible Gruener cases.

'Welcome back,' the responding text says. 'We just have one 
possible case since the last.' He gives me a case number so I 
can locate the file in their database.

'Gruener was in the area at the time of the accident?'

'Can't be certain, but it's possible. Can't exactly tail a man 
who doesn't seem to be doing anything illegal.'

I open the file. It is an accident report. A homeless man fell 
from a roof onto a parked car. Nobody knew who he was. He 
didn't seem to have any family. It could be a suicide. But 
homeless people and runaways make perfect victims for serial 
killers. 

My phone buzzes again. 'How are you?'

'Fine.'

I transcribe all the relevant details into the file on the 
memory stick and clip a rather grisly photo of the victim's 
twisted remains as they were found. Does he look surprised? 
Scared? Why did he choose to jump from the roof of a building - 
if it was, in fact, his choice? Why not a bridge? Did he mean 
to land on that car? Was he trying to send a message? Was 
Gruener?

Another text. 'How's married life treating you?'

A groan slips from me and I debate whether telling him that I 
still have semen inside me from our rather spectacular sexual 
encounter this morning would put an end to this conversation.

Then I remember this is Lestrade I am talking to and feel a 
pang of guilt. 

My thumbs hover over the keyboard a moment before I type 'fine. 
How are you and Mrs. H?'

'Safe as houses. Don't you worry about us.'

Grace gallops across the floor outside my office suddenly.

'Gotta go. Give my love to Henry.'

I turn back to the possible Gruener murder, trying to determine 
if it fits the pattern. I can hear Henry's voice drift from the 
kitchen. The words are indistinct, but the tone is 
unmistakable. People always use the same ridiculous baby talk 
when speaking to infants or pets. The sound of food pouring 
into her dish explains her excited canter moments ago. He must 
be finished cleaning. He'll probably start on our dinner next.

Once I have exhausted the new data regarding the Gruener case - 
this "suicide" definitely looks like his work - I turn to my 
journal. 

'The body on Molly's slab is not John's. It is...'

I hesitate, remembering Henry's insistence that I not do 
anything that might compromise our cover. It is quite possible 
Gruener is trying to get my attention with this latest death - 
damaging a car to ensure an accident report is filed. Making it 
just strange enough to get my attention. He suspects I am still 
alive. He is waiting, hoping I will do something to prove him 
right. He wants me to slip up - to reveal myself.

It is a game. One he is determined to win and - thanks to my 
condition - nearly did win once already. If I want to beat him, 
to stop him, I have to remain hidden. Focus on getting better 
so that when I am ready to face him it will be with all of my 
mental faculties intact.

It took me two years to dismantle Moriarty's network. I can be 
patient.

I focus on my journal, specifically the previous entry where I 
visited Molly's lab in my mind palace.

"You know this is wrong, don't you? You know this is not real."

"I'm not Sherlock Holmes."

Of course. Even though I don't always remember the details of 
the Gruener case, I understand that I didn't just run away from 
London and my old life. 

I wasn't escaping. I was going into hiding.

Which brings me back to Henry.

"I love you, my darling. Until my body ceases to draw breath."

"I couldn't bear to live without you."

Surely it is not possible to have such profound feelings for a 
person after a few months, but I don't doubt they are sincere. 
He may be intelligent, but he is probably blinded by hormones. 
Once the novelty of our affair wears off...

Or will it? Is that the appeal? I cannot remember him each 
morning so we are in a perpetual state of courtship? This makes 
sense from a biochemical perspective. He gets the thrill of the 
chase as well as the guarantee that it will end with me in his 
bed. I get the perpetual rush of doing something new despite 
knowing I have experienced this before. Our relationship can 
never become stale and boring.

Unless my condition improves significantly. Which I have every 
reason to believe will happen given the slow progress I have 
been charting in this journal.

I delete my aborted attempt at revealing how I have faked my 
death again and start the entry over, recalling my thoughts 
about Henry's fear of losing me. 'We are on a carousel, 
following a predictable pattern day after day. What happens 
when I am able to step off? When I no longer need Henry to 
remind me of who I am and how I came to be here? Will he try to 
follow me? Would I want him to? Am I content with him or am I 
simply using him to fill the void John left when he died?'

I stare at this last sentence, not quite sure where the thought 
came from. Henry is nothing like John. And yet he takes care of 
me, challenges me and indulges me like John did. More than he 
did.

I delete the sentence and, after a moment's hesitation, type 
'am I falling in love with him or am I just giving into the 
convenience of having someone who will care for me and accept 
me as I am while demanding little in return?'

I finish adding data to the Gruener file and eject the memory 
stick. 

Grace is too busy watching Henry cook to notice my arrival at 
the kitchen door. I pause a minute, watching this perfectly 
domestic scene.

He changed clothes at some point after he finished cleaning. 
Nothing fancy and he isn't wearing shoes over his stocking 
feet. But the blue button-down compliments his eyes. The 
sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and my eyes are drawn to 
the play of muscles in his forearms as he works over the pan on 
the stove.

I should tell him I'm not hungry and go back to my research. 
But I am limited in the progress I can make on the case at the 
moment and it is obvious that Henry isn't just making dinner. 
He's trying to seduce me. And it's working, I realize. 

He turns to me and smiles and - despite the fact that I am 
still sore from earlier activities - I feel an upwelling of 
desire. It occurs to me that sex can be just as addictive as 
drugs or alcohol. The chemicals released in the brain during 
orgasm produce a very intoxicating high. I may have traded one 
vice for another. But if it is provided in the form of a 
partner who loves me and cares for me...there is far less 
potential for harm.

Love. I am not the romantic that Henry is, but I cannot deny 
the combination of need, desire and security that I feel with 
him. He is a crutch, a bad habit. A brilliant doctor who 
happily provides for my every need and want and has therefore 
become the thing I need and want the most.

"Is everything all right, darling?"

My wandering thoughts snap back into focus. "Yes. Fine." I take 
a deep breath and the smell of cooking fish fills my lungs. 
"Salmon?"

He focuses back on the food. "With mushroom risotto. I'm trying 
to recreate a meal we had in Venice. It works better with fresh 
sea bass, I'm sure, but in a pinch..."

It's Valentine's Day, I remember. A ridiculous commercial 
holiday that I generally despise. Henry knows this, but he is 
too much of a romantic to let the holiday pass without some 
sort of recognition. Instead of cards, chocolates and dinner at 
an expensive restaurant, he is recreating a meal we had on our 
honeymoon and dressing as he no doubt would - did - for a date. 
Perhaps this is what he wore the day we had this meal on our 
honeymoon. Either way, I have no doubt that the last time he 
wore that ensemble the night ended in sex. I've no doubt that 
is how tonight will end as well.

I look down at the worn shirt and joggers I'm wearing beneath 
my dressing gown. "I'll just...wash up."

He smiles warmly and I feel my breathing falter for a moment. 
"All right. Don't be too long. This will be ready in twenty 
minutes."

---

He tells me all about that dinner in Venice while we eat. It 
was one of the few times we left our hotel room. The restaurant 
was nice, but not overly fancy or expensive. Henry may have 
enough money for us to live comfortably without me earning a 
paycheck, but he is practical. He describes the atmosphere in 
romantic terms. Soft lighting. Live music played by a string 
quartet. The way my wedding ring glinted as I drank my wine. 

His description of the events later that night in the hotel 
room are equally colorful. The moonlight dancing on the dark 
water outside the open window. The sweat glistening on my neck 
as I arched beneath him, my head hanging over the side of the 
mattress.

I can almost remember it as he talks, but it's mostly vague, 
brief images and impressions. His arms around me as I look out 
at the water. His intense gaze as he looms over me. Music 
drifting from cafes as I walk along a path. Many of them seem 
to be tied to pictures - and a brief video of musicians playing 
Vivaldi - in my journal.

After dinner, I let Grace out to wee while Henry cleans up and 
inform her that I have no reservations about leaving her tied 
to the tree nearest the house if she interrupts me in the next 
few hours as she did this morning. Obviously, she isn't capable 
of actually understanding this, but it makes me feel better.

There is very little preamble once we reach the bedroom, but it 
isn't needed. We move slowly - undressing each other and 
exploring each bit of revealed skin as if we are mapping it for 
the first time. There is no urgency, even when we climb beneath 
the covers, our bodies entwined. We thrust against each other 
almost lazily, gasping softly between wet kisses when the 
friction is just right.

He pushes me face down and explores my back as he did my front, 
tracing the scars left by guards during that other time I spent 
"dead" with gentle fingers and lips. I must have told him how I 
came by the scars. I wonder if he told me how he came by his.

I swallow a whimper when he reaches my arse and his hot tongue 
flutters over the aperture swollen from repeated bouts of sex 
and cleaning. "I don't..." I mumble. "I don't think I can..."

"Shh," he whispers. "I know, darling."

I can't quite bite back the sounds that escape me as he 
continues to gently prod and tease. I lose track of time. The 
entirety of my focus is reduced to the pleasure he is slowly, 
patiently wringing from me.

Just as I feel the tension in my body pass the threshold and 
know that nothing will stop the coming orgasm, he folds his 
body around mine, one large hand covering my mouth while the 
other wraps around my cock. 

"Come for me, Will," he pants in my ear.

His hand muffles my cry as the tension snaps and I shudder, 
writhing against him as he thrusts against my arse.

He is still thrusting as my body relaxes, his breathing ragged, 
and I realize he is almost at his own peak. I also realize that 
I don't want him to come like this - rutting against me like a 
horny teenager.

"Stop," I gasp, wriggling out from under him. 

His arousal all but evaporates instantly. "What is it," he 
asks, alarmed. "Did I hurt you?"

I pull myself into a sitting position. "No, just...give me a 
minute," I pant. I feel weak and my entire body is trembling, 
but the buzzing high of orgasm is masking the ache I felt 
before. 

Once I am calmer and steadier, I take in the sight of him, 
propped up on one elbow, his other hand gently rubbing my thigh 
in an effort to soothe me. His cock is almost entirely wilted. 
I feel a moment of guilt, but I couldn't remain passive. I 
needed to take back control.

I reach for the lubricant he tossed on the bed earlier "just in 
case" and coat the fingers of my right hand.

His breathing deepens as he watches me and he sinks back on the 
bed, raising his knees and spreading his legs in wordless 
invitation.

I massage the furled opening with the tip of one finger 
tentatively, debating how much he can take. He nods, tilting 
his hips just slightly and I push two fingers inside. He takes 
it easily and rocks against me as I explore his body hungrily, 
mentally cataloging his responses. The way he chuckles when the 
soft hair on his chest tickles my nose and makes me sneeze. The 
way he whimpers when I tug a hardening nipple gently between my 
teeth. The way he sighs and thrusts against my hand as I trace 
the scar on his abdomen. 

He is fully erect again by the time I take his cock in my 
mouth. He flails for a moment, as if uncertain what to do with 
his hands, twisting his fingers briefly in my hair before 
reaching for the bed head.

It takes a while to find the right rhythm, but soon enough I 
have him writhing and emitting a stream of soft mewling noises. 
Judging by the amount of pre-ejaculate dripping on my tongue, 
he won't last much longer.

After a few more lingering pulls, I crawl up beside him, 
pushing a third finger in beside the other two and bracing the 
back of my hand against my hip. This both lessens the strain on 
my wrist and gives me better leverage. It is unlikely I will 
achieve another erection tonight, but the friction created as I 
thrust against him is pleasurable.

He kisses me eagerly, wrapping one leg around my waist, pushing 
back against my thrusts. I thrust harder, crooking my fingers 
slightly inside him and rolling my palm over his balls, pulled 
tightly against his body.
His hands clutch at my back, his nails scratching over the 
scars he was just exploring tenderly, utterly mindless. 

'I could do anything I want to him right now,' I realize 
feverishly and the rush of power is intoxicating.

"I am yours and you are mine," I whisper in his ear. "Come for 
me."

His right hand stops clawing at my back and wedges between our 
bodies, pulling wetly at his cock - slick with his arousal and 
my saliva.

I kiss him roughly, swallowing his groan as he erupts 
violently, his movements faltering. I keep moving through his 
orgasm, shuddering as I feel his muscles grip my fingers, 
imagining - almost remembering - how that would feel wrapped 
around my cock. Did I just come too or was that an aftershock?

"Stop," he whines between messy kisses, gripping my wrist with 
a shaking hand, and I realize I am still thrusting. I stop 
moving, but don't pull out.

As my head clears, I take in the sight of him beneath me. 
Trembling, sweaty and breathless. Entirely spent. Pliant. 
Trusting. His eyes just beginning to regain their focus and 
gazing at me with open adoration.

I carefully pull myself free of him - mumbling apologies when 
he makes noises of displeasure - and stumble to the loo.

I take a moment to look at myself in the mirror over the sink 
as I'm wetting a flannel. My pupils are dilated. My skin is 
flushed and there's irritation on my face and neck from his 
stubble. My lips are slightly swollen. I am sore and exhausted, 
but my mind and body are buzzing with the high. In short, I 
look thoroughly fucked and extremely satisfied.

He has his mobile in his hand when I emerge from the bath, 
snapping a photo of me before I can object. He takes another as 
I'm climbing onto the bed before I wrest the phone from him. I 
see the image of me reaching for him on the screen and scroll 
back through his recent photos. He tried to take a few 
"selfies" while I was in the loo, but he could quite stretch 
his arm far enough to get the entire pornographic image he 
seemed to be aiming for. I tap back to camera mode, sit back 
and snap a quick photo before tossing it on the bedside table. 

As I set about cleaning semen from him, a thought occurs to me. 
"Do you have any videos on your mobile?" I have some video 
files in my journal amid the pictures, but they are mostly of 
the short, unenlightening tourist variety. The bell ringing in 
the main square of Venice. Part of a street musician's routine 
somewhere in France. I have even fewer videos on my phone and 
two of them are of Henry playing with Grace yesterday.

"Are you asking if I've ever filmed us having sex?"

"The thought did occur to me."

He chuckles and reaches for my hand as I finish. "I have a 
couple on my mobile - hidden, of course. I think you downloaded 
them to your laptop, but you must have hidden them as well."

It makes sense that Henry would hide pornographic videos and 
photos on his mobile. It may be password-protected, but anybody 
could crack the password he used as it is our marriage date. 
Adding a layer of security makes finding such illicit content a 
bit harder. And since his password is so simple, it is unlikely 
anyone breaking into his mobile would think he was capable of 
more advanced security measures, which is really quite clever. 
But why did I hide the same files on my laptop? I have plenty 
of pornographic images that are accessed easily enough. Henry 
is the only person other than me who would have access to my 
files.

He must realize the direction of my thoughts because he 
explains. "You  were working very closely with Lillian. You hid 
a lot of the contents of your laptop every time you met her so 
she wouldn't stumble on anything salacious. You probably missed 
some files when you were reversing the process."

And then forgot about them entirely. Simply hiding files isn't 
very secure and they are easily uncovered...as long as the 
person looking for them knows what they are looking for.

Henry pries the flannel from my hand. "Go."

He knows me very well, I think as I reach for my dressing gown.

---

I try three different folders before I find it. A hidden folder 
containing three video files. I play the first one, belatedly 
remembering to turn the volume down when Grace wanders into the 
kitchen curiously. In the video, I am laying alone in the 
middle of the bed, slowly wanking while Henry occasionally 
makes lewd comments from behind the camera.

Grace rears up and puts her front paws on my thigh, sniffing at 
the table in search of food. I rub her back with my left hand 
and mute the sound entirely before the noises coming from the 
laptop get too uninhibited.

There's nothing particularly noteworthy about this video - 
though it's obvious why Henry would hide it on his mobile. I 
scroll through the video, watching my hands blur between my 
spread legs. The image zooms in as I orgasm and I imagine Henry 
watching this in the hospital loo during break - on mute as I 
am watching it now - and having a wank. No, that's not right. 
He would watch it after his shift ended - probably in the car - 
teasing himself with the preview of what might happen later if 
he plays his cards right.

Grace wanders off, bored with me, and I turn the sound back on.

The second video is obviously older than the first. Taken in a 
hotel room. His half erect cock bobs into view as he is setting 
up the phone. I am in the background, sprawled naked among 
plush pillows on the bed.

The problem with amateur porn, I think, is that it is unedited. 
I scroll through the rather lengthy foreplay and fellatio, 
stopping once I reach the moment of penetration. My lower body 
is elevated by pillows, my limbs wrapped around him as he 
slowly thrusts. The heavy breathing and slick sounds of 
copulation are punctuated by an occasional whimper, moan or 
muffled murmur.

I increase the speed of play through an impressive amount of 
slow, steady fucking. Henry's stamina really is exceptional. I 
slow the play again when we change positions. I am curled in a 
near fetal position, my exertion reddened face pressed into the 
sheets. My hips are still propped up by the pillows, which are 
no doubt providing much needed friction. Henry is crouched over 
me, whispering heatedly in my ear and kissing wetly at my 
shoulders and neck. The camera is far away, but I can see my 
muscles working. I am mindlessly rutting against the pillow, so 
close to orgasm that I am probably hardly aware of myself 
anymore, let alone the man fucking me.

It doesn't take much longer for me to come, and when I do it is 
with an abandoned cry, clawing at the sheets. He groans and 
follows not long after.

I speed through the leisurely aftermath. He is obviously 
talking to me, but I haven't been able to make out any of the 
other things he's said to me in the video. I will have to 
locate some headphones and try to isolate sounds later.

The third video is similar to the second but inversed. I 
forward through the foreplay and preparation - which isn't as 
drawn out - until he is braced on his hands and knees, legs 
spread wide, his cock bobbing with my thrusts. It looks 
painfully hard, but neither of us touches it. He thrusts back 
against me, arching, his incoherent moans broken by the 
occasional "please...Will..."

I don't forward through this part. I watch the way his fingers 
clench in the sheets. The way his eyes close and his mouth 
opens with each helpless sound. The way he pushes eagerly back 
into me, uncaring that I am gripping him so tightly that my 
hands are no doubt leaving bruises on his hips. I watch him 
lose coherence - his pleas becoming monosyllabic, plaintive 
grunts. 

When he finally attempts reaching for his cock, he is rewarded 
with a powerful thrust that nearly topples him face first into 
the mattress. He whines in clear frustration and returns to his 
former position.

This is the game, I realize. Either he is not allowed to come 
yet, or he is not allowed to touch himself.

I may not have a wide range of sexual experience - the number 
of partners I've had in my life doesn't even reach double 
digits - and I've had even less opportunity to observe the 
encounters I've had from this perspective. But I know something 
is wrong before I see myself pull out, swearing and frustrated.

Henry turns to me, shaking, and tries to soothe me. We are both 
panting with exertion and clearly painfully hard. He kisses my 
cheeks and lips, murmuring something the microphone doesn't 
pick up. I shake my head and whisper something back.

The next part is slower. Once our trembling subsides a bit, our 
kisses become more impassioned. He moans as I bury my face in 
his neck and curls a fist in my hair. He lies on his back and I 
explore his body with hands, lips and tongue. As if we have all 
the time in the world and are not already desperate to finish. 
Both of us are still ignoring our straining erections. He 
writhes and arches into my touch, whispering my name reverently 
between curses and pleas. He groans when my right hand 
disappears between his legs, obviously pushing fingers inside 
him. He spreads his thighs and thrusts into the air. I am 
speaking low in his ear. The microphone only picks up a few 
words, but it is enough to tell that whatever I am saying is 
filthy. He is moaning incoherently.

When his movements start faltering and his moans turn to 
breathless grunts, I stuff a pillow beneath his hips and thrust 
back inside. He makes noises that in any other context could be 
mistaken for pain and claws at me.

I don't realize the mistake I've made until Grace reappears 
beside me. I jab the "mute" button, but not fast enough to cut 
off my orgasmic shout.

She whines and paws my leg.

I sigh and lift her into my lap. "Honestly, Grace, as nice as 
your obvious devotion to my safety and well-being is, you need 
to learn that not everything..."

I am cut off when she licks my face so enthusiastically that 
her tongue briefly darts into my open mouth. I splutter and 
wipe at my mouth with the back of my hand. She stares 
expectantly.

"Right," I mutter, being careful not to open my mouth too far. 
"We can work on that later." I scratch behind her ears and she 
settles, leaning into my hands with contented little grunts.

The video on the screen has stopped and the final image of me 
reaching to shut off the mobile while Henry catches his breath 
- both of us looking exhausted - is familiar. I realize the 
video immediately precedes one of the images from the 
honeymoon. The one I took of him post-coital and covered in his 
own semen. I wonder which pictures correlate with the other two 
videos.

My mobile buzzes - the vibration against the kitchen table 
making Grace jump. It doesn't seem enough to elicit any 
complaint from her, however.

The message is from Henry. 'Come back to bed?' 

It's getting late, I realize. And it's Sunday. He has to work 
in the morning. I shoo Grace back to her bed and return to the 
bedroom. 

Henry smiles sleepily as I climb beneath the covers, a bit 
smug. His hands snake possessively beneath my dressing gown as 
I press in close to his invitingly warm body.

"I suppose you're not tired after your late start this 
morning," he murmurs.

"No."

"Mmm." He kisses me lazily, slowly. "My fault, I suppose, for 
letting you stay in bed so late."

He tastes like toothpaste. I relax and let him lead. The kisses 
give way to soft presses of his lips against my face and the 
occasional brush of his nose against my skin. When even that 
stops and he lies back, just looking at me, his fingers 
continue to move - drawing patterns on my hip and lower back. 
Sensual, but not sexual. Comforting. Grounding.

The overwhelming adoration in his eyes is tinged with worry and 
I marvel again at his willingness to live like this. In 
constant fear. In hiding. Caring for someone who barely 
recognizes him.

What happens when we step off the carousel?

"Thank you."

"What for, darling?"

I'm not really sure. The words sort of tumbled out of my mouth 
without forethought. For Grace, maybe. For telling me the truth 
even though it terrifies him. For caring for me. "Everything."

He reaches for my hand, squeezing it and bringing it to his 
mouth so he can press a kiss into my palm. "I love you," he 
breathes.

"I..." I hesitate. I may have felt the emotions before, but I 
have never been any good at saying the words. They are too 
perfunctory. Shallow. Meaningless. Insufficient.

"It's okay," he whispers. "I know." He is resigned to this too, 
I realize. To never hearing the sentiments he bestows upon me 
so freely reciprocated. He must sense my distress at this 
thought because he adds "I know you love me, sweetheart. You 
have your own ways of showing it. You don't need to say the 
words."

A quote rises to the forefront of my mind. "Doubt that the 
stars are fire. Doubt that the sun doth move his aides. Doubt 
the truth to be a liar."

"But never doubt that I love," he finishes softly. He smiles a 
slow, genuine smile and draws my arm around his waist. "Stay 
until I fall asleep," he murmurs. "And promise you'll be back 
before dawn."

I nod and press close to him.

It isn't long before his breathing deepens and his body 
relaxes, his arm around me growing heavy. I gently untangle 
myself from him and slip back into the kitchen.

---

I lose track of time as I am searching through data on 
accidental deaths in the London area, looking for ones just 
bizarre enough to be potentially tied to Gruener. I can see why 
my journal notes the possibility that this is all paranoia. 
There is no pattern to the killings I have already identified, 
so literally any death in the entirety of London has the 
potential to be one of his murders. And I can't even prove he 
was connected to the murders he claims to have committed. 

Sometime before 2 A.M. I contemplate the collection of tea in 
the cabinet near the sink. Bags of plain Ceylon, chamomile, two 
herbals - one of which that claims to naturally relieve 
headaches - and good old Twining's breakfast, plus a tin of the 
Earl Grey blend in loose leaf. I contemplate the herbals, 
decide I will probably not be sleeping anytime soon anyway, and 
grab one of the Ceylon.

As I'm waiting for the kettle to boil, I pick up the jar of 
honey my journal claims I collected from my hive, inspecting 
the label my neighbor helped me design.

When the Queen goes above board. Of course. How could I have 
missed this?

I remember to stop the kettle before sneaking out to the back 
garden, careful to keep quiet so I don't wake Grace. Or Henry. 
I gently lift the roof of the hive and shine the torchlight on 
my mobile onto the crown board. There is a memory stick above 
the board. Brilliant.

I sneak back into the house, listen for any signs that either 
husband or dog heard me and, hearing only soft snoring from 
Grace's bed, settle back in front of the laptop.

The drive is password protected, confirming that whatever data 
I put on it was intended to be for my eyes only. The password 
would have to be something only I would know and that I would 
reliably remember. In other words, something from before the 
accident. Probably not complicated. I must have left another 
clue somewhere.

I go back to the entry where John provided the "above board" 
clue. I suspect this trip into my mind palace never really 
happened. I designed it just as I designed the label on the 
honey pot: to lead me to the stick. But there doesn't seem to 
be anything more to the entry. Nothing that would point to a 
password. Unless...

I could have chosen anyone to deliver this message. Why John? 
Was it simply habit? Convenience? Or is John himself the clue?

Of course. 

I type "Hamish" into the prompt and the drive opens to reveal a 
near identical copy of the journal on my laptop, starting with 
the honeymoon photos.

I scroll until I find a sentence I know I didn't read this 
morning.

'I know Henry is lying to me, but I don't know the extent of 
his deception. Which is why I have duplicated my journal 
entries from this date forward here. I suspect he is editing 
the original file. The contents of this drive should prove it.'

Right. I'm going to need that tea.

---

It is half past three in the morning and my mind is racing in 
frantic circles. All my experiments to prove that the drug 
Henry gives me causes my symptoms instead of treating them have 
been inconclusive. But I didn't know about the tests when I 
took the evening dose hours ago. I don't feel confused and I 
did not have any trouble recalling the events of this past day 
when I added them to the official, complete journal. I remember 
experiencing confusion and partial memory loss after returning 
to bed this morning, however, and wonder if sleep plays a 
necessary part in the amnesic effects. 

Is that the real reason I stayed awake for days before? Not to 
track Gruener, but to retain my memories? Does Gruener even 
exist or did I invent him so I would have an excuse to stay 
awake - solving a case. Henry said he never met Gruener - he 
simply knows what I told him.

I look at the pictures of Gruener again and recall the 
seemingly effortless way Moriarty created an entire identity 
for himself and convinced everybody that he was really Richard 
Brook. Was Gruener only a figment of my imagination? Lestrade 
obviously believes he exists, but...is that because I convinced 
him? Because I needed him to play a part in reinforcing this 
charade?

A search for Gruener only confirms what I already knew. He has 
little history and no presence to speak of. There is a flat in 
London leased under his name and a mobile number. I consider 
sending him a message anonymously, but I can't really see that 
accomplishing anything or providing me any useful data.

I return to my as-of-yet fruitless experiments with the pill 
and my suspicions that Henry is lying to me. Obviously he was 
lying. He keeps the details of this case from me most days. But 
now that I'm not even certain of Gruener's existence I have to 
wonder if he even knows what the truth is himself. Have I drawn 
him into my paranoid delusion with me?

As far as the drug and its effects...everything that I have 
learned about Henry, our relationship and these past few months 
together suggests it is quite possible he would induce amnesia 
symptoms in me to prevent me from learning the truth. He would 
see it as an act of compassion and tell himself that his fears 
of me leaving him - assuming I am correct in that deduction - 
have nothing whatever to do with it. He would believe he was 
protecting me from Gruener and from myself. He would be lying 
to himself just as much as he is to me.

Lillian is testing the pills I have managed to smuggle to her. 
Her results will prove whether or not this theory is correct 
soon enough. But knowing that is little comfort as I am faced 
with the possibility that I was given a drug this evening 
designed to erase my memories.

Is that even possible? The drug would have to be custom made, 
certainly. Probably some sort of derivative of benzodiazepine. 
But given my unsuccessful efforts to prove this so far, it is 
possible my amnesia - bizarre as it may be - is real and the 
pills are exactly what Henry's articles and my notes describe: 
an experimental nootropic. 

There is a way to test it, I realize, without having to wait 
for the result of Lillian's test. My memories became muddled 
after a short period of sleep this morning. Or yesterday 
morning, rather. As unnerving as the possibility of losing my 
memories is, the thought of not knowing why I am losing them is 
far worse. I have spent the past eight months a sort of 
prisoner to my own mind. Proving once and for all this one part 
of the mystery might give me a small degree of power over my 
current situation - even if it means proving my hypothesis 
wrong. Any truth is better than infinite doubt.

But first I have to finish entries to both journals and return 
the stick to the hive. I debate for a bit whether I should 
mention Gruener in this secret journal. If he is a ghost, there 
is no point to such an exercise. If he is real, then he is a 
danger to me and everyone I love and knowing about him without 
being properly briefed on the care with which the investigation 
needs to be handled to avoid revealing my current location and 
identity could only increase the risk that someone will get 
hurt. If he killed Mary...if Rosie became an orphan because of 
my entirely preventable and careless behavior I could never 
forgive myself.

I decide to just leave it for now. Henry is right - I must 
focus on getting well before I can be effective in solving the 
Gruener case. If there is indeed one to solve.

I copy my entry - rather brief with just my observations on 
Henry and Grace and my ruminations on love and our relationship 
- into this duplicate journal, adding my intention to test the 
effects of the pill once again. After I carefully return the 
stick to its hiding place, I add a note to the official entry 
to be sure to check the hive tomorrow as I have neglected to 
check it today. I can't guarantee I will follow these 
instructions, but I can try to at least increase my odds of 
finding the stick.

It is half past four by the time I climb into bed beside Henry. 
I contemplate him for a while in the dim light of the bedroom. 
The lines that had seemed permanently etched in his forehead 
earlier are gone now - his face entirely relaxed in sleep. He 
looks younger. Innocent. If I didn't think the flash would wake 
him, I would retrieve my mobile and take a picture.

I wonder how many nights I have spent doing this. Watched him 
sleep. Traced the lines of his face and body with my eyes 
hungrily. Desperate to remember and afraid if I sleep 
everything will be erased. 

I am not afraid now. Whatever happens will merely prove or 
disprove my hypothesis. Once I have this question answered, I 
can focus on another part of this mystery.

I just need to sleep. Only for a few hours.

I close my eyes, take a few slow breaths, and relax.