Title: Of Dubious and Questionable Memory 
Author: Diandra Hollman
E-Mail: diandrahollman@gmail.com
Website: http://diandrahollman.neocities.org
AO3: archiveofourown.org/users/diandrahollman/works
Date Finished: 
Rating: vacillates between R and NC-17
Keywords: Sherlock/OMC, Tom Hiddleston fancast, drugs, slash, 
Sherlock POV, bisexual Sherlock, mystery, amnesia
Spoilers: This story takes place in early 2016 so the dumpster 
fire that was basically everything about that year - including 
season four - hasn't happened.
Disclaimer: This started out as a sort of "50 First Dates" 
Johnlock story and morphed into this psychological Girl on the 
Train/Before I Go To Sleep fusion-ish thing. The characters are 
all from BBC Sherlock, except Henry who is mine even though 
he's named after several of Doyle's characters.
Summary: Every day I wake up not remembering how I got here or 
who this man is who claims he's my husband. I cannot trust my 
own memory. There is one thing of which I am reasonably 
certain: John Watson is dead. Isn't he?
Dedication: Thank you to Kate and Emilio for their invaluable 
help and support with this story. Also, big thank you to 
gin200168 for helping with the sciency stuff so I don't sound 
like too much of an idiot.
Author's Notes: Henry is an amalgam of several characters from 
ACD cannon, with an original modern spin. In my little 
headcannon he is played by Tom Hiddleston. This takes place 
sometime after season 3.


Of Dubious and Questionable Memory 
By Diandra Hollman


Day 1

I wake up with John's name on my lips.

The details of the dream fade almost immediately, but the sense 
of danger and the desperate need to get to him linger for a 
while. I lie quietly on the bed for a moment in order to 
reorientate myself and allow the sickening fear to dissipate. 
Rationally, I know it was just a dream, but it had felt so 
REAL. More like a memory than the random neural firings that 
usually constitute dreams.

Once I am calm and fully awake I realize that I am not in my 
room - or even in my flat. I take quick stock of my 
surroundings. The bedroom is sparsely furnished, plain and 
clean and belongs to someone who, until recently, was sharing 
the bed with me. The smell on the rumpled sheets confirms that 
this person is definitely male and definitely not John.

I am alarmed to discover that I cannot remember how I came to 
be here. I can only assume I went home with some stranger I met 
in a club last night. The ache I feel between my legs as I move 
to sit up leaves no doubt as to the activities we engaged in 
after that.

I stumble to the toilet adjoining the bedroom, splash some 
water on my face, and take a moment to go over the physical 
evidence left on my own body.

I am naked, but I am clean. So obviously one of us had been 
sober enough to think of taking care of the post-coital mess. I 
have stubble burns and faint bite marks decorating my neck and 
the insides of my thighs. I have light bruises around my wrists 
and scattered across my torso and deep, dark ones in the shape 
of hands wrapped around my hips. I reach tentatively between my 
legs and feel for what I can't see. The skin around my anus is 
swollen and sore and something wet spills on my fingers as I 
prod at it. I yank my hand away and stare at the trace of semen 
in horror. I had unprotected sex with a stranger. Never - even 
at the height of my cocaine addiction - have I been so 
reckless. 

I scrub my hands clean as thoughts and theories race wildly 
through my mind. Drugs would explain my inability to remember 
anything, but had I taken them consciously or...

"Will," a voice calls from behind the door, disrupting my 
thoughts. A tall, slim man with dark hair and soft features 
tentatively pushes it open. "Are you all right, darling?"

Will? Did I use my given name with him as some sort of 
disguise?

I do a quick cold reading on him as he steps into the bathroom. 
Whatever he is, he is not a rapist. He is looking at me with 
far too much kindness and adoration. Except beyond his physical 
features and his obvious care for me I can't really deduce 
much. He is definitely the man I had sex with last night. 
Although he is fully dressed, I can see the edge of a bruise 
peeking from beneath the rolled up sleeve of his silk shirt. 
More importantly, his smell matches the one on the bed sheets I 
woke up in.

His ejaculate is still inside me.

I shake this last thought off and focus on his left hand, which 
is curled around a glass of water. A simple gold band surrounds 
his ring finger. I had unprotected sex with a married man? 

"You don't know who I am," he says gently as though he can read 
the direction of my thoughts.

"Should I?"

He looks a bit disappointed, but not surprised. "Sometimes you 
do. You've had good days and bad days since we changed 
medicines."

My eyes narrow. What the hell is he on about? "Medicine?"

He holds out his right hand to reveal three white pills. "I was 
just bringing your morning dose. Plus some paracetamol." He 
gestures toward the bruises on my hips. "I'm afraid I got a 
little carried away last night. Although in my defense, you 
were a bit gasping for it and you gave almost as good as you 
got. I already took some of these myself."

I run through the many questions in my mind - eliminating the 
ones that might compromise me should this prove to really be 
some sort of con - and settle on the most important one. "Where 
is John?"

His face falls and he sighs. He sets the glass and tablets on 
the counter beside the sink and reaches for me, hesitating only 
a moment when I instinctively flinch. He carefully frames my 
face between his hands, tilting my head with the faintest 
pressure of his fingertips until I am looking directly into his 
blue/green eyes.

"Sherlock...sweetheart. John Watson is dead."

---

Minutes later I sit at the kitchen table, wrapped in a dressing 
gown I've never seen before even though it is worn and smells 
of me, staring at the pill the man who says he is my husband - 
Henry - has set beside a glass of juice. I took the paracetamol 
already, but only because I recognized that's what it really 
was. I don't want to take anything I can't readily identify 
without further explanation, which Henry promised to give me 
when he coaxed me from the bathroom.

I wince as he sets a plate of toast and beans before me and 
mumble "'m not hungry." 

He kisses the top of my head. "I know. You never are. But you 
have to eat, love."

This more than anything so far lends credibility to his claim 
that he is my husband. He treats me like a doting spouse. But 
it still doesn't make any sense. 

He sits beside me and rests a hand on my arm. "What day do you 
think it is?"

"Sunday."

"No, darling. I mean the date."

What difference could that possibly make? "I don't know. June 
something."

He smiles again. "Well, it is Wednesday. And it's actually the 
tenth of February."

I stare at him silently, waiting for an explanation.

His thumb begins absently rubbing my arm through the dressing 
gown. "You were in a car accident eight months ago. I was the 
doctor who treated you. You were suffering from some fairly 
significant head trauma and I initially diagnosed you with a 
severe concussion, but it became clear after about a week that 
you were having persistent difficulties with your short term 
memory. You could retain information throughout the course of 
the day, but each time you fell asleep your mind seemed to 
reset itself and you woke up unable to remember anything that 
had happened since the accident."

"Amnesia."

He nods. "A very rare form of anterograde amnesia. So rare, in 
fact, that you offered to let me write a series of papers for 
medical journals tracking your progress. I have two so far if 
you want to read them."

"I've already read them, haven't I?"

He smiles. "Yes. You sometimes offer your own research and 
thoughts on possible treatments. Some days you know who I am 
and can recall some of the events of the past few months and 
some days - like today - you don't even remember the accident."

The dream. I close my eyes and try to remember the dream I'd 
been having when I woke this morning. The details still elude 
me, but now I think I can recall broken glass and John's face 
covered in blood. "John was in the car," I whisper.

Henry's other hand rests on my back. "He didn't make it to 
hospital. His injuries were too severe. I'm sorry."

I feel tears prick at my eyes and wonder how many times I've 
had this exact discussion. How many times have I lost John only 
to do it all over again the next day? How many more times will 
I feel as if I only saw him yesterday? How can I even begin to 
properly mourn him if I can never remember losing him in the 
first place? I pick up the pill Henry had identified as my 
medicine and roll it between my fingers in an effort to 
distract myself from the painful tightness in my chest.

"We've tried several different medications and therapies," 
Henry says, again demonstrating his intimate knowledge of me by 
seeming to read my thoughts as if I had spoken them out loud. 
"This one seems to be most promising so far. Just last month 
you went forty eight hours before you started losing memories 
again. I had hoped...last night...that that might happen 
again."

Possible signs of improvement might explain why he was willing 
to put up with me in such a condition. "Why am I not wearing a 
ring?"

"Oh..." He lets go of me to reach into his trouser pocket. "I 
almost forgot." He pulls out a gold band identical to his own. 
"You sometimes take it off at night. You say it's one less 
thing to try to deduce if you relapse overnight. It's easier if 
you think we're just lovers initially." He gestures to my left 
hand. "May I?"

I hold out my hand and let him slip the ring on my finger. 
There's a sense of rightness to it that I don't quite 
understand. As if I had been missing its weight without 
realizing it. As if having it back in place completes an 
important part of the puzzle. 

He lifts my hand and presses his lips to my knuckles gently. 
"There was never in this world a man who loved with a more 
whole hearted love," he murmurs almost to himself.

"I take it we're newly wed then."

He laughs and I'm struck by how genuine that laugh is, how 
relaxed. He looks at me with the same affection and wonder John 
often wore when I said something particularly clever. "Guess I 
deserved that. Yes. We've been married for three months. You 
were opposed to the idea of marriage, of course, but I 
convinced you eventually."

The kettle whistles. He kisses my hand again, repeats his 
instructions for me to eat and goes to pour us both tea. 
"There's honey on the table," he adds this time. "You usually 
like to put it on your toast."

I reach for the small jar sitting beside the salt and pepper 
pots before I'm even aware of the motion, as if my body had 
responded without my conscious thought. I frown at the unmarked 
jar that I simultaneously recognize and have never seen before. 
"Is this fresh?"

"I think so. You said you collected it last week."

"I collected it?"

He comes back with two sturdy mugs full of hot tea and sets one 
beside my plate. "You said you always wanted to move out to the 
country and tend bees when you retired. Cressington Park isn't 
exactly the country, but you are able to keep a small hive out 
back."

"Retired?"

He sips at his tea cautiously. "A bit young, but in your 
condition... consider it a temporary retirement until you are 
better. You still occasionally submit anonymous tips to law 
enforcement websites, which you think I don't know about." He 
smiles at me fondly over the rim of his cup. "But you tire 
easily and you get headaches often. It's usually enough for you 
to spend the day occupied with your bee keeping and catching up 
on the last few months. Sometimes you go for a walk...talk to 
the neighbor." He points to one side of the house, then the 
other as he adds "that one. THAT one hates you. I don't know 
what you did to offend him in the two months we've lived here, 
but it's probably best to avoid him for a while."

I spoon honey onto a slice of toast and take a bite, holding 
the thick, sweet syrup on my tongue for a moment before 
swallowing. My stomach rumbles and I realize I am a bit hungry 
after all. "Why did you call me Will?"

"You said you wanted to start over and leave your old life in 
London behind. Being Sherlock Holmes was too painful after 
everything that happened."

Even though I don't remember exactly what happened, I can 
recognize the truth in this. The mere mention of my name stirs 
up a vague, uncomfortable feeling that borders on nausea. It 
happened the first time he said it too, but I had associated 
the feeling then with the news about John.

Oh. Thinking about my name and my life in London makes me think 
about John. And thinking about John and the accident is too 
painful.

"I assume I took your name then?"

"Not at first, but yes. Your name is William Peters now, 
legally speaking."

'Dull,' a voice in the back of my head grumbles. But hearing 
the name doesn't bring the same discomfort. In fact, it feels 
right somehow. I take another bite of toast and reach for my 
tea, momentarily surprised to find that it has already been 
sweetened exactly the way I like it. 'Of course he would know 
how you take your tea. He knows everything else.'

Henry finishes his own mug and makes a move to stand up. "I 
have to go to work. Your mobile is on the counter by the 
laptop."

"Aren't you going to eat?"

"Already finished. You were tired after last night. I thought 
I'd let you sleep in a bit." He puts his mug in the dishwasher 
and fishes his car keys from a bowl on the counter by the 
aforementioned laptop and mobile. "These are labeled in case 
you need to lock up." He slides a folder out from beneath the 
laptop. "You usually like to start with this." He hands it to 
me and leans down to kiss me. He tastes like tea and mint. "You 
should take your medicine before you forget."

Oh. The tablet. I reach for it automatically and hesitate only 
a second before swallowing it with the nearly forgotten glass 
of juice. I'm still not entirely certain what it is, but I am 
sure it will not hurt me. Henry's obvious love for me would 
preclude any desire to do me harm.

"Good man," he praises, sweeping a lock of hair back from my 
forehead tenderly and pressing a kiss to my temple. "My 
number's in the contacts if you need to call me."

I have a brief, pathetic desire to beg him not to leave. I 
quickly dismiss it as some ridiculous side effect of my 
condition. I have so many more questions - which he likely 
knows the answers to. But I can find most of them myself. Isn't 
that what he said I spent at least part of my days doing?

I open the folder as Henry walks out the door and read the top 
page while I finish my toast. It is a handwritten note - my 
handwriting - discolored by a tea stain and slightly ragged at 
the edges from repeated handling. 'Your name is William,' it 
says. 'Henry is your husband. You were in a car accident in 
June of 2015. You have suffered from a rare form of amnesia 
ever since. Details of the disease and your progress with 
treating it are in a file on the desktop of your computer, 
along with observations and inspection data from your bee 
colony.'

There isn't much else in the slim folder. The articles Henry 
wrote about my medical case. A copy of our marriage certificate 
confirming my name as William Peters. And a printout of John's 
obituary. 'He is survived by his mother Evelyn, his sister 
Harriet, his wife Mary and their daughter.'

His wife Mary. I wonder if part of the reason I keep this 
particular evidence in such a prominent location is to remind 
myself that John wasn't mine to lose. To convince myself that I 
need to move on and try to forget him. 

Is that even possible?

The last paper in the folder is in handwriting that must be 
Henry's, identifying the locations of anything important like 
keys (which he already showed me), the name and phone number of 
the neighbor who doesn't hate me, his mobile number, the 
location of the fuse box and a list of the possible side 
effects of my medication that I should watch for and contact 
him immediately about any concerns.

The note ends with a more personal touch. 'Should you need to 
leave the house, the alarm code is the fiftieth through the 
fifty-fourth digits of pi. You were very adamant that we 
program it that way.' That sounded like a condition I would 
have made. 'I love you, my darling,' he finishes. 'Until my 
body ceases to draw breath.'

I wonder if we had a wedding ceremony. If we did, he almost 
certainly wrote his own vows. Maybe I'll find something about 
that on the laptop. At the very least, maybe I can find out how 
I came to marry a man I can't even remember meeting.

But first, I need to figure out where I keep my toothbrush and 
razor.

---

There is a file on the computer desktop simply titled "open 
me". It opens a popular note taking program and is full of 
notes, clippings, photographs, spreadsheets and links. I appear 
to have attempted to document as much of the past eight months 
as possible, although there are still several disconcerting 
gaps. 

The first entry in what could be loosely described as a journal 
is dated two weeks after the accident and reads much like the 
note in the folder, except it makes no mention of Henry. It 
isn't until several days later that I seem to take notice of 
the doctor treating me - and only then as the kind man whose 
head I had attempted to remove from his body. After that, my 
entries document both my frustrations with my lack of 
significant progress in reversing my memory loss and the slow 
evolution of our relationship. As my condition made living by 
myself difficult, he initially offered to be my live-in doctor 
and flatmate. 'Just like John used to be,' I think painfully. 
He reminded me every day of what had happened, made sure I took 
my medication and monitored the side effects, altering the 
dosage as necessary. 

Three months after the accident he kissed me for the first 
time. The entries over the next two months describe a strange 
courtship where the line between caretaker and lover shifted 
continually. One day he was nursing me through a migraine or 
what sounded like a particularly violent bout of food poisoning 
and the next we were having what sounded like very energetic 
sex. 'Henry warned me to be quieter when we make love,' one 
entry reads. 'The neighbor is beginning to complain about the 
noise.'

'Make love?' I think. 'Oddly sentimental, but I suppose that 
could be how HE worded it.'

Five months after the accident we were married. We spent a 
month vacation travelling through France and Italy. There is a 
whole folder devoted to pictures of this trip. Us kissing in 
front of the Eiffel Tower - his hand on my face to show off his 
ring. Me reclining in his arms in a Venetian gondola, his lips 
pressed to my temple. A picture he seemed to have secretly 
snapped of me drinking tea on a hotel balcony overlooking a 
peaceful lake, the Swiss Alps in the distance.

There are several more salacious images from inside various 
hotel rooms. Henry apparently took great pleasure in capturing 
our more intimate moments. There are candids of me both pre and 
post coital, in varying stages of arousal and dishevelment. But 
there are a few of him too, and I find myself particularly 
drawn to three of them. In one I obviously have caught him 
unaware as he is bending to retrieve something from the floor 
and presenting me with his bare arse. In another he is laying 
on the bed, post coital, a smear of seminal fluid decorating 
his abdomen, grinning at me adoringly. In the last, he is at 
the foot of the bed, one hand reaching toward my leg, possibly 
already wrapped around my ankle. His erect penis hangs heavily 
between his thighs and he is looking at me with such blatant 
hunger that a faint shiver goes through me. I wonder if he 
looked at me like that last night.

I have a sudden flash of memory; of Henry pinning me to the 
bed, thrusting inside me, that same almost dangerous look in 
his eyes.

"You like that, don't you," he growls. 

I shake my head and the image dispels. Was that a memory? Or is 
my brain just supplying possible scenarios to fill in the gaps 
based on the information I have? I look again at the bruises on 
my wrists. It certainly fits. What else can I remember?

I pore over my notes eagerly, searching for further data that 
might unlock details of my missing months. But I become 
increasingly suspicious of my ability to distinguish between 
real memories and fictional constructions, I read conversations 
between myself and Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson or Mycroft and can 
practically hear their voices saying the words. Then I discover 
at least half of them in the text message history of my mobile. 

False memories.

I start a new entry for today and note this. I can see how I 
could easily spend an entire day doing this. My entire life has 
essentially become a puzzle for me to solve. The fact that I 
have to start my investigations into my recent past over every 
day is enormously frustrating, but that frustration is 
mitigated by the obvious evidence that I am getting better. 
Henry was right: my memory is improving by small increments. 
Although I am apparently still susceptible to fits of bizarre, 
irrational behavior. For example, when I consult my data on the 
bee hive I find indications that I have checked on it nearly 
every day of this past month. This probably wouldn't be 
suspicious in itself were it not for Henry's claim this morning 
that I had collected honey from it mere days ago. While that 
might not be completely bonkers in late winter, it couldn't be 
possible unless we inherited the colony from the previous 
owners of the house as bees don't usually produce an excess of 
honey for at least a year after introduction to the new hive.

I take a break from my reading about the past few months to 
locate a coat - just as unfamiliar as the dressing gown even 
though it is clearly mine - and go out to the back garden. The 
hive is a standard wooden box structure with a reflective lid 
on top. I walk around it, inspecting the exterior, running my 
hand along the warm wooden panels, feeling and hearing the hum 
of a healthy colony. It isn't brand new, but it doesn't seem 
old enough to be producing yet. 

I don't want to disturb the hive any more than that, so I 
return to my laptop and note my observations on the health of 
the colony in the appropriate place. I check the notes again 
and, while they don't specify the age of the hive or how I came 
to acquire it, they do indicate that I siphoned off a small 
amount of honey a week ago. 

The computer pings and an alert at the bottom of the screen 
informs me that Henry has sent me an email. I click on the 
notification and the message expands to fill the screen.

'Just finished listening to a dreadfully boring presentation 
from a drug rep for a product I am unlikely to ever have cause 
to prescribe. I couldn't stop thinking about how gorgeous you 
looked last night; how desperately you clung to me and demanded 
more, faster, harder. If our activities hadn't left me sore 
this morning I would have been tempted to wake you and have 
another go. I don't think I will ever not ache for you. I long 
for those days in Venice when I could spend hours in bed just 
worshiping your body. I want you again tonight. Be very 
thorough when you shower today as I plan to be just as thorough 
when I eat you out.'

'That doesn't sound very sanitary,' I think. But the idea of 
him looking at me as hungrily as he did in that photograph 
makes me squirm a bit. The only other person who has ever 
looked at me with so much naked lust was Irene Adler.

I ignore the email for the time being, too caught up in my 
research to be distracted by my husband's lewdness.

'I saw John today,' a more recent note declares. 'In my mind 
palace. He was wearing Victorian clothing and had that 
ridiculous mustache that makes him look ancient. He was smoking 
my pipe and kept calling me "my boy". I asked him when he took 
up smoking. He said "ever since the Queen went above board".'

The strangeness of this incident is quickly overshadowed by the 
knowledge that I am using my mind palace in this bizarre 
reality I find myself in. Maybe I can find useful information 
there?

A tiny voice in the back of my mind notes that I can still find 
John there as well, but I brush it aside. John is dead. I have 
to let him go. I can't keep him in my mind palace forever.

I close my eyes and imagine myself standing before the familiar 
doors leading into my mind palace. I hesitate only a moment, 
unsure of the state I will find it in, before pushing them open 
and stepping through. 

I am in the morgue at St. Bart's. A body lies on one of the 
metal slabs. It is charred so far beyond recognition that it is 
near impossible to even tell what sex it had once been.

"Male," a familiar voice says and Molly Hooper appears at my 
side, a cigarette dangling from the fingers of her right hand. 
"He was in a car crash. The car caught fire before he could get 
out."

"Accident?"

"Still working that out." She takes a drag from the cigarette 
and slowly exhales, tendrils of smoke curling around her head. 

"Since when do you smoke?"

She shrugs and takes another drag. 

I look back at the body. "Do you have an ID yet?"

"You know who he is."

I nod, clenching my jaw to stop my lip from quivering. I had 
known since Molly first spoke who it must be. "Did he suffer?"

She slowly exhales a gentle stream of smoke, then inhales and 
opens her mouth to speak.

"Never mind," I interrupt. "Don't answer that." I don't want to 
know.

"You know this is wrong, don't you? You know this is not real. 
Sherlock Holmes wouldn't just move to the suburbs and play 
housewife."

The sick feeling returns, this time accompanied by a faint 
throbbing behind my eyes. "I'm not Sherlock Holmes," I mumble. 
"Not anymore."

I open my eyes again and take a moment to reorientate myself 
before scrolling back to today's date in the journal. 

'Molly was in the mind palace this time. She was smoking. The 
body on her autopsy table was presumably once John's, but it 
was burned beyond recognition. She said that "this" is wrong 
and "not real". She said Sherlock Holmes wouldn't just run away 
to the suburbs to play housewife.'

I pause to massage the building ache in my temple. Then I let 
all my conflicting thoughts about my present circumstances pour 
out on the screen. 

'She's right, as always. What am I doing here? Was John's loss 
really so devastating that I had to move clear across England 
and change my entire identity to avoid facing it? I don't even 
believe in marriage, yet I find myself married to a man I 
barely know. Superficially, I recognize that he is a lot like 
John. He takes care of me willingly and with the patience of 
someone deeply and irrationally in love. I know some part of me 
loves Henry, if for no other reason than he represents what I 
never had with John: reciprocity of my unrequited longing. But 
if my condition proves permanent, his love will no doubt fade.'

The throbbing in my head can no longer be ignored. I stop 
typing so I can search for some painkillers. 

I settle back in front of the computer while I wait for the 
aspirin to hopefully relieve the pressure. I finally send Henry 
a reply to the effect of 'sorry, not tonight, I have a 
headache'.

A copy of John's autopsy report is clipped into the journal. It 
details high-impact injuries consistent with a car crash, but 
there is no indication the body was burned. I wonder if my 
subconscious added that false detail merely so I wouldn't have 
to face looking at John's lifeless corpse. When did I lose my 
ability to become detached where John is concerned?

On impulse, I pick up my mobile and send a text to John, simply 
saying 'I miss you.' I am not really surprised when the message 
history shows that this isn't the first time I have sent 
messages to John in the months since I acquired this new phone. 
I scroll through some of them. 'I'm sorry.' 'We're out of 
hydrochloric acid.' 'I can't keep doing this, but I don't know 
how to forget you.' 'I need more slides for the microscope.' 
'Last night, in a dream, you told me you forgive me.' 'For 
god's sake, are you really going to keep that ridiculous 
mustache?!'

I wince and add a note to the journal to for-God's-sake STOP 
sending texts to a dead man. I know I will ignore it though. 
Obviously I sometimes unconsciously send shopping requests to 
him, forgetting that he no longer lives with me.

The mobile buzzes on the table, startling me. For a moment I 
think maybe there was a mistake and it is John ringing back. 
But it's Henry. I chastise myself as I answer. 

"Scale of one to ten," he says. "How bad is the headache?"

"I took aspirin before it became unbearable. Maybe a four now."

"So it's getting better. That's good. Are you experiencing any 
other symptoms? Dizziness? Blurred vision? Nausea?"

"No."

I can hear the relief in his voice. "Okay. It sounds like it's 
just a headache. You should take a break from that computer. Go 
for a walk. Have a bath. There's some herbal tea in the 
cupboard next to the sink. You always say it helps. If you're 
still hurting when I come home I can give you a massage."

Molly was right. I am playing housewife. And I am a very 
spoiled housewife at that. Although tea does sound lovely. 
"I'll be fine."

"Mmm." I hear papers rustle faintly on his end. 

"How did you propose," I find myself blurting suddenly. "I 
don't remember and I don't see anything in my notes." It's a 
strange gap in the narrative of our relationship.

He chuckles. "Well, that's probably because it wasn't my best 
romantic gesture. I didn't even plan it. We had just finished a 
rather spectacular bout of lovemaking and I couldn't stop 
touching you...kissing you. I realized I couldn't bear the 
thought of not spending the rest of my life with you."

"I was already living - and sleeping - with you. We hardly 
needed a contract."

"No, probably not. It just makes everything easier, especially 
given your condition, if we are legal."

The logic of this is sound. I had no doubt he could use his 
credentials as a doctor to gain access to me should I be taken 
into hospital, but nothing could cut through red tape faster 
than a wedding ring.

"I know the disdain you have for the institution of marriage," 
he adds. "But I love being able to call you my husband. I love 
having a constant reminder on my finger that it is my legal 
right. I love knowing that you are wearing one as well, even if 
I have to remind you to put it on every morning. I love being 
able to let the whole world know that I am yours and you are 
mine."

I have a sudden memory of Henry looming over me, growling "you 
are *mine*!" It sends a brief spike of fear through me. But is 
it real or another false construct? Without proper context I 
can't be sure. 

"I have to get back to work. You rest. Take care of yourself. 
And remember what I said about being thorough in the bath."

"But..."

"I'm sure your headache will be long forgotten by then," he 
continues confidently, heading off my protest. "If not, my 
understanding is that the endorphins produced by orgasm are 
excellent for treating headaches."

I grunt, frustrated by my apparent inability to argue with him. 
It doesn't help that he's right.

He chuckles softly. "Just trust me, okay darling? I love you."

I hesitate, wondering if he expects me to return the sentiment. 

"It's okay, sweetheart. I know."

I hang up and add all the relevant details from the 
conversation to my journal. The proposal, my impressions of 
Henry's romantic nature and possible possessiveness and the 
odd, possibly false memory. 'I don't know why I can't bring 
myself to say the words to him,' I conclude.

I close the lid on the laptop and massage my temples. The 
headache has mostly gone, but there is still a lingering, 
annoying throb.

Tea, I remember. Tea and a hot bath. Maybe then I can try 
exploring the mind palace for more clues. 

---

The tea does help. As does the bath, although accidentally 
aggravating the still-tender scar from my head injury while 
washing my hair did set me back for a bit. 

When I try to explore my mind palace a bit more I find myself 
in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, listening to her prattle about her 
ex-husband and John and love in general. 

"But this young doctor of yours...what's his name? He reminds 
me of my husband. So charming and full of passion. And the way 
he looks at you...like you are his whole world." She sighs. "He 
used to look at me like that too when we were first married. He 
could barely keep his hands off me. I remember this one time on 
our honeymoon when he..."

"Is something burning," I interrupt, pointing to the stove 
where wisps of smoke are beginning to curl around the oven 
door, grateful for the distraction.

Mrs. Hudson makes loud, displeased noises as she rushes to pull 
a blackening cake from the oven. "Knew I shouldn't have used so 
much Crown Royal," she says between coughs, waving 
ineffectually in an effort to clear the smoke.

I sigh as I emerge from my mind palace and stare at the 
blinking cursor on the laptop screen. There didn't seem to be 
any useful data there, but I write it down anyway.

The thought of Mrs. Hudson burning the cooking does get me 
thinking about food. I uncurl myself from the sofa and rummage 
around in the kitchen, pondering whether my duties as a 
househusband included making meals. I hope for both of our 
sakes that they do not. 

As if sensing the line of my inquiry, Henry texts me while I'm 
trying to judge the freshness of the leftover chicken in the 
fridge and whether the moldy thing beside it used to be edible 
or is part of an experiment. 'Just finishing up. Don't feel 
like cooking tonight," he writes. 'Bringing home Indian 
takeaway. Anything in particular you want?'

'Thought you'd put a little more effort in since you're so 
intent on wooing me tonight,' I reply.  

'You'd rather eat out?'

I think of the promise he made in his email and smile. Two can 
play at this game. 'No. I would have to get dressed for that.'

There is a long pause before his next text. 'Are you naked?'

'Dressing gown. Don't want to scandalize the neighbors.' This 
is a lie. I don't care about modesty, or what the neighbors 
think. According to my notes, my last discussion with the one 
Henry claims hates me resulted in an altercation that left me 
with a black eye. If anybody were nosy enough to peek through 
the windows right now they would see that the dressing gown 
isn't secured. 'I was very thorough in the bath,' I add. 'As 
per your request.'

There is an even longer pause this time and I wonder if he is 
trying to compose himself. 'I'll get a bottle of wine,' he 
finally replies. 'I'll make up for the meal after.'

I feel a momentary thrill of victory as I type 'I look forward 
to it.'

---

I was what one might call a late bloomer, sexually. Most of my 
knowledge of sexual activities is theoretical not because I am 
a virgin, as my brother and the Woman assumed, but because I 
find the process of seeking out a partner to help me tend to a 
basic biological function tedious. I had a few disappointing 
experiences with my "friend" Seb at Uni and an interesting one 
with the Woman, but I am usually perfectly happy tending to the 
occasional demands of my transport on my own. 

But that is why married people report having more sex than 
single people. Ready availability of a willing partner.

Laying sideways on the bed with Henry kneeling on the floor 
between my legs, both of us naked, I understand the 
admonishment from my journal to be quieter. The wicked things 
he's doing to me are pulling sounds from me I didn't even know 
I was capable of making.

"You've done this before," I observe between panting breaths.

He hums and I gasp at the vibration. "A few times," he confirms 
in a low voice between teasing licks and slow, filthy kisses. 
"It's my favorite way to prepare you. You're always so open and 
slick..." He presses his thumb into my perineum, just above his 
working mouth. "So desperate for it. I can usually slide right 
in." He pushes a finger inside me and my lower body seizes, 
muscles gripping around the intrusion. "Just like that," he 
murmurs. 

I twist my fingers in the bed sheets and fight the urge to grab 
him by the hair and rut against his face. Dear God, is he 
nuzzling me?

"Hold yourself open for me, love."

I follow his instructions automatically, grateful to have 
something to do with my hands as I squeeze the backs of my 
thighs and pull upward. 

He thrusts his finger a few times before pushing in a second, 
immediately finding just the right angle and using the right 
amount of pressure. 

'He's done this too,' I think, groaning helplessly. 

"Look at me, darling."

I force myself to focus on his face between my legs. He looks 
just as flushed as I feel. His eyes are dark and intense, 
almost dangerous. Predatory. Hungry. "I'm not going to do that 
this time," he says, his hand continuing to thrust leisurely, 
keeping me on the edge. "This is about you. I'm going to keep 
doing this until you come. Just relax and let it happen."

He keeps his eyes locked with mine as he bends to lick at the 
stretched skin surrounding his fingers. 

My legs are already starting to shake. I reinforce my grip and 
moan as the muscles in my abdomen tremble. I let my head fall 
back, the added visual too much for me to take. But that only 
makes me focus more on the feeling of his hands spreading me 
further open as he replaces his fingers with his tongue. On the 
obscene noises he makes that suggest he is enjoying this even 
more than I am. I give in to the pleasure and my thoughts 
scatter wildly. I hear him talking to me between hot swipes of 
his tongue, but it's as if he isn't speaking English anymore. I 
can only make out the occasional word - love, gorgeous, want, 
come - amid the sounds falling from his lips in his smooth 
voice. I am vaguely aware that I am making loud, embarrassing 
grunting noises. 

The tension breaks and I shout as my whole body shudders 
uncontrollably, my pelvic muscles contracting. And then 
suddenly Henry is on top of me, straddling me as my legs drop 
from my numb fingers. I realize when I feel his hot, heavy 
erection slide alongside my own that he never once touched my 
cock. He does now, wrapping his hand around both of us and 
stroking purposefully and I am coming again. Or maybe I never 
stopped coming. I'm not sure. 

'There's a reason the French call it La Petite Mort,' I think 
hazily as I grip his shoulders. I might still be yelling, but I 
can't be certain.

He growls and shudders to a stop, his hand slowing. The fog in 
my head clears and I am able to catch my breath. He kisses me 
and I think I should probably object to that after what he's 
been doing, but he just tastes like musk, curry and, perhaps 
faintly, soap. 

And then suddenly he's pulling away from me and disappearing 
into the toilet.

I stare at the ceiling while my pulse settles into a slower 
rhythm, listening to the water splash in the sink.

I have almost lulled myself into a trance when I hear the faint 
click of a mobile camera.

"Don't you have enough of those already," I ask without opening 
my eyes. 

He chuckles softly. "I can hardly be faulted for admiring my 
gorgeous husband."

I pull my legs back up and plant my feet on the edge of the 
mattress, spreading my knees. I feel ridiculous and exposed, 
but it has the desired effect.

He groans and snaps a couple more photos. "You are a wicked 
man."

'And you are very easily corrupted.' I run my fingers through 
the cooling pool of semen on my abdomen and bring them to my 
mouth, very deliberately and slowly licking them clean. 

"Jesus, Will," he breaths.

I open my eyes finally and look up at him, hovering over me so 
he can get a close-up of my face. I lick my lips and see his 
eyes darken. Pupils dilated.

I finally understand the pleasure the Woman found in using sex 
to bend people to her will. The rush of power can be quite 
intoxicating.

I reach out to him. "Can I see?"

He hands the mobile over easily and goes about cleaning the 
mess from me with a flannel while I scroll through recent 
images. It would seem he hardly takes anything but pictures of 
me. Many of them pornographic, but not all of them. There are 
some of me bent over the laptop - sitting in bed, on the sofa, 
at the table or just on the floor amid a mess of papers. 
There's one of me in a meditative position, probably deep in my 
mind palace. And there's a few of me waking up in the morning, 
tousled and smiling languidly, my eyes still closed. I'm sure I 
can guess why that series of pictures stops before my eyes open 
and my expression changes.

"Can I copy these?"

---

He lays beside me reading, his hand occasionally wandering over 
to absently rub my leg as I curl over the laptop, clipping 
pictures, observations and his email from earlier into my 
notes. I take a picture of him surreptitiously while he is 
especially engrossed and take a moment to really look at him. 
He is, by all objective standards of modern society, a very 
attractive man. Combined with his charming, romantic nature and 
the steady - if not excessive - wealth of a doctor, he could 
have had any number of willing and eager partners. Why had he 
chosen to bind himself to someone who doesn't even believe in 
marriage? Someone who doesn't even remember who he is every 
morning?

"Because I love you," he says suddenly, shaking me from my 
thoughts. 

"What?"

He puts his book down and looks up at me. "You were wondering 
why I put up with you, right? That's usually what you're 
thinking when you get that look."

"Love is..."

"A chemical defect? Easily confused with lust or infatuation?"

I bite my tongue. Obviously we've had this conversation before.

His hand returns to my leg, fingers drawing light patterns on 
the inside of my knee. "I wish you could see yourself the way I 
see you. You never believe me when I say it's more than 
physical attraction. I don't care if I have to remind you of 
who I am every day for the rest of our lives. I cannot live 
without you."

"That's easy for you to say now that we're young and relatively 
healthy. From what you described of last night, our 
relationship is still primarily based on sexual desire. It 
won't always be like this." I open the final picture he took 
and tilt the screen toward him pointedly. 

He barely glances at the picture of me licking semen from my 
fingers, my legs spread to display the loosened opening still 
damp with his saliva, before returning his gaze to my face. 
"You think I will leave you once you can no longer satisfy me 
sexually? Is that why you were so desperate for it last night 
that you all but ravaged me?"

"I..." There was nothing in my notes about what happened last 
night. All I have is his rather colorful description in the 
email. "I did?"

"Mmm...you practically tore my clothes off and begged me to 
fuck you so hard you would feel it for days. You said you 
wanted to remember."

I did?

He sighs and sits up, wrapping his arms around me, pressing 
tightly to my side. "I love you." He punctuates his words with 
a kiss to my shoulder. "I will always love you." He starts 
kissing a trail up my neck. "Until we are both...old and 
gray...and the closest we come to physical intimacy...is when I 
have to remove a bee stinger from your arse." I turn my head to 
meet him and he kisses my lips. This time he tastes like mint 
toothpaste. And still faintly of curry. "I will never stop 
loving you."

'Liar,' I think, but I hold my tongue. It is fairly obvious he 
will grow tired of this if my memory never improves enough for 
me to recognize him every morning. But he may not realize that 
yet and, given my condition, I don't have the luxury of 
worrying about the future. All I have is the present. And there 
are worse ways I could be spending it than with a handsome 
doctor who is utterly devoted to me.

"Thank you," I say, because I still can't bring myself to say 
the other words.

He smiles happily anyway and nuzzles my nose. "Are you almost 
finished?" He nods to the laptop.

"Oh..." I pry myself from him so I can finish my journal for 
today. I save it and set the laptop on the night table before 
shutting out the lamp and slipping under the covers.

I gasp a little as he pulls me tightly against his naked body - 
obviously this is his preferred way to sleep too. I realize 
that it would be very easy for either of us to take advantage 
of this arrangement during the night if not for the fact that I 
might not recognize him. 

I think of the second evening dose of the medication I took, 
which my notes identify as a new type of nootropic derivative. 
"You said the medication is working?"

He sighs and rubs my back. "It's difficult to tell with an 
experimental drug. But I have faith in it. Your journal helps 
as well."

I look at him in the dim moonlight of the bedroom. It's not 
that I don't recognize him, I think. I know I've seen him 
before. But it's like he's someone I met once and can't quite 
recall when or where or what his name is.

"I know," he whispers, understanding my line of thinking again. 
"I wish you could remember."

"Maybe I will."

An odd, sad expression flits across his face. "Maybe."

---
Day 2

I wake to the sound of an alarm clock. Odd, because I hardly 
ever set an alarm. I open my eyes to a room I don't recognize 
and nearly leap from the bed in surprise when I feel it shift 
beneath the weight of another person. A man groans softly. The 
alarm stops. 

Did I go home with someone last night? I feel a bit sore, but I 
don't remember anything.

I roll over tentatively and blink the sleep from my eyes. A man 
is sitting naked on the edge of the bed, looking at his mobile. 
Clearly we had sex, but why don't I remember? What did I take 
to cause such a complete blackout? He couldn't have knowingly 
been taking advantage of my inebriated state last night if he 
was still here, could he? 

He looks back and catches me staring. "Sorry. I have to be at 
work early."

"Who are you?"

He sighs and reaches to touch my cheek. I flinch and he stops, 
his fingers hovering. I notice the glint of a gold band on his 
ring finger in the early morning light as he says "I'm your 
husband, darling."

---

Henry insists on making me toast even though I'm not hungry. He 
also talks me into taking a pill he claims is a nootropic drug 
that he's hopeful will improve my memory. I doubt that's 
possible if my amnesia is as severe as it seems, but I take the 
pill anyway.

"I have a bee colony," I ask, looking up from my handwritten 
note as he sets a plate in front of me.

He nods at the jar on the table. "That's where you got the 
honey from."

I pick up the unmarked jar. Like Henry, it looks simultaneously 
familiar and wrong. I open it and scoop a little onto my finger 
to taste. It is real, fresh honey from a hive. But that would 
mean the hive is at least a year old. "How long have we lived 
here?"

"About two months. We moved in directly after our honeymoon on 
the continent." He pours two mugs of tea and settles at the 
table beside me with his own identical plate. "Why?"

I shrug. There's no use questioning him about it. He probably 
knows nothing about beekeeping. It's likely the hive came with 
the house. I can look into it later. I turn to the next page in 
the folder and my breath catches. It's a printout of an 
obituary. 

Henry reaches for my hand, gripping tightly. Obviously he's 
done something like this before. Many times, no doubt.

"How," I ask, forcing my voice to stay level.

"He was in the car when you had your accident. He didn't make 
it to hospital."

He was driving. I remember that. Something hit us and 
then...nothing. I strain to recall more details about that 
night, but it's just blackness.

"I'm sorry," Henry says, pulling my focus back to our kitchen 
and his pained gaze. 

"Was I at the funeral?"

Henry winces. "No. You were still very sick. I took you to 
visit his grave later."

I nod and slide my hand from his grasp, reaching for the folder 
again. I know I should be more affected by John's death, but it 
just doesn't seem real. None of this does.

I glance at the copy of the marriage certificate for Henry and 
William Peters - dated three months ago - and turn past it to 
find two articles written by Henry from a medical journal. I 
skim through the discussions on forms of amnesia and 
traditional treatments and read about the subject of his case 
study: me. He describes the trauma I suffered in the accident 
and how I came to him confused and paranoid - incapable of 
holding on to memories for more than an hour. He talks about 
various exercises, therapies and medications he tried, the 
ethics of working with a patient who cannot remember consenting 
to experimental treatments (necessitating recorded statements 
and the presence of a social worker) and all the progress and 
setbacks. The knowledge that I have made improvements since the 
onset of my condition is encouraging. 

The last page is a note from Henry that ends with a 
ridiculously florid declaration of love.

"A bit dramatic, isn't it?"

He smiles and it strikes me how devastatingly charming he could 
be. "I know you think me a foolish schoolboy who will 
eventually get over this 'ridiculous infatuation' - as you once 
described it - but I do love you. More than I knew it was even 
possible to love anyone." He sets his fork on his mostly empty 
plate and reaches for my hand again. "You asked me yesterday 
why I married you, knowing your memory might never fully 
recover. I told you I couldn't bear the thought of not being 
with you. I don't care that I have to remind you of who I am 
every day. I love you. Truly and madly. I cannot imagine living 
without you by my side and I don't care to try."

Ridiculous and sentimental though it may be, he obviously 
genuinely believes the words he's saying. "Even if I am 
incapable of loving you even half as much as that?"

I half expect him to get angry, though I don't know why. He has 
shown nothing but remarkable tenderness and patience with me so 
far. 

He smiles and kisses me. "I have to get to surgery," he says as 
he gathers his dishes and stands, finishing the last of his tea 
hurriedly and setting everything in the sink. "Your mobile is 
here, along with your laptop." He points to the counter where 
they are charging. "My number is in the contacts if you need to 
ring me." He fishes keys from the bowl. "I should be home 
around six."

"Mmm." I reach for the honey again, realizing I am, in fact, a 
bit hungry, and spoon some onto my toast.

He smiles as I take a bite and comes back to kiss the top of my 
head. The gesture is obviously habitual, but something about 
the careful precision of it makes me reach up to feel a spot 
near it, my fingers encountering scar tissue beneath the hair. 

"I'm sorry, did I hurt you?"

I look up into his worried eyes. "No, I just...didn't notice 
that before."

He smiles and pulls my hand away gently, kissing my knuckles. 
Then he continues on his path out the door, calling "I love 
you" back to me one last time.

"Mmm-hmm," I mumble around a mouthful of toast.

---

221b looks just as it did when I last saw it. Only now, 
Moriarty is crouched beside the fireplace, poking at the still-
smoking ashes that were clearly only recently a burning log.

"Thought I'd finally got rid of you," I grumble.

He chuckles. "Oh, Sherlock..." My stomach clenches 
uncomfortably. He stands and reaches for an ornate crown 
perched on the mantle. "Or is it William?" I catch his 
exaggerated frown in the mirror before he turns toward me. 
"Scott? What are you calling yourself these days?"

I clench my jaw.

"No matter," he continues, shrugging and placing the crown on 
his head, turning back to the mirror to adjust it. "You always 
say you want to be rid of me, but we both know that people like 
you *need* people like me."

"There are plenty of people like you in the world. You are not 
special."

He tsks and helps himself to my chair. "Come now, we both know 
that's not true or you wouldn't have given it all up to live in 
the country with Pretty Boy."

I struggle to hold back a sneer, though I'm not sure if it's 
his words or just his general presence that bother me.

"What is he again? Another GP?"

"Shut up."

"Tell me...when he's sucking your cock, do you sometimes look 
down and imagine it's really John's head bobbing between your 
legs?"

I am across the room before I am aware I'm moving, my fist 
connecting with his face so forcefully that the crown topples 
from his head, clattering noisily to the floorboards.

He lunges upright, tackling me to the floor, hands wrapping 
tightly around my wrists and pinning my arms above my head. I 
curse myself for not anticipating his attack, allowing him to 
get the upper hand.

"Oh, I missed this," he chortles as I struggle.

I grapple with him, half blind by rage, until I manage to 
reverse our positions. I look down into the face of the man I 
have trapped beneath me and freeze. The man isn't Moriarty 
anymore, even if he does have a similar mischievous grin on his 
face.

"If you wanted to be on top, you could have just asked, 
darling," Henry laughs.

I open my eyes and take a moment to reorientate myself. I am 
sitting on the floor of the sitting room, the laptop open in 
front of me. 

"Well, that was interesting," I mutter to myself as I begin 
typing in my journal.

I had been hoping to find John in 221b so I could try to make 
sense of the baffling encounter I had previously recorded in my 
notes. It seems even in death, Moriarty is determined to thwart 
my plans.

I keep reading my notes, eagerly absorbing everything I've 
forgotten of the past months. It seems much of yesterday was 
spent fretting over how I wound up married to Henry and living 
- seemingly happily - in the suburbs of Liverpool. This seems 
to have stemmed mostly from an odd conversation with Molly in 
my mind palace wherein she insisted that this just wasn't like 
me. 'She's right,' I conclude. 'It isn't like Sherlock Holmes 
to move clear across England and change my entire identity to 
escape a past too painful to think about. But what I told her 
is also true: I am not Sherlock Holmes anymore. I am William 
Peters. I may not always recognize my husband, but I have 
plenty of data to suggest that he takes care of me with the 
patience of someone deeply and irrationally in love. Maybe one 
day I will be able to reciprocate.'

I am interrupted by my mobile ringing. I answer it without 
thinking to check the ID.

"Hullo, Will. It's Lillian," a woman's voice announces, 
awkwardly adding "your neighbor" when I don't respond.

"Oh...yes. Lillian Taylor, right?" This was the neighbor Henry 
claimed actually liked me. The one who *hadn't* punched me in 
the face over some mysterious disagreement. 

"I'm sorry. I always forget about your condition."

"Mmm."

"You asked me to design a label for your honey. I finished the 
mock up. I can pop over for a bit to show you if you're not 
busy."

The prospect of engaging in idle chat with a suburban housewife 
is less than appealing, but the fact that I have spoken to her 
before - even asked her for favors - is intriguing. She could 
prove a valuable source of information.

"I'll put the kettle on."

---

Lillian is an attractive, though average looking, woman with 
dark hair and Celtic features. Her husband, according to my 
notes, is a moderately powerful businessman, which is why she 
can afford to work freelance. She does crime scene sketches for 
the police and consults on archeological research at the 
University of Liverpool, which makes her potentially less 
boring than I initially thought. Recently, it seems, I helped 
her determine a cause of death on a 16th century skull she was 
reconstructing.

Even though she knows I don't really remember her, she greets 
me with a warm embrace and settles easily into the sitting room 
sofa as if she has done this before. She asks how I am with 
more than the usual perfunctory manner, as if she is genuinely 
concerned. At first, I assume this is due to my condition - as 
she put it - but the alarm in her eyes when I hand her the cup 
of tea and she spots the faint bruises on my wrists suggests 
otherwise. I set this observation aside for the moment to 
address her purpose for visiting.

"You'll understand, of course, if I don't remember hiring you."

"Oh, this wasn't really a job. More of a favor for a neighbor. 
You told me you doubted your hive will ever produce enough to 
actually sell at the market, but in case it ever does you 
wanted to have a brand and a label." She draws a sketch and a 
sheet of sticky labels from her carrier bag and lays them on 
the coffee table. "You were very specific in your description 
of how it should look, but I may have taken minor liberties 
with some of the details. Softened her features, mostly. Don't 
want to frighten the children."

I pick up the sketch, which features a friendly-looking, though 
not overly cartoonish, queen bee with an ornate crown perched 
on her head. A dotted line suggests her flight path around and 
through the stylized letters of the brand name I apparently 
chose. 

Above Board.

I think of the words I read in my journal this morning. My 
discussion with John. 'Ever since the Queen went above board.' 
This cannot be a coincidence, but I'm not sure what the 
significance of it is yet. It's as if I'm leaving clues for 
myself, but I'm not sure what puzzle they are meant to solve.

This reminds me of a question that nagged me earlier. "Did the 
hive come with the house?" 

"Yes. It was one of the features you liked best about it. 
Your...husband thought it would give you something to do."

I set the sketch down. "You don't like Henry. Is it because he 
reminds you of a former lover?"

She blinks at me, her mouth working impotently, startled.

"Or a family member, perhaps? You are obviously concerned for 
my safety. You think he's violent."

I can tell her first instinct is to deny my observation. But 
she is smart enough to see the folly in that. She sets her cup 
down on the table. "Not violent, exactly. He's...volatile. 
Unpredictable."

"Have you seen any evidence he has tried to hurt me?"

She eyes my wrists before hesitantly saying. "I can't prove 
anything, but...two months ago someone gave you a black eye. 
You didn't remember how you got it."

"According to my notes, I got it in an argument with the 
neighbor." I point in the direction of the house opposite the 
one Lillian resides in. 

She makes a disbelieving noise. "Bob? I admit I don't know him 
very well. He's always working. But I doubt he would hurt a 
fly."

"Forgive me. I'm not accusing you of anything. I believe you. 
I'm just trying to understand."

Her eyes soften with that look of sympathy. "That's what 
concerns me. I hope I'm wrong, but I'm afraid you wouldn't know 
if I'm not."

I sit back in my chair and press my steepled fingers to my 
lips, contemplating her. 

She sighs. "I know we haven't known each other for long and you 
feel like you barely know me at all, but I want you to know 
that I care about you and I am here for you. If you need 
anything, you have my number."

A relative or a friend. Something happened to them and she 
regrets not having seen the signs earlier. She's afraid of 
making the same mistake again. But she's wrong. At least 
partly. Henry may be volatile, but he isn't a danger to *me*. 

'You're MINE.'

Obviously he is possessive. But that is the sort of impassioned 
declaration that would come from an overdramatic lover. Even if 
it does suggest something darker, it suggests the sort of 
person who would destroy anyone who threatened me or his claim 
over me. 

The sort of person who would never tolerate a neighbor punching 
me in the face.

"Did you see Bob after the alleged fight? Did he have bruises?"

Lillian shakes her head. "As I said, I don't see him much, but 
I don't think so." She finishes her tea and sets the cup on the 
tea tray. "I have a new job I've got to get to." She stands, 
straightens her clothes and bends to kiss my cheek. "Take care 
of yourself, Will," she murmurs. 

I make a vague noise of acknowledgement as she shows herself 
out.

---

I wash Lillian's cup and leave it to dry in the sink. Then I 
locate the coat that must be mine and go out to the garden to 
get a better look at the hive.

It is a standard wood box hive with a reflective cover. I walk 
around it, listening to the hum of a healthy colony while I 
consider all the clues that I have left that seem to be leading 
me here.

When the Queen goes above board.

Crown Royale.

Crown.

I locate my beekeeping equipment in the small shed near the 
hive. If I'm right, there's very little chance of being stung 
as I wouldn't need to open the hive fully, but it wouldn't hurt 
to at least wear gloves.

I hesitate when I spot the smoker and remember another detail 
from my notes. Molly with a cigarette. John with a pipe. Smoke 
curling from Mrs. Hudson's stove and the fire Moriarty was 
tending. I peer inside the smoker and find a single, crumpled 
piece of paper. I unravel it carefully. It has a drawing 
similar to the one in Lillian's sketch, only this one is 
rougher with a more realistic looking bee. Beneath it, in my 
handwriting, are John's words from my journal in the form of a 
quotation. 

"When the queen goes Above Board." - John H. Watson

I return the paper to the smoker, grab my gloves and approach 
the hive, moving slowly and carefully so I don't disturb the 
bees that have ventured outside the box. I lift the top cover 
gently, only moving as much as I absolutely have to, and find 
the memory stick sitting innocuously on top of the inner cover 
- the crown board.

"Thank you, John," I murmur, even though I know he didn't 
really have anything to do with it. In all likelihood, my 
encounter with him in my mind palace never really happened. I 
invented it because I knew if I thought the words were coming 
from John I would understand their significance. I would listen 
to him and trust him. As I always had.

---

The memory stick is password protected, naturally. I stare at 
the blinking cursor in the password prompt as I try to 
determine what sort of password I could possibly have set. 
Obviously it had to be something I would be sure to remember, 
despite my condition. And if all this secrecy is meant to hide 
the information on the drive from Henry - as must surely be the 
case - then it must be something he couldn't possibly know or 
find out using his privilege as my husband. 

I try "Redbeard", but it doesn't work. Not surprising, really. 
If Magnusson knew about it, Henry could probably find it.

I similarly rule out 1058, clever as it may be for the house 
security code. Wasn't that the number The Woman fooled me into 
trying on her camera phone?

Her measurements aren't the password either.

I groan and grind my palms into my forehead in frustration. 
"Think," I mutter under my breath. "What would nobody know?" Or 
perhaps something only a very small number of people would 
know. John would know, probably.

John.

The note had said "John H. Watson." 

I type "Hamish" and tap return. The prompt disappears, replaced 
by a window displaying the contents of the drive. 

As always, John had the answer, even if he wasn't aware he did.

The drive contains what appears to be a copy of my journal. But 
it has to be more than it appears or I wouldn't have gone to 
such trouble to hide it. 

The first few entries are identical to the ones I already read 
this morning. Except they begin with our honeymoon. After the 
familiar pornographic images there is an entry I haven't seen 
before.

'I know Henry is lying to me, but I don't know the extent of 
his deception. Which is why I have duplicated my journal 
entries from this date forward here. I suspect he is editing 
the original file. The contents of this drive should prove it.'

I open my original journal so that I can view both versions on 
the screen simultaneously.

The first few entries are unchanged and simply document our 
move into the new house and my first inspections of the hive. 
This seems to have been when I got the idea to buy a data stick 
from a local shop and hide it in the one place I could be 
certain was mine alone. Each subsequent unique entry in this 
alternate journal is accompanied by observations about the hive 
itself in the original, my recovery of the memory stick 
disguised as simple curiosity about the colony. This might 
explain why I seem to be opening the hive more often than 
strictly necessary, though my amnesia provides a convenient 
excuse.

Some of the changes are so minor that I can't imagine why the 
alterations were deemed necessary. Things like mundane 
conversations with Bob and flashes of memory from the honeymoon 
of Henry buying a package from a man on the street in France 
and speaking to one of the staff at a hotel in Italy. These 
locations seem to have been determined by what language he was 
speaking, noting his apparent fluency.

Then I find the pictures of myself sporting a bruise over my 
left eye. The notes for that day in each version of the journal 
are drastically different. In the "official" version I went 
about my usual data collection after a vague note about arguing 
with the neighbor. Henry treated my injury and fussed over me 
protectively. 'I know he's lying,' I write in the alternate 
journal. 'I suspect he was actually the one who hit me, but I 
can't prove it. I don't even know why he would have done it. I 
have no memory of anything that happened after I put the memory 
stick back in the hive. All I know for certain is that I didn't 
fight with Bob yesterday as Henry claims I did and Henry is 
being particularly affectionate and gentle with me today, as if 
he feels guilty or even remorseful.'

As I continue to read this new version of the events of the 
past month, I am reminded of the way Henry described me in his 
study. Confused. Paranoid. If these notes had been written by 
anyone else, I would draw the same conclusion about their 
author. But even though I have reason to doubt my memories of 
anything prior to or during the honeymoon, my account of the 
events of the past two months doesn't sound confused or 
paranoid. Merely incomplete. Entire days seem to have been 
omitted with no explanation given. Yesterday, for example, 
which is only covered by the journal Henry has access to. 

Twice I announced my intention to escape, only to wake up the 
next morning with no memory of how I got back to the house. 

I come to the day Henry came home on his lunch break. In the 
possibly edited version, my daily activities were interrupted 
by a bout of spontaneous amorousness from my husband. The 
unaltered version notes this too, but in far more graphic 
detail. 

'Henry came home at lunch and dragged me to the bedroom, nearly 
tearing my clothes in his impatience to undress me. He prepared 
me roughly while performing fellatio in a manner I can only 
describe as aggressive. His goal seemed to be to make me reach 
orgasm as quickly as possible. I asked him to slow down once, 
which prompted him to growl and jab at my prostate. I barely 
finished ejaculating down his throat before he flipped me over 
and thrust himself inside me. I felt my hips bruise under his 
fingers. He demanded I say his name and then my own name. I 
said "Will" almost instinctively to this last prompt, which 
made him growl and reach between my legs. He brought me to a 
second orgasm while saying my own name, then pulled out and 
ejaculated across my back.'

The unaltered journal notes this as a potential strange kink. 
The original version - obviously written after I returned the 
stick to the hive - describes Henry acting as the gentle, 
doting husband again that night (as opposed to the fierce, 
hungry lover I had seen mid-day), cooking dinner for me and 
giving me a full-body massage that erased any traces of the 
headache I'd had earlier in the day. 

Why had these details been removed from the official notes? 
There isn't anything particularly disconcerting about the 
unaltered version other than, possibly, the name issue. It 
merely describes a different part of Henry's personality - his 
impatience and possible lack of control. What does this imply 
about our activities last night, for which I only have the one 
account accompanied by a suggestive email, data about anal 
orgasms and some pornographic pictures. 

One month ago, I woke up with memory of the day before, news 
which Henry greeted with a mixture of happiness and wariness. 
In both accounts, I conclude that this is because it had 
happened before and he knew what would come next. The next few 
hours of notes before I returned the stick to its hiding spot 
give two differing accounts of my growing illness and its 
possible cause. I seem to have deliberately written them that 
way, knowing the "official" one would be - if not altered - at 
least read by Henry. In that one, I describe my symptoms as a 
combination of a side-effect of my medication and possible food 
sickness as I go about my work, which included Lillian's skull. 
'I suspect Henry is drugging me, though I don't know why or 
what sort of drug he is using,' I write in my secret journal. 
'I was so caught up in Lillian's case last night that I can't 
remember whether I took the evening dose of "medicine". I 
deliberately concealed this morning's dose and hid it in the 
box containing my microscope slides. I can't test it myself, 
but Lillian might have access to a lab that can. I will try to 
hide one of the evening tablets as well. I would do so now, but 
I've no idea where he hides them. I have searched all likely 
spots and several unlikely ones. I will have to try to trick 
him into revealing their location tonight.'

The next day is entirely missing from the alternate journal and 
the original only contains data regarding Lillian's case. I 
find the box of microscope slides in the small study where I've 
collected some basic lab equipment. There is only one tablet 
inside, so obviously my plans hadn't gone as I'd hoped. But 
I've no idea what happened.  

In the next entry of the secret journal, I note the need for 
more reliable clues leading me to the data stick as I can't 
rely on simple curiosity to compel me to possibly disturb the 
hive. I invent the conversation with John and, when that still 
doesn't prove entirely reliable, I purchase a small jar of 
honey from a local market, transfer it to a cleaned out jam jar 
and toss the original in a bin down the street while on a 
"walk". I ask Lillian to help me design a label, a rejected 
prototype of which I hide in the smoker, and tell Henry that I 
gleaned the honey from my hive. He believes me, proving that he 
thankfully doesn't know anything about bees.

The last few weeks of entries in the secret journal are focused 
primarily on Henry, the nature of our relationship, and 
questions about my mental condition.

'Obviously, I am not being held prisoner. At least not in any 
physical sense. My failed attempts to leave Henry are 
disconcerting, but I seem to have returned of my own free will. 
Though it is still possible he is coercing me in some way of 
which I am unaware.'

'I read the book Lillian loaned me today,' another entry reads. 
'Apparently it is popular with the masses right now. It was a 
predictable, insipid melodrama masquerading as mystery fiction, 
yet I found myself sympathizing with the one of the characters 
(ironically named Watson). When she realizes she can no longer 
trust whether her own memories are real, she says "I have lost 
control over everything, even the places in my head." I fear I 
may be going mad.'

In the final entry - the one from Tuesday -  I note my failure 
to obtain the second evening pill a month ago and outline a 
plan to distract Henry and hide that evening's tablet in the 
bathroom while I'm "washing up". Specifically, I identify the 
linen cupboard as my ideal hiding spot.

I pause to search for this second tablet, though I don't expect 
to find it. If my plan had succeeded, surely I would have 
another journal entry from Wednesday. At the very least, the 
notes I have wouldn't indicate that I suffered a relapse of my 
amnesia. 

Improbably, I find a small white tablet, nearly identical to 
the one in the microscope slide box, tucked beneath a stack of 
linens. I stare at it, struggling to make sense of the 
conflicting data. I have no way of knowing whether I took the 
evening pill or not one month ago before I woke up with my 
memories mostly intact. But now it seems I deliberately tried 
to recreate the conditions of the experiment two days ago to 
completely unexpected results. I didn't take the pill and I 
lost my memory anyway.

I return to the laptop in defeat, setting the offending tablet 
beside me on the table where I can glare at it as I note this 
failed experiment in my notes. 'There are several possible 
explanations, but I can't be certain of any of them without 
more data,' I write.

Of course, the simplest explanation could be that my condition 
is real and the drug really is working. But the data I have 
doesn't prove that yet. In any case, repeating the experiment 
would clear up any uncertainties.

I begin new entries for today in both journals. In the one 
Henry can access, I note my encounter with Moriarty in my mind 
palace (including the moment where he became Henry), a careful 
account of my meeting with Lillian (omitting her concerns for 
my safety) and observations about the hive. 

In the alternate journal, I copy the interlude with Moriarty, 
give the full account of my meeting with Lillian along with my 
newfound doubts about the alteration with Bob, and then set 
about collecting data on Henry. If something is truly off about 
my current situation, then he is at the heart of it.

Unfortunately, there doesn't seem to be much to dig up on him. 
He is an only child and both of his parents are long since 
deceased. He has a medical degree from the University of London 
and volunteered for several years with Médecins Sans Frontières 
in Algeria, Mali, Libya and Egypt. I note this in my journal as 
possible corroboration of his fluency in French.

I hesitate as I realize this is one of the memories he deleted 
- assuming, of course, that he is the one who has tampered with 
my notes. Why would he try to conceal this detail from me? It 
can't be because he doesn't want me to know he speaks French. 
That's hardly an uncommon skill for an Englishman. If, indeed, 
he was the one who deleted that memory, he must have done it 
for another reason.

I re-read the entry with the memories from our honeymoon, but I 
seem to have been too far away to hear more than a few 
scattered French words and phrases. Things like "husband" and 
"honeymoon" and "twelve days". Nothing useful. I was closer 
when the situation repeated itself in Italy, but my Italian is 
much more rudimentary than my French. I understood just enough 
to know that he was arguing with the stranger about money.

My mobile rings as I'm still pondering this information. I 
glance at the screen to see Henry's name and, with only a half-
formed plan to prove my theory, answer with "oui, mon mari."

My words hang in the silence for a moment before he answers. 
"Autant que j'adore quand tu me parles en français, je suis 
vachement fatigué maintenant. Peut-on parle anglais?"

The near-native fluidity of his words is colored by a distinct 
weariness. "What's wrong?"

"It's fine. Look...I probably won't be home for dinner, love. 
There are some leftovers in the fridge if you get hungry or you 
can order in. Your medicine is in the cupboard above the 
stove."

It takes me a moment to register the gift I have just been 
given. Hiding the tablet will be easier than I thought. But 
there is still something about his tone that bothers me. I 
rephrase my question. "What's happened?"

He sighs. "Accident out on the A59. I'll tell you more when I 
get home. I just...I needed to hear your voice."

I cast about for something to say and come up empty.

"How are you feeling? You had a headache yesterday."

"Oh. Er...I'm fine."

"Good. There's paracetamol in the bath and herbal tea in the 
cupboard by the kitchen sink if it comes back. That always 
seems to take the edge off." He takes a deep, slightly 
trembling breath. "I have to get back to my patient. Don't wait 
up."

"Okay."

"I love you."

I open my mouth to respond and hesitate, not sure what I'm 
supposed to respond *with*. It doesn't matter. He's already 
disconnected.

---

Henry's disclosure of his hiding spot for the tablets turns out 
to not be the fortunate break I had hoped it would be. Instead 
of a bottle with some sort of markings, I find a plastic 
container used for sorting medications taken on a daily 
schedule. There are tiny partitions for "AM" and "PM" doses on 
each day of the week. Each slot from Thursday PM on through the 
week-end contains a single tablet. 

There is a certain logic to this, I console myself. An amnesiac 
can't well be trusted to follow a prescribed regimen any more 
than a patient with Alzheimer's. The risk of over-dose would be 
too great. If my memory retention has only recently grown to a 
full twenty-four hour period then I probably still cannot be 
fully trusted to remember how many pills I've taken on any 
given day. Except I wouldn't remember to take the pills at all 
if Henry didn't remind me. I wonder if he has them sorted like 
this for this exact scenario - so I can take them myself and he 
can still be assured I will follow the schedule. 

Regardless, while it will be easy for me to hide tonight's 
tablet without Henry's knowledge, I cannot remove any more 
tablets from the container without him noticing the absence. 

I am determined to see this experiment through however, so I 
hide the Thursday PM dose and the tablet I found in the linen 
cupboard in my microscope slide box and note everything in my 
private journal. 

There are several possible solutions to the puzzle my life has 
become, all stemming from two main hypotheses. The first: my 
rare condition is real and the drug really is an experimental 
nootropic designed to treat it. As tempting as it is to dismiss 
this idea, it makes the most sense based on the data I have 
collected so far. The second hypothesis: my condition is 
actually *caused* by the drug, whatever it is. But to what end? 
What could Henry possibly hope to gain from making me believe I 
have amnesia?

I can find little more information on Henry. After his 
humanitarian tours in Africa he settled back in England. He was 
working A&E at a hospital in London when I had my accident. The 
rest of his story is in my notes. Aside from one drunk and 
disorderly charge and one dismissed charge of impropriety from 
a patient that was clearly more rooted in homophobia than 
reality, he is entirely, unimaginatively clean.

I check the police records and find an accident matching 
Henry's description from earlier today. It seems a tire came 
off a lorry, causing it to swerve dangerously. At least three 
other cars were involved. One victim died at the scene. Five 
others were taken to hospital in varying conditions. I wonder, 
idly, which one Henry is treating. From the tension in his 
voice, I would guess his patient is one of the more critical 
ones.

It is getting late and I am not certain how much longer I will 
have the luxury of privacy. I wrap up my notes in the secret 
journal and return the memory stick to the hive. Then I return 
to the file on the desktop and carefully construct a narrative 
that frames my research into Henry as simple curiosity. 

I affix the label Lillian designed to the jar of honey and hope 
that it will be enough to guide me to the memory stick tomorrow 
should my experiment fail and my memories of today vanish.

I need to think. I'm pretty sure I saw a violin in my study-
cum-laboratory.

---

The violin, like so many things in my present life, is familiar 
despite clearly not being the one I had back at Baker Street. 
It is a fine, perfectly tuned instrument that I've no doubt I 
have made good use of in recent months. 

I run through all the standards I have committed to memory. 
Beethoven, Mozart, Boccherini, Chopin, God Save the Queen. 
Anything that is so ingrained in muscle memory that I no longer 
need to concentrate on the fingering. This allows me to focus 
on more pressing matters. 

The human mind is terribly unreliable when it comes to memory. 
Even my own superior intellect cannot necessarily overcome the 
natural tendency to conflate events, dreams and suppositions. 
Whether my condition is a real medical one or is artificially 
constructed by drugs, the effect is the same. I cannot trust my 
memories and I cannot draw anything concrete from either of my 
journals. Lillian's observations contain some noteworthy 
points, but are too clouded by her emotional biases to be of 
much use. 

I need to filter out all the distractions and focus on the 
facts.

I was in an accident eight months ago. John was driving. I 
sustained a head injury. He didn't survive. 

I am currently married to Dr. Henry Peters and living in 
Cressington Park. He makes sure I take a pill twice a day for 
purposes of which I am yet uncertain.

I don't trust Henry, but I don't fear him either. I am fairly 
certain I could overpower him physically if need be. The fact 
that I haven't, even after he hit me if the suspicions Lillian 
and I share are correct, suggests I've had no cause to.

I've threatened to leave him, yet I am still here. Like a child 
making hollow threats to run away from home. And why should I 
leave? There is nothing abhorrent about my life here aside from 
my inability to remember it.

Regardless of the outcome of my experiment, no matter what the 
pills are for, I don't doubt Henry's love for me. His devotion 
is irrational, certainly, but unwavering. 

I am several measures into Bach's "Air" when I realize I am no 
longer alone. I turn to find Henry standing in the doorway, 
leaning against the frame, a glass of some amber colored liquor 
cradled in one hand. 

"Don't stop," he protests softly. "It was beautiful."

His clothing is rumpled. His eyes are red-rimmed. 

His patient died.

"How old was he?"

Henry huffs out a breath. "Late thirties. His wife is in 
intensive care."

About my age. Died of injuries sustained in a car accident, 
leaving behind at least one loved one.

I put down the violin and bow and cross the room to him, taking 
the glass from his hand and setting it on a nearby table. 

I can feel his body trembling faintly as I kiss him. He makes a 
noise almost like a whimper, his hand cupping the back of my 
neck, but he doesn't try to take control. 

He tastes like Scotch.

I slide my hands beneath the untucked hem of his shirt, 
smoothing over warm skin that shudders as he gasps against my 
lips. 

He presses his forehead to mine, wraps his arms loosely around 
my shoulders. His breathing is uneven, as if he is barely 
holding back an emotional outburst. 

"I don't know what I'd do if I lost you," he whispers.

I rest my hands on his hips, steadying him. He leans into me. I 
have no doubt if we stay here any longer he will simply sag to 
the floor. 

"Should get you to bed," I venture. 

He sighs, his alcohol-scented breath warming my cheek, but 
doesn't move. 

I unwrap his arms and gently coax him up to our bedroom. He 
follows, docile, and allows me to remove his shoes and trousers 
without protest. When I slide my fingers under the waistband of 
his pants, however, he stops me.

"Let me just...wash up a bit."

The look he gives me is uncertain and soft and I realize that - 
perhaps for the first time in the months since my accident - 
*I* am the one taking care of *him*.

I cup his cheek, running my thumb delicately over his lips. 
They part instinctively and his eyes flutter closed. Lillian 
may be right in thinking him unpredictable, but he is far from 
dangerous. At least at the moment. 

I debate confronting him about everything. Forcing him to tell 
me the truth. But I don't know yet what the "truth" might be. 
Until I know what those pills are and what they do, it is 
probably better to wait. Play the part and see where this all 
leads. Keep gathering evidence so when I do confront him I will 
have the complete picture. 

"I'll just finish up my notes," I say.

He opens his eyes, looking slightly dazed. Then he nods, kisses 
my palm and pulls away from me, disappearing into the bath.

---

I note as many details in my journal as I deem safe about 
Henry's return tonight and my deductions about his state of 
mind. I wish I could add more to the copy in the hive, but 
retrieving it now would be too risky.

'It is obvious that his efforts to save his patient today 
reminded him of treating me months ago in some oblique way, 
prompting him to contemplate the possibility of my death,' I 
write. 'This line of thought greatly distressed him and now he 
seeks comfort and reassurance from me that I am not sure I am 
adequately equipped to provide.' Because, more importantly, 
what he seeks is reciprocity of his love for me. 

I save the journal and close the laptop, leaving it on the 
kitchen table as I return to the bedroom. 

I spare a glance at Henry, laying on the bed with one arm 
draped over his eyes, before turning toward the bath to wash up 
myself. I brush my teeth even though I haven't eaten anything 
since breakfast (I needed to think).

The lamp on my side of the bed is the only light in the room. I 
hover beside the bed for a few moments, filing away details I 
can't be certain I will ever be able to access again. Henry is 
well muscled enough that I wonder when he finds time to work 
out. There's a light dusting of hair on his chest and below his 
navel, disappearing beneath the bedsheet draped across his 
hips. There are faint scratches and bruises along his body that 
mirror the ones on mine, the remaining evidence of what was 
apparently a very enthusiastic round of sex two nights ago. But 
other than an older scar on his abdomen, his skin is far more 
unblemished than mine. 

I wonder how many times I have done this. Traced the contours 
of his body with my eyes, hands, lips. How many times have I 
learned exactly how to touch him to make him gasp or moan or 
even beg - only to forget it all?

He senses my stare and lifts his arm from his face, blinking up 
at me. He smiles, soft and genuine, and reaches for me in 
invitation.

I turn out the light, let my dressing gown fall to the floor, 
and crawl beneath the covers. He pulls me into his arms and 
kisses me gently, lazily. I let my fingers explore blindly, 
feeling his breath catch when my thumb grazes a nipple. He 
makes breathy, helpless noises as my lips explore his neck.

Sensitive. Responsive.

I have just slipped my hand beneath the sheet when he stops me 
with a firm grip on my wrist. 

"Sorry. I don't think I can tonight, love."

Of course. He's probably too knackered for that. I rest my hand 
flat on his abdomen and settle into his side, my head resting 
on his shoulder. He tilts my head back with gentle fingers 
beneath my chin so he can recapture my lips. Then he sighs, 
presses his lips to my forehead, and settles with one hand 
covering mine and the other tangled in my hair. 

I wait until his breathing deepens with sleep before carefully 
pulling away. 

I lay on my back, watching the shadows move across the ceiling. 
I consider going out to the hive to retrieve the memory stick 
in case I'm proven wrong and relapse overnight. But that would 
only wake him and risk rousing suspicion. I can't disrupt the 
fragile trust he has in me. Not yet. Instead, I go into my mind 
palace and place my wedding ring on the music stand in 221b. 

Then, with Henry's soft snores filling my ears, I relax and 
allow myself to sleep.

---

Day 3

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

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

John.

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

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

A dream. No. A memory.

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

Henry.

My eyes pop open. I remember.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you all right," he asks warily.

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

"I'm fine." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Will..."

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

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

And that's when his alarm blares.

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

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

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

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

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

"He's worried about you."

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

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

"John." 

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

He folds the paper and smiles up at me. 

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

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

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

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

"Henry loves me," I say slowly.

John nods encouragingly. 

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

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

"Which is?"

"Why?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I miss you," I mumble. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mmm."

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

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

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

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

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

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

I bite my tongue. Not yet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Will?"

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

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

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

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

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

"How many times?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"His name isn't Henry."

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

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

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

"I'm fine," I answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A bit," I mumble. 

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

"It's hardly an emergency."

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

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

"I love you."

I make a non committal noise. 

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I know," I stammer through chattering teeth.

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

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

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

I roll on my back and frown up at John.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I stop fighting and everything goes black.

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, I mean your real name."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was sent to Mycroft.

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

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

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

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

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

"James what?"

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

"Your father?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Am I?"

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

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

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

That was easier than I expected. "Why?"

"Because you asked me to."

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

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

"No, I would like some answers."

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

"I'm not hungry."

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

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

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

I stare at him silently.

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

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

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

"I wasn't living with you already?"

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

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

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

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

"You, me and Mycroft."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I retrieve the charged laptop and retreat into the bedroom.

---

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

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

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

"It's in the kitchen, charging."

I hesitate. "Did you read it?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Think you can handle Spaghetti Bolognese?" 

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

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

"No. I'll come down."

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

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

No, I'm pretty sure I deduced it.

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

"Yours is on the counter."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Something wrong?"

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

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

"What did he say?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I love you," he whispers.

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

---

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

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

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

"Mmm...can't sleep?"

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

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

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

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

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

"That wasn't an objection."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---
Day 4

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

And I am naked.

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

"Er...no. Not hungry."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, it can't be that easy.

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

Treatment. Right. The pill.

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

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

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

I close the laptop and make for the upstairs bath.

---

"Not yet," he pleads.

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

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

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

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

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

"I know."

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

I swat his hand away. "Not yet."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What," I prompt breathlessly.

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

"Mmm. Me too."

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

"Stop it."

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

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

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

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

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

---

"When did you take up smoking?"

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

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

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

I sigh and repeat. "TS..."

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

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

"What case was that again?"

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

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

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

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

'What, as in Eliot?'

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

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

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

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

'How did you know about that?'

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

'I don't remember.'

Another pause, then 'right. Sorry mate.'

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

'What do you mean?'

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

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

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

'Off? How?'

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

Wait...why was I ill?

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

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

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

That actually does sound lovely. I start to stand. 

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

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

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

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

"No," I grumble.

"Have you tried your mind palace?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Rosie--"

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

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

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

I groan. "That's a yes."

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

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

Except...

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

"I assume you proposed?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ah...no, thanks."

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

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

"No. Why?"

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

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

"Something wrong, Will?"

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

"Really? What did you remember?"

"Nothing. I was wrong."

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

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

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

"Maybe."

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

---

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Diabolical," he agrees with a smirk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You think I could be a killer?"

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

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

My head is beginning to ache. 

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

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

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

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

"You don't scare me."

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

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

He smiles knowingly. "Yes, you do."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Headache?"

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

"Any nausea?"

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

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

"No."

"Feeling faint?"

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

I hum vaguely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I told you about that?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

I groan.

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

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

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

"Why?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Grainne Ni Mháille."

"Sorry?"

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you ever think about having children?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

Like a narcotic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Someone has been.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Why do you want me to forget you?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---
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 bathroom, 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 bath. 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 worshiping 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 bathroom.

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 bath, 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 toilet 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.

---
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 bath 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 bathroom, 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."