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diandrahollmanI removed the "dubious consent" tag because I felt I might have been overly cautious about the ethics involved with Sherlock's condition. This will be discussed in future chapters and I will label those chapters accordingly.
E-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, 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
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 b 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 worshipping 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 gender 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 reorient 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.' 'You came to me in a dream last night to tell 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.
E-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, 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
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 b 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 worshipping 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 gender 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 reorient 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.' 'You came to me in a dream last night to tell 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.
