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diandrahollmanE-Mail: diandrahollman@gmail.com
Website: http://diandrahollman.neocities.org
LJ: http://diandrahollman.livejournal.com
Rating: vacillates between R and NC-17
Keywords: Sherlock/OMC, Tom Hiddleston fancast, unrequited John/Sherlock, dubious consent, drugs, slash, Sherlock POV
Spoilers: nothing past "His Last Vow"
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.
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 only 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.
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.
Previous chapters
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 had a brief, pathetic desire to beg him not to leave. I quickly dismissed it as some ridiculous side effect of my condition. I had so many more questions - which he likely knew the answers to. But I could 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.
TBC
Website: http://diandrahollman.neocities.org
LJ: http://diandrahollman.livejournal.com
Rating: vacillates between R and NC-17
Keywords: Sherlock/OMC, Tom Hiddleston fancast, unrequited John/Sherlock, dubious consent, drugs, slash, Sherlock POV
Spoilers: nothing past "His Last Vow"
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.
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 only 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.
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.
Previous chapters
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 had a brief, pathetic desire to beg him not to leave. I quickly dismissed it as some ridiculous side effect of my condition. I had so many more questions - which he likely knew the answers to. But I could 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.
TBC
