Day 6

An alarm shakes me into alertness. Was I sleeping? I don't 
remember falling asleep.

As I am getting my bearings, the man beside me groans and rolls 
away from me. The alarm is silenced.

'Henry,' I think as the fog of sleep recedes from my mind. 'His 
name is Henry and he is my husband.'

I remember. The pill isn't making me forget.

I feel a rush of relief and, in my enthusiasm, give in to the 
impulse to roll on top of my startled husband and muffle his 
protests with a kiss. We both have morning breath - although 
mine is masked somewhat by that last cup of tea - and bristle 
on our faces, but I don't care. I twist my fingers in his hair 
and relish the tiny whimpering noises he makes.

"You remember," he gasps when I let up, blinking up at me in 
wonder.

I hum an affirmative and kiss along the curve of his jaw.

"Did you sleep at all," he asks, his voice hitching slightly.

I prop myself on my elbows over him, letting my lower body pin 
him to the mattress. "Enough."

He groans and arches languidly beneath me. "I have to get ready 
for work," he murmurs between lazy kisses, utterly lacking in 
conviction.

"You can be late today."

He laughs lightly. "Oh, I can, can I?"

A furry head pops into view beside us just then and Grace makes 
a noise that isn't quite a bark right in my ear.

I groan. Henry laughs and reaches to pat my hip. I take the 
direction and roll from him.

Grace scampers away excitedly before Henry is fully out of bed 
and I eye the bruises and scratches on his body fresh from 
yesterday as he pulls on clothing, debating whether I should 
ask him to close the bedroom door and finish what we started. 

He leans over me and kisses my cheek. "I'll take her for a 
quick walk. If you put food in her dish and refresh her water, 
I can meet you in the shower in a half hour." He smiles 
naughtily at me before hurrying after Grace, who I can hear 
pacing impatiently by the door.

---

The honey jar on the kitchen table may not be from the hive in 
the back garden, but it is fresh and locally cultivated. The 
thick, sweet syrup also nicely counters the bitter aftertaste 
of semen.

Henry gulps the last of his morning tea and loads his dirty 
dishes in the washer. "I really am going to be late," he 
mutters. He bends to kiss my forehead. "I'll call you later."

He starts to move away, but I catch his arm and pull him back 
toward me, reaching to thumb away a bit of shaving cream he 
missed behind his ear. 

He smiles. "You sure you're okay?"

"Wonderful."

He strokes my cheek, brushes his nose against mine and places a 
careful kiss to the top of my head beside the scar hidden 
beneath my hair before pulling away with obvious reluctance.

Grace follows him and sits by the door whining as his car pulls 
away outside.

"It's all right, love. He'll be back."

She whimpers, obviously not content with this situation. I 
guess I know where I rank in her world.

---

This new result in my experiment - while encouraging - doesn't 
necessarily prove anything. The previous results I've noted in 
my journal are too inconsistent with possible unknown 
variables. However, the only explanation that seems to fit the 
data I have collected in my journals so far is that my 
condition - bizarre as it may be - is real and all of my 
theories about the drug causing my symptoms instead of treating 
them are the product of paranoia or boredom. 

I still don't know whether Gruener himself is a product of my 
delusions or a real threat, but until my condition improves 
that distinction is relatively unimportant.

No. He must be real. I wouldn't fake my own death and force an 
innocent bystander to do the same unless the situation was 
truly dire.

As for any other discrepancies between the two versions of my 
notes, they are most likely the result of my efforts to solve 
the case of my missing memories.

As I am reviewing all the ways in which the journals differ, I 
realize I have hidden the three pornographic videos I found 
last night on the memory stick as well. This seems odd given 
that the reasoning behind hiding them on my laptop was to 
prevent my neighbor from stumbling across them accidentally. 
What reason could I possibly have to hide them on a drive only 
I know about?

In comparing them, I realize one of the files is larger than 
its corresponding file on my laptop. Only by a few kilobytes, 
but it is significant enough that it cannot mean nothing.

It is the video of me wanking. I locate some headphones so I 
can properly analyze the video this time and watch both copies 
with careful attention. This time I can clearly hear Henry's 
words. He is directing me, encouraging me, his voice low and 
dripping with sexual promise as he describes in lurid detail 
the things he wants to do to me.

Once I have watched each copy of the video individually, I 
locate the video editing software on my laptop and play them 
simultaneously. There is no discernable difference between the 
copies. Nothing to explain the difference in file size.

Unless the difference isn't in the video itself. 

When I was a boy I amused myself with all manner of codes and 
methods of secretly sending messages. At University I learned 
how to utilize those skills in ways better suited to the 
digital age. There was very little practical use for it, but I 
did once attach hidden text to the photos of professors I found 
especially tedious on the University's website as a form of 
catharsis. Whether this was how it was discovered that one of 
them was having an affair with a student remains unclear.

A simple hidden text message would explain why the difference 
between file sizes is so small.

There is no program specifically designed to attach message in 
this manner on the laptop, but I wouldn't have needed one. The 
method of using a command prompt to hide text in an image is 
crude and the result is inelegant, but it doesn't require any 
non-standard software. 

I open the video using a text reader. It takes a bloody age and 
generates a dauntingly long document seemingly full of nonsense 
strings of characters. I scroll to the bottom and am rewarded 
with a block of text in perfectly legible English.

'I suspect John Watson is alive. I can find no evidence of his 
demise. No official certificate of death, no copy of the 
coroner's report or obituary besides my own. Moreover, the 
accident report does not seem consistent with the sort of fatal 
injuries described in the coroner's report. I cannot prove this 
theory, nor can I understand the possible motivation behind 
such a lie, but the idea that I have run away from London and 
changed my name to escape anything that might remind me of my 
old life because I blame myself for his death seems absurd.

'Tonight I plan to test my hypothesis that the pill Henry gives 
me is causing my memory loss instead of treating it. If I am 
correct, I hope to confront him tomorrow and get some answers.'

I check the modification date on the file. Last Tuesday. The 
day my notes say I hid the evening dose of my medicine in the 
linen cupboard. Wednesday morning I woke up even more confused 
than ever and didn't find the memory stick for more than 
twenty-four hours. And I didn't find this hidden message for 
nearly a week.

Because I was wrong. The pill is not causing my symptoms. It 
can't be. 

Am I sabotaging my best hope of getting my memories back with 
all my chasing of conspiracies?

I close my eyes and rub at my temple, where a headache is 
beginning to form, all the conflicting data from both journals 
swirling maddeningly through my mind.

'I have lost control over everything. Even the places in my 
head.'

Did I say that or did I read it somewhere?

I won't have proof that the drug is not causing my symptoms 
until Lillian finishes testing it, but it is looking 
increasingly like the data does not support that hypothesis. 
Which makes most of the data I have collected on this drive 
useless. Little more than desperate attempts to uncover the 
truth Henry is keeping from me. The truth it turns out I have 
been keeping from myself in order to keep everyone - including 
Henry - safe. I understand the need for the lies, but this 
paranoia is the inevitable result. I have started to question 
whether *anything* is true.

I review the coroner's report, all the relevant data in my 
notes and my text message history. Even if I can't find an 
official copy of the coroner's report, the proof of John's 
death is too overwhelming to ignore. I can't imagine what would 
possess me to write that message. I text Molly, requesting an 
official copy of the report, then go into my mind palace.

The entire front end of the car is caved in, the bonnet bent 
sharply backward to expose the smoking engine. I walk around to 
the passenger side, finding the battered door open and climb 
gingerly into the seat.

"You think you missed something," John says, appearing in the 
driver's seat as I'm taking in the details, matching them 
against the insurance photos and accident report. 

"Maybe," I reply, even though it wasn't a question. "I just 
need to go over the details. My notes say I've dreamt about 
this many times in the past few months, but my dreams can't 
possibly be based on my memory of the accident. My injury..." I 
feel the scar on my head gingerly. "I must have been knocked 
unconscious by the impact."

"Even if you were conscious, you were concussed," John agrees. 
"Anything you observed in that state could hardly be considered 
reliable. Do you remember anything that came *before* the 
impact?"

I close my eyes and try to recall those brief moments. 
"Something moved. On the road, beside us."

"A car?"

"Larger. A truck, perhaps." In my mind's eye, I see a blurry 
shadow moving toward the car. Too fast. I lunge instinctively 
toward John. "Oh." I open my eyes to find my hand clutching the 
steering wheel.

"You saw it before I did. You forced me to swerve to avoid it."

I turn to the passenger door, identifying the spot where my 
head hit the window. "I tried," I murmur. "But it happened too 
fast. The impact threw me back."

"So there *was* another car. Gruener was telling the truth?"

I look at John, sitting calmly in the spot where he was killed.

"Something is wrong," he prompts. "You can sense it. What is 
it?"

I scan the area around him, matching it against the data I've 
collected. There is blood on the steering wheel and deflated 
air bag. I know there is blood on the seat as well, but...

"There's not enough blood. You couldn't have bled out here."

"There's also nothing that could have caused the wound," John 
adds. "Didn't your husband say I bled out on the way to 
hospital?"

Damn. He's right. That would explain both the lack of evidence 
and the less than substantial amount of blood. But something 
else is wrong.

"The window," I blurt as I see it. "Gruener said he reached 
through the window, but the window is intact!"

John looks at the open driver's door where the window is closed 
and - despite an impressive web of cracks - too intact for 
anyone to have reached through. "Maybe he opened the door," he 
offers.

"If he had he would have said that. He said he reached through 
the window. He's too meticulous to have made a mistake that 
obvious."

"Unless he wasn't there."

I can feel my shoulders sagging at the thought. "He could 
uncover the cause of death, but not the exact *time*. He's 
leading me on. He didn't kill you."

"Assuming he really exists."

My head throbs. "He must exist! Even I could not construct a 
delusion this elaborate!"

John's hand reaches to squeeze mine. "We've been through this," 
he says gently. "You have all the answers. You just need to 
find them."

"And what happens then? Will I go back to London? Will I become 
bored and start using again?"

John's expression doesn't change. "You don't want your 
condition to improve."

He isn't asking. Merely voicing a theory that has occurred to 
me already. 

I am interrupted before I can reply by Grace whining. I blink 
down at her, slightly dazed by the abrupt shift in my 
surroundings, and she blinks back expectantly.

"Time for another wee is it?"

She growls.

"Right."

---

My mobile rings as I'm watching her sniff the base of the tree. 
It is Henry. I am only slightly surprised when I answer and his 
face pops on the screen in a video call.

He smiles warmly. "Hello, darling. How are you feeling?"

I debate lying, but realize this is probably why I am on video 
instead of simply voice. He will know. "Just a bit of a 
headache."

"Just a headache? No nausea? Dizziness?"

"No."

He relaxes a bit. "You're probably just working too hard then. 
Have you tried anything yet? Paracetamol? Tea? Hot bath?"

"Not yet."

"Are you outside without a coat?"

"Just for a minute. Grace had to wee." I am beginning to shiver 
though, so as she finishes I coax her back toward the house.

"Then I definitely recommend the tea or the bath to warm up."

I am too busy trying to get Grace through the door and take her 
leash off without disconnecting him to respond.

"Do you have any new leads?"

"Just possible proof that Gruener isn't the prolific murderer 
he wants me to believe he is."

"Oh?"

"He couldn't have killed John in the manner he described."

Henry sighs. "Well, you always suspected he was lying to you 
about that one just to scare you. You don't think he was lying 
about all the rest, do you?"

"No. Maybe. The way he describes the killings...he *has* to 
have killed before. But I cannot prove one way or another that 
he is responsible for anything beyond what was sanctioned by 
the government. He could simply be collecting data on 
accidental, violent deaths and using his previous experiences 
as an assasin to concoct a fantasy that those people were his 
victims."

Henry is beginning to look worried. "Darling, I think you 
should take a break."

'You once stayed awake for three days...you had driven yourself 
half mad.'

I am on the verge of a breakthrough on the case. I can feel it. 
But my health - the treatment of my condition - is just as 
important a part of the solution. Any setbacks could be 
devastating.

"I will."

"Now," he says firmly. "Go take something for your headache and 
call me if it doesn't get any better."

I nod, biting back the instinct to say something snide like 
'yes, sir.' His concern for me may make him tedious at times, 
but it is genuine.

"Take Gracie for a walk next time. The fresh air would do you 
good."

"Mmm."

"And remember your coat."

'Yes, dad,' I think, then wonder if my parents know I'm still 
alive. Surely they must if Mycroft does. Have they met Henry?

"Were my parents at our wedding?"

Henry blinks, thrown by this shift in the conversation. But 
only momentarily. Like John, he seems to have accepted that my 
mind works at a different speed than his and the resulting 
apparent non-sequiturs in conversations are the result of a 
perfectly reasonable train of logic he is simply not privy to. 
"Yes, they were witnesses. It wasn't much of a ceremony, but 
your mother cried."

"So they know I'm alive?"

Understanding that borders on relief lights Henry's face. "Ah. 
Yes. But for your protection as well as theirs that is the 
extent of their knowledge." His voice is low, as if he is 
concerned he might be overheard even though he appears to be in 
a private office. He doesn't need to clarify any further. In 
order to maintain the illusion of my death, nobody can know who 
or where I am now. Except Mycroft of course as he probably 
arranged it.

"I have to get back to work," Henry says reluctantly. "Call me 
if the headaches get any worse?"

I nod and we both ring off.

---

I think about what John - or my subconscious wearing John 
anyway - said while the kettle is boiling. Am I deliberately 
sabotaging my chances of improving my condition? Am I afraid 
that if I get better, not only will Henry lose interest in me, 
but I will have to return to London where I will inevitably 
revert back to my old life before John?

No. John was singularly awful at keeping me from using. All he 
did was provide me with an alternative. A steady stream of work 
interesting enough to distract me. Henry seems to be serving 
the same function rather competently...which brings me back to 
the inescapable conclusion that I am terrified of doing 
anything that might compromise my life here. Of losing Henry.

My mobile rings again as I'm pouring the tea and I can't help 
but be annoyed at everyone's poor timing today.

"Yes," I answer somewhat tersely.

"Will, it's Lillian Taylor. Your neighbor. Sorry, is this a bad 
time?"

She has the test results. That must be what she's calling 
about. Anticipation dispels my annoyance. "No, it's fine. I was 
just making tea. Have the test results come back then?"

She makes a sound like she was preparing to say something else 
and has to pause to regroup. "You remember giving me the 
tablets?"

"I read it in my notes."

"Oh...well...does it say in your notes *why* you wanted me to 
test them? Did you have some theories about what they might 
be?"

"Can the GCMS not sort it out? I know it's an experimental 
treatment, but I would think the basic chemical composition 
could be deciphered."

"It's...it's not a drug, Will. It has no active ingredients. 
It's a sugar tablet."

For a moment I'm certain I must have misheard her. "That...that 
can't be right." Even if I was wrong about it being a 
treatment, it must be *something*.

"I tested all four of the pills you gave me and the result was 
the same. They were all inert. I thought you might be putting 
me on, but if you thought they were some sort of experimental 
treatment...where did you get them? Did somebody sell you a 
placebo?"

Time slows as my mind races. I never considered the possibility 
that the tablets could be neither a treatment for my condition 
or a drug that mimics the symptoms of that condition. It 
doesn't make any sense. Something is affecting my brain 
functioning and if it isn't in the tablets...

"Will," Lillian calls, breaking my concentration. "Did someone 
sell the pills to you as medicine?"

"No...Henry..." How does Henry get the pills? He must know what 
they are. More importantly, if the pills are doing nothing and 
something else is treating or causing my symptoms...

My eyes fall on the cup of tea I've just poured as I formulate 
a new theory. It can't be anything that needs to be injected - 
I'm not using, so regular needle sticks would be suspicious. 
Unless it is injected and I've forgotten all those times 
I've...no. It's far more likely that whatever it is, it needs 
to be ingested. Henry must have anticipated that I would meddle 
with the pills - or perhaps he learned that sometime in the 
past eight months. My history of sporadic eating habits would 
make putting it in food unreliable, but tea...

"Are you at work," I ask, interrupting whatever Lillian was 
saying, if she was saying anything (I'm not sure as I stopped 
listening).

"Yes," she says hesitantly. "I was just about to go for 
lunch..."

"Can you bring it here? I have more samples I need you to 
test."

---

I give Lillian samples of all the teas in the cupboard, 
including the ones I'm pretty sure I've seen Henry drink in the 
past twenty-four hours, as well as the DNA swab I found in a 
drawer in my study when I was looking for bags to collect the 
samples. I doubt any of it will tell me anything I don't 
already suspect, but I need to eliminate possibilities. Lillian 
apparently trusts me enough that she doesn't ask questions.

Grace imprints on her immediately and becomes absolutely 
enamored when Lillian feeds her some overly crusty bits from 
her chips. It occurs to me that if Gruener is real and anything 
were to happen to me and Henry I should make sure Grace is 
taken care of. I wonder if that's the sort of thing I should 
put in a will or if a verbal agreement would suffice.

I don't know which tea is being drugged or what it is drugged 
with. So after I drink the herbal, I start a new entry in the 
secret memory stick journal to test my new hypothesis.

Whether it cures or causes memory loss, Henry would not 
willingly consume it, so I can be reasonably certain it is not 
in the earl grey mixture I saw him drink yesterday, even if 
that does seem the most likely candidate. If it is a cure, it 
could be in the Ceylon I drank early this morning. If it is the 
cause, it could be any of the others. 

All of this assuming, of course, that it is in the tea at all 
and not being administered in some other way.

I play the violin I found in my study while I think.

There are two main explanations for my current situation, but 
each has several possible small variations.

The first main hypothesis assumes that the results of my 
previous experiment were correct. I have amnesia, but the 
paranoia that comes with my condition ensures that I cannot be 
relied upon to follow a treatment regimen. To compensate, 
either Henry or I has devised a scheme to increase the odds 
that I will ingest the medicine even if I refuse to take a 
tablet. 

The second main hypothesis is that the drug is the cause of my 
symptoms. The results of my previous experiment were 
inconsistent because I was focused on the wrong variable. The 
problem with this hypothesis is that I cannot satisfactorily 
explain *why* I would be deliberately causing my own memory 
loss, much less why Henry would want to make me forget.

I stop playing the violin, frustrated. Both theories seem 
absurd the longer I think about them and yet one obviously has 
to be correct.

I go back into my mind palace - this time to 221b. Henry is 
waiting for me, lounging comfortably in my chair by the mantle, 
his long legs stretched out and crossed one over the other. He 
is wearing the same "fuck me" clothes he wore last night.

"You're still lying to me," I accuse.

"Am I," he asks innocently. "How so?"

"I'm not sure yet. But the more important question is: why? Are 
you trying to protect me from a dangerous psychopath or are you 
trying to sabotage my efforts to solve this case because you're 
afraid it will burst this little domestic bubble we're living 
in?"

He licks his lips as he seems to consider that for a moment. 
"You realize that both of those choices presupposes that your 
condition is real. Are you not considering the alternative?"

"That I don't have amnesia and one of us has orchestrated a 
plot to lace my tea with a drug that simulates amnesia so I 
will forget the past eight months? Yes, I will address that 
possibility once I have ruled out the more logical scenarios."

"Is it illogical? You've already suggested I might be trying to 
sabotage your efforts to catch Gruener."

Something clicks into place in my mind suddenly. Andrew 
Gruener.

I take off my ring and look at the inscription on the inside. I 
thought the "A" followed by a barely legible squiggle was 
supposed to be "Amberly". But it could also be "Andrew". Which, 
given its proximity to the "G"...

Being a projection of my mind, Henry voices the thought as it 
forms. "You have been questioning whether or not Gruener is 
real, but you've always assumed *you* invented him."

I look up from my ring to find the man I know as my husband has 
been replaced with the man from the photos in the Gruener file. 

"What if Andrew Gruener, Josh Amberly and Henry Peters are all 
fabrications?" He climbs gracefully from the chair and moves 
toward me, his voice still familiar even if it is coming from 
the wrong lips.

I lurch backward and hold my hand out in an instinctive "stop" 
gesture. He freezes mid-step.

No, this can't be right. Can it?

I give myself a moment to calm my nerves and lower my hand. 
"Gruener" reanimates, but doesn't come any closer. "The 
inscription is how I keep track of your identities," I say, 
thinking through the deduction out loud. "The clearest 
inscription is the initials TS. That's your real name, isn't 
it?"

His face melts back into the one I am familiar with. He stares 
at me silently, patiently. An actor awaiting his cue.

I shake my head, trying to force the scattered bits of thought 
racing about my brain into something like order. "Say this is 
true. Is my condition part of the fabrication or are you simply 
exploiting it to keep me from finding out the truth?"

"Your headache is gone." He says it flatly, simply noting 
something I hadn't really been focused on until now. The 
headache that had been muted by the paracetamol I took after 
speaking to Henry has now disappeared entirely.

Headache, nausea, confusion, paranoia. Possible symptoms of a 
chronic condition, but also possible symptoms of withdrawal.

"Which is more likely," my husband asks. "That you have a rare 
form of amnesia that can be cured as long as you drink the 
correct tea every day? Or that you are taking a drug that 
causes amnesia-like symptoms?"

I shake my head again. "The accident was real. I remember it. I 
have a scar..."

"Yes, you were knocked unconscious. Probably had a concussion. 
Isn't that what I initially diagnosed you with?"

"The real symptoms could have been exaggerated by the 
artificial ones."

"A gradual reduction in dosage over time would explain why you 
are exhibiting signs of improvement coupled with regular bouts 
of withdrawal."

I frown. "But why would you be reducing the dosage?"

He is thrown by this and seems to search for an answer as my 
mind struggles to make sense of this data.

"Because you love me," I conclude. "Either you didn't intend 
for the deception to go on this long, or..."

"Or I wasn't the one who wanted you to forget," he finishes. He 
steps closer to me and this time I let him. Long fingers 
delicately frame my face. "I want you to remember, but I can't 
bear to watch you suffer."

This makes sense. Assuming that whatever drug I'm being dosed 
with is causing my memory loss, it would have to be a very 
specific class of depressant. Likely a form of highly 
experimental benzodiazepine. If the dosage was high enough or 
the addiction strong enough at the start, the detox process 
could be dangerous and best performed gradually under medical 
supervision. But which of us is responsible for getting me 
addicted in the first place?

"Was it an accident," I ask. "Did you not know I was an addict 
when you tried an experimental treatment? Or are you trying to 
save me from an attempt at self-destruction?"

He tilts his head slightly. "Does it matter? The result is the 
same. And it would explain why I would create such an elaborate 
lie - to keep you from getting bored. I even made the perfect 
villain - one you cannot prove committed any crime at all."

It is absurd. Baroque, even. And yet it makes sense.

"You were my doctor. You gave me the drug as a sort of 
treatment before you knew I was an addict. Or I procured it 
myself while under your care. Either way, you feel responsible 
for my resulting dependency."

"It was my neglect," he agrees. His hands rest on my shoulders. 
"But somewhere along the way I fell in love with you."

"Lust," I correct.

He chuckles. "No. You know better than that."

"What happens when I get better?"

He gets the same passive look John had before - even though I 
know the real Henry would display more emotion. "Is that what 
you're afraid of? That my love is so intertwined with my sense 
of responsibility to care for you that my interest will wane 
when you are well?"

Afraid? Why would I be afraid of the possibility that he might 
lose interest in me?

"Because you're falling in love with me too," he answers.

I pull myself back to reality and sit quietly for a moment. 
Obviously none of these thoughts are based on anything I 
haven't already deduced, but it is still unnerving. 

Grace bounds into the room suddenly and deposits her squeaker 
toy in front of me, looking at me expectantly.

"Time to play, is it?"

She wags her tail and makes a noise halfway between a woof and 
a growl. 

I pick up the toy and lob it back through the doorway, watching 
her give chase.

Playing fetch with Grace turns out to be just as repetitive a 
behavior conducive to thinking as playing the violin. For 
twenty minutes I am able to debate how I should confront Henry 
with this new information - or 
whether I should confront him at all. Obviously there is a 
reason I am hiding a separate version of my journal on a memory 
stick in a bee hive and I don't think it's out of paranoia. The 
two versions vary significantly enough to suggest that the one 
on my laptop is being 
altered. Henry *must* be the one altering it, otherwise why 
would I be hiding it in a place I alone am sure to find it?

Unless I'm changing it once I realize the truth and discover 
what I have written is no longer relevant.

Whoever is responsible, it is worth maintaining both journals 
in their present state simply to preserve all possible data. 
Henry's ignorance of this journal - as indicated by his 
ignorance of and utter lack of interest in beekeeping in 
general - is a variable I cannot justify altering at this 
point. 

Once Grace grows bored of the game and settles beside me, I 
return to the journals. I enter all the data on my current 
experiment and my plans to confront Henry about the real 
purpose of the drug I'm taking tonight in the secret one 
(without letting on that I know it isn't in the tablet as I 
cannot afford to allow that variable to change). I enter some 
observations about the hive and some general data about my 
condition in the journal on the laptop, which I copy and paste 
in the secret one for redundancy, noting that my memory seems 
to have improved with only minor setbacks today in the form of 
a headache that I treated with paracetamol and herbal tea. 

I debate the hidden message about John for a while. It is 
obviously one of my less coherent theories based more on 
paranoia than reality, but simply deleting it could eliminate 
some potentially useful data.

I begin a new text document to attach to a fresh copy of the 
video. Without going into detail about Gruener, I explain that 
I became convinced for a time that John had been murdered and 
have since - I believe - proven that he wasn't. I suggest that 
this deduction may have led to wild speculation over whether 
John was even dead at all, but as I cannot find any evidence to 
support such a supposition this is likely a product of denial 
and wishful thinking. I copy and paste the original message at 
the end and overwrite the original altered file with the new, 
updated one. I may not find it again for days, but at least now 
when I do I will find a more complete and coherent message.

I finish and return the stick to the hive with plenty of time 
to spare. Not having anything to do besides wait for my husband 
to come home from work so I can confront him about the extent 
to which he is lying to me, I take Grace for a walk.

We don't get very far. We stop in a patch of grass by the docks 
and I watch the traffic on the channel as she rests for the 
return trip. It is peaceful here. More suburban than I had 
envisioned the place I would spend my retirement years, but 
somehow fitting. I can see how the thought of leaving this 
place and going back to my work in London once my memory 
improves could be less than appealing. But I can't go on like 
this indefinitely. I need to get to the bottom of this mystery 
- wherever that might lead me. 

---

Henry is already home by the time we return. He emerges from 
the kitchen with a warm smile and Grace bounds over to greet 
him excitedly. After she is satisfied with her efforts to wash 
his chin with her tongue, she disappears into the kitchen to 
search for food.

Henry turns his attention to me, cradling my face gently and 
looking intently into my eyes. "How are you feeling?"

"Better," I say honestly.

His eyes move back and forth, either attempting to judge my 
state himself or simply determine whether or not I am lying.

"Still aches a bit, but the paracetamol helped," I say 
carefully.

He smiles and kisses me in the sweet, familiar way one does to 
show simple affection. "I was just making tea."

'I should have mentioned the tea,' I think frantically. What if 
he doesn't realize I already drank the drugged tea and doses me 
again? "I had a cup not long ago."

"Well, you made it clear to me yesterday that our non-
caffeinated options were rather limited, so I picked up some 
more from the shop today."

Damnit. Is that why I'm remembering today? Did I drink the last 
of the drugged variety over the week-end? I wouldn't think 
either of us would make the mistake of letting the supply run 
so low, but maybe he couldn't help it?

The kettle whistles from the kitchen and I realize I have to 
make a decision fast. I can't let on about my suspicions. "As 
long as you're making it, I'll have whatever you're having."

He smiles, gives me another kiss, and turns to fetch the 
kettle. I follow and watch him take a bag from a new box 
already tucked into the cabinet with the rest of the 
collection. I can see at least two other new boxes.

He prepares another mug and sets it beside the one already 
waiting. The tags on both teabags are identical. It can't be 
the one, but I should make a note to add the new variables to 
the...

Right. I can't do that unless I retrieve the memory stick from 
the hive. Too risky. I just have to trust I will realize the 
omission when I next find it. At which point I will likely have 
already proven that the drug is in the herbal I drank this 
afternoon.

"Any progress on the case since we spoke this afternoon," Henry 
asks as he pours the water, startling me from my thoughts. 

"Ah...no. Not really." There's really no point in beating 
around the bush. If I'm right, I am unlikely to remember any of 
this. "I know that the medicine's not really medicine."

He freezes for a moment. I can't see his face very well from my 
angle and I wonder if maybe I should have waited a moment for 
that very reason. But his posture seems to relax as he finishes 
pouring and returns the kettle to its plate. "It's my fault. I 
was so distracted this morning, I forgot to remind you to take 
the tablet." He turns to face me and leans back against the 
counter.

"Is it your fault that I'm taking a drug that makes me forget 
as well?"

"Yes."

I stop prompting him and just wait silently for him to explain.

"You regained consciousness in the ambulance. According to one 
of the medics, you tried to rip the IV out of your arm and roll 
from the gurney. They had to restrain you. By the time you 
arrived at A&E you were shouting and belligerent. I 
administered pain relief and a sedative." He sighs and licks 
his lips. "You were confused and in pain for days, suffering 
lapses of memory. I should have insisted you stay in hospital 
longer or made sure to set you up with a therapist or a sponsor 
who could have properly seen to your recovery. You continued 
using - experimenting with different combinations of drugs. You 
claimed you were trying to 'delete' John Watson."

"And Gruener?"

Henry shakes his head. "I don't know. Even if he didn't kill 
all the people he claimed to have murdered, you were convinced 
he was dangerous."

I meant to ask if Gruener was real, but that answer certainly 
implies that he is. It still fits. Henry said Gruener first 
spoke to me when I was already suffering memory lapses. The 
exact nature of the memory loss is irrelevant. 

"I've worked this out before, haven't I?"

"A few times. More frequently in the past month or two."

"Because you are lowering the dosage?"

"Yes."

It turns out getting answers from him is easier than I might 
have anticipated.

"Why this ridiculous story about a rare amnesia then? Why don't 
you just tell me the truth?"

"Because you and Mycroft believed it was kinder and more 
conducive to your recovery if you didn't know you had done this 
to yourself. That if you knew what your condition really was 
you would grow impatient with the slow treatment of it."

This seems plausible, if only because Henry's devotion to me 
would ensure his determination to uphold the plan in order to 
prevent me from simply discontinuing the drug entirely and 
risking the potentially deleterious effects of sudden 
withdrawal.

"I'm sorry," Henry says somberly. "I wish I could just stop the 
treatment. I wish I could kiss you awake in the morning instead 
of having to introduce myself and start from the beginning 
again as if I'm in that Bill Murray movie, stuck living the 
same day over and over."

His analogy doesn't make sense to me, but his frustration with 
having to remind me of who he is every day is clear. I close 
the space between us and kiss him gently - just a soft brushing 
of our lips. He holds still and lets me take control, his 
breath hitching as our noses brush when I change the angle of 
my head slightly. He reaches to grip my shoulders as I lean 
back, looking at me with such naked adoration and desire that I 
am emboldened to press further. 

"What is your name?"

He blinks and makes an aborted noise that could be an attempt 
at saying "Henry" before catching himself or could simply be a 
random, helpless sound. "Josh," he breathes.

"Your real name." I keep my voice even, soft. Not a demand, but 
a request free of judgment. 'Please tell me the truth.'

His breath catches and I wonder how many times he has had to 
answer this question. How many times has he lied to me?

"Thomas," he says so softly it is barely more than a breath. 
There is a pain and vulnerability in his eyes that would be 
impossible to fake. He isn't lying.

"Thomas what?"

He inhales sharply and there is a subtle shift to his gaze. As 
if he were looking at something beyond the here and now and is 
only just returning to me. "Could we sit down?"

He is stalling, I think. But I can't see the point of it. He 
can't avoid me and he must know me well enough to realize I 
will get my answer eventually and telling me now would save him 
a lot of time and bother.

He slips from my grasp and reaches to retrieve the sodden tea 
bags from the mugs on the counter. I step back a bit, letting 
him dispose of them and collect himself. He turns to me, 
handing me the second mug - the one I watched him prepare - and 
nods to the kitchen table.

I sit slowly, not taking my eyes from him. He pulls the chair 
out beside me and angles it to face me before sitting, setting 
his cup down on the table and rubbing his hands nervously along 
the tops of his thighs, as if trying to wipe sweat from his 
palms. 

"My father's name was Hans Schlessinger," he begins. "He was a 
second generation Scotsman, born of a very strict, cold German 
woman. He was just as cold toward me, which I didn't realize 
until much later was a blessing."

Thomas Schlessinger, I think as he takes a breath and a calming 
sip of his tea. TS. He has told me at least part of this story 
before.

"My mother protected me from his wrath, but she couldn't hide 
the evidence of his brutality from me. I feared him. Right up 
to the day she killed him." He pauses for a breath and licks 
his lips again. "The barrister tried to convince the jury that 
she had done it in defense of both herself and her child, but 
they didn't believe she wouldn't pose a danger to me. They were 
probably right. She was too broken. Too damaged and 
unpredictable. She killed herself four months after beginning 
her prison sentence." 

It occurs to me that he could still be lying, but even I am not 
a good enough actor to pull this off. The pain in his eyes, the 
quivering of his lips, the warble in his voice. I've no doubt 
that he is telling the truth now.

He smiles then - a sad, pained smile that doesn't reach his 
eyes. "I spent so much time trying to avoid becoming my father 
that I didn't realize I was becoming my mother until it was 
almost too late." He glances down at his lap. "You haven't 
asked about my scar recently. I assume that means you put the 
story I told you in your journal - the one about a delirious 
soldier in some African country?"

I am uncertain how to respond to this, so I don't, letting him 
take my silence as confirmation.

His eyes fall away from me, as if he can't bear to see the look 
on my face, to see my reaction to his sordid past. "It's an 
easy lie. Less humiliating than admitting that I was stupid 
enough to walk into the arms of another abuser. Of course, the 
nature of our relationship made recognizing the warning signs 
all the more difficult. He was my Dom." His eyes dart in my 
direction briefly and he twiddles his tea cup nervously, as if 
he is unsure of what to do with his hands. "My Irene Adler. 
Except I was too naïve to know what a normal submissive 
relationship should look like...feel like. He was no less 
ignorant than I was. He thought he was a Dom, but he was really 
just misappropriating a lifestyle to mask his need to control 
people." He seems to realize he has slipped into a more passive 
vocabulary - as if distancing himself from his past - and 
amends this last part. "To control me."

My experience with the sort of relationship he is describing is 
limited mostly to research on The Woman. But I can readily 
imagine how such sexual practices could be used to mask abuse.

"He was very skilled in the art of inflicting damage that 
wouldn't leave lasting marks. Until the day I threatened to 
leave him." He stops fussing with the cup. "I'm actually lucky. 
He threatened to castrate me, but I was able to beg him off 
it."

I flinch instinctively.

"I managed to escape eventually, of course. Changed my name. 
Joined MSF." He takes a slow breath. "I lived in fear that he 
would find me for years. Until I learned that he had died of a 
heart attack while I was away."

Something about this last part doesn't quite seem right, but I 
have no doubt the rest is true. And I can hardly blame him for 
hiding this from me if it meant avoiding having to relive this 
trauma.

He takes another sip of his tea. "You asked me why I would 
voluntarily go into hiding with you - change my name and live 
in constant fear of being discovered. It's because I've done it 
before."

I stare at the fading bruise around his eye and think about how 
he described the incident that caused it in my journal. I was 
delirious with what was obviously symptoms of withdrawal. I 
lashed out - mistaking him for Moriarty. Certainly it was an 
accident, but how must he have reacted to being struck by 
someone he loves?

And it wouldn't have been the first time, I realize, recalling 
my descriptions of the days in hospital after the accident. He 
is probably accustomed to me becoming violent when I am off my 
head. This knowledge is not the least bit reassuring. 

I have a brief flash of memory - shoving him onto the bed, 
pulling his hair until he cries out. Am I enabling his 
masochistic tendencies?

He takes my hand suddenly with a soft "look at me." His eyes 
are pained, tears hovering in the corners. "There is a reason I 
don't like telling you this. You are better than any man I've 
ever known - kinder, gentler - and I don't want you to treat me 
as if I am fragile or broken. I know it's not fair for me to 
keep my past hidden from you, but this way I can pretend it 
didn't happen. I feel like I can erase the memories and make 
new, happier ones." His other hand reaches for my face, his 
fingers delicately brushing my left cheekbone. "It isn't the 
only way I have taken advantage of your condition to alter 
unpleasant memories."

"The altercation with the neighbor," I say, recalling the 
theory both Lillian and I voiced in my secret journal.

He nods. "You rarely have cause to see him, so it was an easy 
lie. And even though you forgave me, I couldn't bear to have 
you remember how I lashed out in the heat of the moment." A 
tear breaks free and spills down his cheek. "I couldn't bear 
the thought that a part of my father could still be ingrained 
so deeply inside me that I can never escape it."

I pull him into my arms instinctively and feel his breath 
hitch.

"I love you," he chokes out, his voice strained. "So much that 
it hurts. I couldn't bear it if I lost you."

He has told me his real name before. But I wonder if he has 
done it with this much honesty. I have no doubt of the veracity 
of the story he has told me - save perhaps for a small, 
possibly insignificant part of it. It is not the sort of tale 
one would invent.

Grace woofs from close by suddenly, startling me. I didn't hear 
her approach. Henry pries himself from me and looks down at her 
pawing at his leg. 

"What is it, sweetheart," he asks, his voice still raw. "Are 
you hungry?"

I watch her lick his hand, whining, and realize what she is 
really communicating. "She senses your distress."

His mouth falls open a bit in surprise and he bends toward her, 
murmuring reassurances.

Grace's reaction reinforces my instincts. While dogs may not 
have the higher order thinking skills required to tell truth 
from lie, they can tell the difference between artificial and 
genuine emotion. Grace was alarmed when she believed me to be 
in pain, but as far as I can tell she was easily reassured that 
I wasn't truly in distress. Now, even when Henry tries to 
console her, she remains at his side, offering comfort the only 
way she knows how.

"I should get started on dinner," he says suddenly, wiping 
hastily at his cheeks.

"I'm not hungry," I protest reflexively.

He gives me a look I am not unfamiliar with. "Have you had 
anything besides tea since breakfast?"

I don't answer.

"Right. I'm not terribly hungry either, but we should eat 
something. Why don't we see if we can finish some of the 
leftovers in the fridge?"

I wonder if he would bother at all if it weren't for his desire 
to take care of me. To prove to himself - if no one else - that 
he is nothing like the men he is running from, literally or 
figuratively. There is no sense denying him this small victory.

"All right."

---

While Henry is readying himself - and Grace - for bed, I return 
to my laptop. I cannot compromise the data on the memory stick 
by retrieving it now and risk revealing its location, but the 
hidden message on the video has opened up new possibilities. No 
doubt, that was my intention when I created the message.

Even though I believe him, I do a search to verify his story. 
Hans Schlessinger was, in fact, the subject of a homicide 
investigation just over twenty years ago. His wife Sarah was 
found guilty and sentenced to life in prison, of which she 
served four months before fashioning a weapon and slicing open 
her carotid artery.

How awful must her life have been to so violently orphan her 
young child? Or was she too broken to understand the 
consequences of her actions? She had, after all, spent at least 
a decade bearing the brunt of her abusers' rage in order to 
protect her son, only to be handed a verdict that would 
separate him from her indefinitely. Perhaps she believed it 
would be better he lost both his parents than to feel 
obligations toward one society had judged a monster.

There are no records of Thomas Schlessinger after that. No 
doubt he took his adopted family's name. I wonder if he took 
his ex's name as well. Details of that relationship are 
unlikely to be found as easily.

All of this explains the meager information I have on Josh 
Amberley before his time with MSF.

I create a file with a brief summary of Henry's story and links 
to the documents I have just found.

'His past has made him distrustful,' I write. 'Guarded. Lying 
may simply be a familiar means of protection that comes as 
naturally to him as breathing. But his fear of becoming his 
father is as genuine as his obvious love for me.'

I realize with sudden clarity that his overly effusive 
declarations of adoration make sense as well in the context of 
his past abuse. When one has spent the majority of one's life 
suffering at the hands of those closest to them, simple 
kindness can be intoxicating.

I attach the text to the second video - the one where I make 
him come untouched. This too, I see in a new light. Does he 
want me to dominate him sexually? Would he rather be the one in 
control? Is he already in control? Or does his previous 
experience make such power dynamics repulsive to him now?

It takes me longer to decide what to write in the official 
journal entry for today. The one Henry might read. The one one 
of us might edit later.

'Henry told me about his past,' I write. 'The fact that there 
is nothing in my previous notes about it I can only attribute 
to an effort to spare him the pain of re-living it. But I now 
believe this to be based on faulty logic that could potentially 
cause even more pain when I inevitably question him about it.'

I will not stop trying to uncover the truth. If he knows me as 
well as he claims to, he will realize this.

I hesitate a moment, then begin typing again.

'He is a survivor of abuse. He believes telling me this will 
make him appear weak in my eyes or prompt me to treat him as if 
he has been damaged by his abusers and is now easily broken. A 
victim. But he is stronger than he thinks he is. What he 
experienced could easily and justifiably have left him bitter 
and cynical - distrustful especially of the men closest to him. 
Yet his love for me is whole-hearted and genuine. He clearly 
has complete trust in me, which is probably why I instinctively 
trust him as well, despite knowing that he is keeping secrets 
from me. He spoils me with all the love which he was once 
deprived and expects little to nothing in return. He deserves 
better than I can give, yet he has chosen me. And he fears the 
day my memory improves enough that I will no longer need him as 
much as he needs me. He hopes that by then I will love him as 
deeply as he already loves me. But how can I love a man I 
cannot trust to tell me the truth?'

I save the journal and leave the laptop on the kitchen counter 
to charge.

I find Henry sitting in bed, wrapped in a dressing gown, 
reading, Grace curled beside his hip.

"I see we've already given up the rule about her being on the 
bed," I note.

He glances down at her and smiles fondly. "She has been stuck 
to my side since dinner. I didn't have the heart to say no to 
her."

Of course he didn't. Honestly, I'm surprised it took this long 
to break his resolve.

I nip into the loo to wash up and strip down to my pants. As I 
am brushing my teeth, I hear Henry's voice drift from the 
bedroom. I still and practically hold my breath in an attempt 
to make out the words. All I hear clearly is "daddy", but that 
and the tone is enough for me to know he is talking to Grace.

When I emerge from the bath, he is laying down - his book 
returned to the nightstand - one hand resting on her back. She 
lifts her head at the sight of me and wags her tail. I try to 
crawl beneath the covers without disturbing her, but she jumps 
up and scampers from the bed before I can stop her.

Henry chuckles. "It's your turn."

"My turn for what?"

"To stand guard over me, I suppose. I assume she believes she 
has just left me in your capable hands."

"More likely she thought the bed was too crowded with all three 
of us in it, but considering her behavior these past few hours 
I suppose anything is possible." I settle beneath the covers, 
facing him, close enough to feel the heat of his body.

"I can always count on you to see things rationally."

"Sorry," I apologize instinctively. In this context, 
rationality usually equals things like "cold" or "machine-
like".

"No. I can sometimes be irrational. Too much of a romantic. We 
balance each other out."

I stare at him as the significance of his words sinks in. He 
loves me for who I am, not in spite of it. He turns what most 
people see as flaws that need fixing into a strength that 
provides a valuable perspective.

I was wrong when I assumed I am getting more out of our 
relationship than he is. It may seem imbalanced simply because 
the ways it is benefiting me are more obvious and tangible, but 
that doesn't mean he isn't equally benefiting in ways that are 
less tangible.

'We are perfect for each other.'

The sudden clarity of the realization I've been on the verge of 
for hours stuns me. Henry is everything John was to me and 
everything he wasn't. A doctor. A friend. A lover. A provider 
for the needs of both my transport and my mind. I am happier 
and healthier than I have been in ages because of him, despite 
the possible looming threat and all the lies keeping it at bay.

I reach to trace his features with light fingers. The faint 
lines at the corner of his eyes. The arch of his cheekbone, 
still darkened by the bruise. His lips part as I run my thumb 
over the small depression in his chin and I lean in, brushing 
my lips against his softly. He makes a tiny, helpless sound but 
doesn't move, content to let me have control.

He trusts me.

"What do you want me to call you," I whisper.

His breath catches and his lips quiver before he answers 
"Henry." 

Of course. Why wouldn't he favor the name he chose when he went 
into hiding with me? He is just as keen to delete the bad 
memories of his past as I allegedly was when I started taking 
the drug that is making me forget. Except I am proof that you 
can't escape your memories. All I have done is make it 
difficult to form new memories.

I shift my body closer to his and kiss him again - a little 
deeper this time, more confident. He reaches to cradle my head, 
his fingers twisting in the hair at the base of my skull. But 
he doesn't try to pull me any closer. Doesn't try to guide me 
or take even the smallest amount of control. He is simply 
encouraging me. 

A thought occurs to me suddenly and I pull away, leaping from 
the bed. He whines a bit in displeasure. 

"Hang on..."

I close the bedroom door in case Grace decides to try to return 
and arrange my mobile on the nightstand. "I want to remember 
this," I explain as I tap the record button.

His eyes darken a bit as his pupils dilate with arousal and he 
nods, watching with rapt attention as I remove my pants and 
crawl back onto the bed naked. I press him onto his back and 
run my hands over his bare torso, feeling his ribs expand with 
his deepening breaths.

My lips follow my hands, mapping the ridges of muscle in his 
chest, tracing over the scar on his abdomen. He remains quiet 
but for the occasional hitch in his breathing. I move slowly, 
methodically, and by the time I reach his pants the material is 
stretched over a prominent bulge that has to be growing 
uncomfortable. I peel them off and toss them unceremoniously to 
the floor. Then I take the head of his cock in my mouth without 
warning, savoring the startled gasp and following soft groan he 
emits. I take him as deeply as I am able and wrap my hand 
around the rest.

"Oh," he breathes periodically as I work him to full erection. 
"Oh, fuck...yes...Will...yes..."

The noises he is making, combined with the feel of him swelling 
on my tongue, the taste of his aroused emissions, the small, 
jerking motions of his hips as he struggles to not simply 
thrust down my throat, all serve to heighten my own arousal.

I pull off him slowly after a few minutes and sit back on my 
heels, rubbing the insides of his thighs to calm him a bit as I 
take in the sight of him. He is gripping the bed head loosely, 
having obviously been recently clutching it far more tightly. 
His skin is flushed and he has a relaxed, almost dazed 
expression on his face. His cock lies heavy on his abdomen, a 
small pool of moisture forming beneath it. I pinch my thumb and 
forefinger delicately around the crown, gently manipulating the 
foreskin until another bead of moisture emerges from the tip. 
He squirms and makes a few choked off sounds that might be 
aborted attempts at words, his fingers tightening on the bed 
head again.

I could finish him like this. It wouldn't take very long if 
I've judged his state of arousal correctly. Then he can return 
the favor. My cock twitches at the thought of him sucking me 
off, all rumpled and exhausted but still so eager and pliant.

Alternatively, I could fuck him. No doubt he would let me. 
Or...

I climb from the bed again and fumble for the lubricant I 
vaguely remember seeing in the dresser. His eyes follow me as I 
climb back beside him, his legs starting to come up to make 
room for me between them. I shake my head and he stops moving. 
I squeeze a generous amount of lube onto my palm and let it 
warm before wrapping my hand around him, giving a few careful 
pulls, trying to keep my touch light.

He moans quietly as I straddle him and holds his breath as I 
guide his cock into position. I relax and slowly impale myself, 
feeling my muscles twitch a bit at the sudden invasion before 
giving way. I rest a moment when I can go no further, giving my 
body time to adjust. Not that I really need it as my body is 
clearly used to this, despite the substantial girth of his 
cock.

"Oh, god, Will," he breathes. He reaches for me, pulling me 
down so he can kiss me hungrily. I let him for a minute, 
wondering if the video is picking up the wet sounds of the kiss 
or the noises he is making that aren't quite whimpers.

When I pull back, I guide his hands to my hips, silently 
encouraging him to hold tight as I start to move. I brace my 
hands on his chest and roll my hips slowly, languidly. Not 
really thrusting so much as creating friction. Feeling the 
muscles surrounding his cock loosen and allow him deeper.

"Fuck," he mutters. "You are so beautiful." There is genuine 
wonder in his eyes. As if he still can't quite believe we are 
doing this.

I sit up straighter and try to catalog everything about this 
moment. The sight of him sweaty and breathless beneath me, his 
open and reverent expression, the weight of him inside me, the 
heat, the fullness, the building pressure as I move.

I chose this position deliberately. First, because I wanted to 
watch his face and second, because even though he is the one 
penetrating me, I am in almost full control. It was the only 
position I could think of (in my admittedly limited repertoire) 
where the balance of power between us is essentially equal. 

I see his intention before his right hand leaves my hip to 
reach for my cock. I stop him, silently returning his hand to 
position. He makes a small noise of frustration, but doesn't 
resist me.

Obviously no longer content with remaining passive, he raises 
his knees, bracing his feet on the bed, and starts thrusting up 
to meet me. My rhythm falters and I brace my palms on his chest 
again, meeting his thrusts. The slick noise our bodies make 
repeatedly on impact is so loud that the microphone has to be 
picking it up. Thoughts of bruising and soreness from too much 
sex flit through my mind briefly, but I shove them aside. 'Let 
it hurt tomorrow,' I think. 'Maybe that will help me remember.'

I can see he is getting close but straining to hold back. The 
desperation in his eyes is bordering on agony. "Let go," I 
gasp. "I want you to come."

He makes a half swallowed groaning noise that is almost a 
growl. It is so primal that my body responds instinctively, 
shuddering, a tiny whimper escaping my own mouth before I can 
stop it. I can't hold on any longer myself, but I need to see 
him give in first.

It only takes a few more thrusts before his back arches, his 
face going slack, his mouth open in a silent cry.

'I did this to him,' I think heatedly and I reach for my cock, 
pulling frantically. 

His eyes refocus on me as his awareness returns and I just see 
a flash of a smile before my own orgasm overwhelms me and I 
have to close my eyes.

Grace is barking and scratching at the door and I realize too 
late that I must have shouted. I groan, which doesn't exactly 
discourage her.

Henry carefully maneuvers me off of him and I swallow another 
groan as his soft cock slips free wetly. "I've got it," he says 
between placating kisses.

I don't particularly feel like moving yet, so I don't protest. 
I close my eyes and listen to him fumble about a bit before 
opening the bedroom door and reassuring Grace that he's fine.

I shiver as the formerly pleasantly cool air of the room begins 
to feel downright cold. I'm beginning to feel uncomfortably 
sticky. I should wash up and turn the camera off.

The camera. I almost forgot about the camera.

I open my eyes and stare at the little lens of my mobile. Video 
can never perfectly capture a memory. This video may have 
captured the look of wonder on Henry's face, but it couldn't 
have caught the nuance. The pain and gratitude in his eyes. The 
understanding that this was about more than just sex.

Henry picks up the mobile as he returns to the bed, tapping the 
screen a few times. I have a moment of worry that he is 
deleting the video, but I can't see any reason why he would. 
Unless I said the wrong name during climax. I'm pretty 
confident I couldn't have made that mistake.

He climbs on the bed, maneuvering me onto my back and spreading 
my legs. I wonder if he's really going to try to have another 
go so soon.

"No," I mumble. "I can't..." That sounded more pathetic and 
whingeing than I would have liked.

"Did I hurt you?" The genuine worry in his voice and the gentle 
fingers prodding tentatively at my swollen anus confirm that he 
is just checking for tearing.

I relax. "No. Just thought you were trying for another go."

He laughs. "No, I may be younger than you, but there are limits 
to my stamina." He touches my hip carefully. "You're going to 
have a bruise here," he murmurs.

"Good."

He smiles and reaches for my hand, wincing as he realizes it is 
still covered in lubricant and drying semen. "I'll get a 
flannel."

"I can..."

"No. Stay there. You look knackered."

I can't really argue with that, nor do I particularly feel like 
getting out of bed.

As he disappears into the loo, I reach for my mobile with my 
relatively clean hand. The video is intact. He was sending it 
to his own mobile. Of course. 

I set my mobile back on the stand and lie back, closing my 
eyes. I pop into my mind palace just long enough to retrieve 
the wedding ring, reading the inscription and trying to burn 
the letters into my mind. TS. Thomas Schlessinger. Josh 
Amberley. Gruener.

No. I don't know that the G stands for Gruener. Nor do I 
understand its presence here if Gruener proves to be real. I 
debate erasing the "G" entirely, but there must have been a 
reason I put it there in the first place. Maybe I will figure 
it out later. For now, I leave the letter untouched. 

I open my eyes as Henry returns to the bed, pressing the wet 
flannel into my hands and sitting back while I clean them, 
taking the opportunity to take a couple close ups between my 
legs with his own mobile. He hands it to me as he retrieves the 
flannel with a cheeky "would you like a copy?"

The picture shows my swollen anus, wet with lubricant, a bit of 
semen smeared where he pulled out hurriedly.

"A bit crude, isn't it," I note mildly as I send it to myself.

He hums an agreement as he cleans the mess. "I would have let 
you take one of me covered in your come if we hadn't been 
interrupted. Think those were your pants I used to wipe it off. 
Sorry. I put them in the laundry."

"Didn't realize I'd married a Neanderthal," I say, taking a 
picture of him bent over me, tending to me, and sending that to 
myself as well.

"So dramatic," he teases. "Some would call that art."

"It's pornography."

"Obviously you've never been to the Musee D'Orsay."

"Well in that case, perhaps we should frame it and sell it to a 
gallery."

He crawls up to kiss me. "Mmm. I shall call it...'Mine'," he 
murmurs against my lips. He smiles as he takes his phone back 
and retreats to the bath to take care of the soiled flannel.

'You are mine.'

I shiver again and reach for the covers, pulling them up to my 
chin. When Henry returns and crawls under them with me, I turn 
toward him and let our limbs tangle together, more of less 
resuming the position we were in before we had sex. The soft 
glow from the lamp neither of us has bothered to turn off makes 
it easy for us to see each other. It will make judging his 
reactions to what I'm about to say easier.

"I want to remember this."

Lines appear in his forehead and his eyes clearly broadcast 
sympathy and pain. He has a very expressive face. I can see why 
I have always known he was lying to me. "I know," he whispers. 
"You will, darling. You are getting better every day."

"I'm not referring to these past months. I want to remember 
you. All of you. My present condition is proof that trying to 
erase the past only takes a toll on the present." I trace his 
lips with my fingers. "Your past experiences have shaped who 
you are. I want to know who Thomas was so I can understand who 
Henry is."

His breathing is tight and I can see the denial building in his 
throat, his eyes growing damp.

"I want to love you," I add before he can say he words I know 
he wants to say. Before he can say no.

It is perhaps cruel to leverage the return of his affections 
like this. But it is not a lie. At least I'm reasonably certain 
it isn't. I am growing attached. Dependent. Addicted. I don't 
know if I can call it love, but I don't have a better word with 
which to define it.

His breath hitches and a tear spills from his eye, slipping 
down his nose. I thumb it away and kiss his lips softly, 
gently.

"I want to know everything," I whisper into the intimate space 
between us.

His Adam's Apple bobs as he swallows. He sniffles lightly. He 
reaches to try to tame one of my curls.

"Please," I add, imploring, even though I can see this effort 
is going to be in vain. "I want to know the truth."

He smiles a sad, almost pained smile. "You will," he whispers.

There is a hint of finality in his words - something like 
fatalism in his tone. As if he is certain that the day I 
remember everything will be the day he loses me forever. I want 
to reassure him, but I cannot be certain he is wrong in this 
conclusion. Especially as it has occurred to me too.

There is nothing more I can do, I realize. Either I will find 
all the data again tomorrow or I won't. I am certain he will 
not reveal as much as he has tonight again if he doesn't have 
to. My lack of ability to remember provides him a perfect 
excuse to hide the past he doesn't want to discuss from me - as 
he readily admits. I know he finds it shameful which, while 
absurd, is entirely human. I cannot convince him he is wrong. 
Not when I have limited time and incomplete data to work with 
on any given day.

I am struggling to stay awake. Now that I know what the drug is 
I realize this is probably one of its effects. But fighting it 
is worse than trusting that I will find my way back to this 
point. I have done it before. 

I drift toward sleep with the feel of his lips on my brow and 
his whispers of love echoing in my ears.

---
Day 7

I wake with John's name on my lips. The details of the dream I 
was having fade almost immediately, but I remember a car 
swerving dangerously toward a tree. It felt more like a memory 
than a dream. 

I open my eyes, try to orientate myself and realize two things 
immediately. The first is that I am not at 221b Baker Street, 
although my surroundings look familiar somehow. The second is 
that I am not alone. The man beside me also looks familiar, 
though I cannot place his name or remember how I came to be 
sleeping in his bed. But as we are both naked and I can feel a 
telltale ache when I shift my body it is obvious we had sex 
recently.

I slip from the bed carefully to avoid waking him and take care 
of the pressing need to empty my bladder. 

As I am washing my hands, I take stock of my physical 
condition. I have hand-shaped bruises forming on my hips. My 
thighs are sore. My lips are kiss swollen and I have an ache in 
my backside that might make sitting difficult in near future. 

I hold up my dripping hands and stare at the gold band around 
my left ring finger, trying to remember how it could have got 
there. Is this for a case? Am I undercover? 

"Will," a sleep-rough voice calls from the door to the bedroom.

He is wrapped in a dressing gown and squinting in the light of 
the bath, his hair rumpled alluringly.

Will? Is that the name I gave him? Why can't I remember last 
night?

He opens a cupboard and pulls out a medicine bottle, shaking 
some paracetamol tablets into his palm and holding them out to 
me. 

"Who are you," I ask as I let him press the tablets into my 
hand.

He takes a glass from the counter and fills it with water. "My 
name is Henry, darling. I'm your husband."