Chapter Text
Amnesia is just another challenge.
That's the way that Sherlock sees it. A puzzle for him to solve, a case to crack, a riddle to untangle. Of course, Mycroft has always seen it differently - "It's just a nuisance, Sherlock, why would you possibly want to keep it?" - but then, when has Mycroft's opinion ever mattered? It adds some determination to his cases after all; wanting to finish the case completely before sleep takes over, his brain inevitably flushing out everything he's ever learnt since he was 19.
The only part that's somewhat unmanageable is the grip of terror that resonates in his chest each morning. Waking up somewhere he doesn't recognise, with no knowledge of how he got there, and a complete blank on any rational thought. Most days, even contemplating the idea of reliving that first morning is enough to keep Sherlock awake for days on end, keeping his mind occupied with composing, or small experiments he's always been meaning to try (which he's delighted to find he has most of the equipment for, until he realises yet again that he's done the experiment several times before).
This morning is no different.
The smell is wrong, the air is wrong, the bed is too comfortable and the lights outside are too bright and his heart is beating wildly out of his chest and there's something wrong but he doesn't know what.
Breathe. Take it in. Concentrate.
A small room, most likely down the hall from the kitchen, judging by the smell of cooking - homely, someone definitely lives here. A very different atmosphere from the university he's so used to.
As he sits up from his bed, his eyes fall naturally on a little post-it note on his wall.
In my eyes, the life, lies drawer and cupboard, lies truth in a life long book. Will you Read or Resurrect it.
Sherlock's handwriting, not that he remembers writing it. No notion to proper punctuation or grammar, but it wasn't written in a hurry. He's never fancied abstract poetry either. He left himself a message then, but he wanted it hidden. He's not alone, although he knew that from the smell wafting in from the kitchen. No immediate danger, hopefully. A skip code. First word then every third.
In my eyes, the life, lies drawer and cupboard, lies truth in a life long book. Will you Read or Resurrect it.
In the drawer lies a book. Read it
Sherlock looks in the side drawer, pulling out a small notepad with paper sticking out the edges. He opens it to the first page.
Don't panic.
Sherlock tries not to scoff at it. Him, panic? Then again, he did write it.
BASICS
Your name is William (See Transition) Sherlock Scott Holmes
Birthday: 9th January 1976.
It's unclear how much you will remember each morning. Amnesia as a result of abnormalities in the limbic system of the brain.
Your address is 221B Baker Street.
Your flatmate is called John Watson, and he is your friend. You can make your own deductions, but there is more detail on him later on.
Your landlady is Mrs Hudson. Make sure you treat her with respect and decency, as it is the least she deserves.
Your brother is called Mycroft. Annoying. Don't bother with him. He knows you have amnesia and will pester you about ways to fix it. You don't want that.
You are a consulting detective at Scotland Yard. A man called Geoff Gary Graham Lestrade will come by sometimes to ask you to solve some of their cases. Only take the ones you want.
The woman who works at the mortuary (St Bart's Hospital) is called Molly Hooper.
Scotland Yard are all idiots. Don't be surprised by it.
IMPORTANT:
Moriarty is a name that should be feared, and when in doubt, talk to Mycroft about necessary information.
Skip to last entry for current events.
He does so.
John is mad because you left an experiment on rat's intestines on the same shelf as the bacon. Approach with caution and keep in mind any normal signs of anger. Maybe make the coffee this morning to cheer him up.
Ask Lestrade for new cases. Check John's blog for the latest case.
The Woman (See Irene Adler) texted yesterday. Keep text alert on vibrate so as to not aggravate John further.
Still trying to get his breathing under control, Sherlock processes the information for a few moments. He can't quite be sure why on earth he'd want to forget his life every morning. Is it really that awful?
He decides that it's probably a good idea to get up and meet this John person. Rubbing his face carefully, faint stubble, he stands and enters the kitchen.
And that's where Sherlock's brain decides to fizzle out entirely.
A man is stood there, leaning on the counter while an omelette cooks on the hob. It takes all of his energy to stop himself from comparing John to the ludicrous and fastidious idea that is God, but nevertheless, this man appears to be the embodiment of almost perfection.
"Sherlock?"
Sherlock snaps back to reality. Used to be in the army. Strict background. Not an immediate threat. Friend. Be polite. "Sleep well?" He feels stupid for saying it. How on earth he'd ever managed to convince John Watson that Sherlock "That Freak We All Hate" Holmes is friend material is completely beyond him.
John hums in response and focuses his attention on the microwave, giving Sherlock a chance to study him closer.
This is the fun part, he thinks, as he does every morning. Learning John Watson again and again.
A good man, strong morals. He's with me, so he knows what I do. No, more than that, he likes to help. So he likes danger, obviously, considering he was in the army-
The deductions come and go, all in a matter of seconds.
He thinks back to what the book said. "Should I start on the coffee?"
John looks at him, raising his eyebrow in amusement. Not angry then. "As long as you don't drug me this time."
Must be something to do with the last case. "You know my reasons." Sherlock waves it off, reaching for where he guesses the mugs are kept. He guesses correctly, thankfully. "Anything new?"
"We just had a case, Sherlock." John laughs, and Sherlock vaguely wishes he could catalogue that sound to replay later. He dismisses the notion with a thought. "If you're that desperate, you can text Lestrade. I'm sure he's had a few back burners lying around for God knows how long."
Sherlock huffs a bit on instinct. Already he can feel himself start to get bored.
His phone pings, as if it somehow sensed it. Switch it to vibrate.
He grabs it and opens the text.
Lestrade: Six dead in old flat, multiple DNA analysis identifies them all as Jacob Milner. Will you come?
Sherlock takes a moment to give his phone a proper look over. It's bigger than he was expecting. Fascinating.
He quickly types out a response and turns the volume down, almost surprised at how quickly he can figure this phone-thing out.
Who's on forensics? SH
Lestrade: You know who. Anderson.
Something tells him that Anderson's incredibly stupid, but he can't quite pinpoint it.
Be there in 5 SH
"Case?" John glances at Sherlock.
Sherlock nods. "Are you coming?" He goes over to the coat peg and hastily puts a coat on.
John sniggers at little. Sherlock can't help the small bubble of rage that builds under his skin. Was that a bad question? Stupid stupid stupid-
"Sherlock?"
"What?" Sherlock snaps at him.
"You're still in your pyjamas." John looks particularly pleased with himself. Scratch that, he looks smug.
He looks down at himself, and yes, John appears to be right. "Oh." He can't help the small breath of a laugh that comes out at that. Sherlock has to admit he might looks a bit foolish wandering into Scotland Yard in nothing but his PJs and a big swishy coat. He rather likes the coat, come to think of it. He briefly wonders if he has any spares.
Sherlock clears his throat. "Terrific deduction, but I was hoping you'd go deeper."
"You know you said that to me when we first met." John is smiling, and Sherlock wonders how that day might have gone absent-mindedly. "Or at least, something similar."
"The things your brain retains will forever fascinate me, John."
"You said that yesterday." John's smile gets a bit wider.
Sherlock goes off to his room without another word. The conversation was getting tedious anyway, especially considering he can't remember anything that happened yesterday.
"Did she text you again?"
Sherlock decides it's best not to answer
Scotland Yard are more stupid than he anticipates.
Lestrade - dog lover, wife cheating on him - the most bearable of the lot, shows him into the room with the bodies. "Six of them, all male, varying heights and physical description," he rattles off, "all with the same identity. It's got us all stumped."
"Well yes, but that's because you're all idiots." Sherlock crouches down near one of the bodies. "Sorry, what was it you said earlier?"
Lestrade frowns. "Uh, varying heights-"
"No, before that." Sherlock huffs a bit and smells one of the corpses.
"Six, all male?"
Sherlock looks at Lestrade. "Were any of them on any kind of medication?"
"Haven't managed to do a full body autopsy yet, but there aren't any abnormalities so far." Lestrade sighs. "What can you tell us?"
"He was a druggie, he could have overdosed." Anderson - overcompensating, former school bully, stupid- says, pointing to one of the bodies. "There's injection marks on his arm." Incredibly stupid.
"He wasn't smacking up in a drug den." Sherlock snaps, almost a bit too forcefully.
Anderson scoffs. "Of course, because you've taken enough to know the difference."
"In this case, most definitely. He wasn't doing it recreationally." Sherlock takes his phone out again, slowly but surely finding his way onto the internet, mostly down to muscle memory. "What does the profile say about him? Does it mention any former name?"
"No, why-?"
"Anderson, shut up." Sherlock looks up at John. "Well?"
"Well what?" John frowns a bit.
"You're a doctor, look over the other bodies."
"Well what about that one?" Lestrade motions to the body Sherlock is examining.
"It can't be him." Sherlock stands and is ready to move onto the others, before John interrupts his train of thought.
"Why can't it?" It's not rude - it's genuine and curious and for a second, Sherlock wants to smile.
"This man is transgender. See the acne on his face, the lack of facial hair while there being no sign he recently shaved, he's obviously lost quite a lot of weight recently; all of which are natural side effects of regular testosterone injections, the fact he's never had a former name just proves it further. Which is why if you lift up his shirt..." He pulls the shirt up, and sure enough, there are two scars underneath where the victim's breast tissue would have been. "It's colloquially called top surgery."
"Fantastic." John says it quietly with a bit of awe. It makes Sherlock's chest feel uncomfortably tight.
"Then what does that have to do with recreational drugs?" Anderson pipes up.
"Absolutely nothing. That's why you're an idiot." Sherlock looks down at the next body.
"But you said you'd have experience with it before." Anderson stares at him in disbelief.
"Exactly." Sherlock looks back up at Anderson, daring him to say anything else. Luckily for him, Anderson decides to stay silent.
John coughs to get everyone's attention. "Uh, late thirties, no real evidence of consumption-"
"Not him."
They don't even bother to ask this time, probably feeling too awkward about the new information they just uncovered. It annoys Sherlock to no end.
He continues rattling off more deductions, feeling an urge to get out of there as soon as possible before any kind of taunting starts, and within minutes he's leaving the crime scene with John close behind.
The taxi ride is tense, to say the least. John keeps clearing his throat like he's about to say something, but then changes his mind at the last second. The whole predicament is putting Sherlock on edge; he's even tapping his leg rhythmically to relieve his stress levels.
After a minute, it simply gets too much. "Say it?"
"What?" John turns his head to Sherlock, looking a little dazed.
"Whatever it is, just say it." His tone is clipped.
John sighs. "Sherlock, you know that all of us, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade... We all still care about you."
"What's that got to do with any of this?" Sherlock frowns at him.
"I'm just saying... It's fine, all of it, even if you're-"
"If I'm what?" The conversation is just making Sherlock feel more tense.
A flash of hurt passes over John's face. Sherlock kind of regrets snapping at him now. "I just wanted to make sure you knew that it's alright. All of it."
Sherlock feels goosebumps race across his skin, his heart figuratively swelling to twice its usual size. He gets that clench in his stomach again and Sherlock wonders if there's some medical solution to it.
He's not done, apparently. "I love you, Sherlock, I just want to you know that."
"You might want to shut up now, John." He didn't mean it to come across so harshly, he really, really didn't, but everything just feels so overwhelming and intense and Sherlock just wants to lean over and kiss him.
And isn't that a thought.
Regardless, the feeling of regret he gets just after he says it takes over entirely, especially when John's face closes off again. He wants John to understand. Please understand. I don't know what I'm doing here.
John, however, has turned to look out the window, his lips pressed in a firm line.
Sherlock starts to understand why he didn't want his memory back.