He wakes up in a room. He wakes slowly, drifting into consciousness like a leaf along the river. Eventually, after an indeterminate period of time spent weaving in and out of light and whispers and too loud noises, the leaf plunges over the edge of the fall, and he wakes completely.
His eyes are open, he is breathing, his heart is beating, and he needs to pee. He is alive.
This shouldn't surprise him, but it does. He's not sure why. He's not sure of much, now that it comes to him. He tries to make a list.
I am alive.
I am awake.
I have to pee.
I am alive.
The list trails off after this, even after several tries. Either there is much less to be sure of than he thought, or he just can't hold it all in his head. Both options are unfavorable. Both options are a bit not good.
He can hear voices, sounds, and see lights, but he does not respond.
Both options are unfavorable.
He drifts back off to sleep.
He wakes again, and it is brighter, louder, sharper. He can think of more things.
I am alive.
I am awake.
I no longer have to pee.
I am not alone.
I am hungry.
I am cold.
I am not alone.
He tries to focus on the others that he feels are around, but the light and the noise are too much. He tries to close his eyes, but he finds that they are already shut. A voice, familiar but far away, is calling to him. The words are jumbled, they don't make sense, but he expected that. Why did he expect that?
A dark patch looms over him, and a sweet, calm feeling floats through his veins.
I have been drugged.
Someone has drugged me.
The list stops as he once again loses his consciousness.
He wakes several more times, and his list slowly grows. He tries to count the number of times he has awoken, but he loses track every time.
I am awake.
My heart is beating.
I am breathing.
I am warm.
I am not alone.
My name
My name
My name
He knows his name, but the syllables escape him. The others say it to him, and he recognizes it, but he cannot reproduce it.
I can move my fingers.
I can wiggle my toes.
He gets lost for a while on the word wiggle, rolling it around his mind for some time.
I can move all my extremities. I am not paralyzed.
This surprises him, but he is not sure why.
He starts his list from the beginning, until the dark spot comes back and he is pulled back into the dark.
He begins to recognize the voices, and begins to attach names to the dark spots. Molly, Lestrade, Mycroft, Molly again, and Molly, Molly, Molly. She is the one in charge of the drug. There is someone else, but he cannot decipher him. He feels his hands on his body, causing pain but making it better. The only word he can find is brusque. Eventually he makes an association: doctor. He names the spot Dr. Brusque. He knows there should be something else, but it is locked away. His list grows and grows.
I am awake.
I am alive.
I am not paralyzed.
I am not alone.
Molly is here, she controls the drug.
Mycroft is here, he brings lots of words.
Lestrade is here, he brings the smell of blood.
The doctor is here, he is brusque, and I know that I know him but I do not know him.
My name is
My name
He lives in the present. He loses his first waking moments, but creates new ones. He cannot reach back into the past. He doesn't think about the past. The past is boring. He wants to figure out now.
One day, there is lots of noise. Lots of light, and lots of loud. Cheering.
But later, Molly. Molly is making soft noises. He thinks that Molly is sad.
I am awake.
I am alive.
I am not paralyzed.
I am not alone.
Molly is here, she is crying.
He wants to comfort her, does not understand why he can't, why she doesn't notice that he reaches toward her, why she doesn't stop crying.
She doesn't give the drug, and he hurts. There is pain, sharp for the first time, throbbing and aching, all over his body. His body, his nerves, are on fire, he is being crushed by rocks and stabbed by knives. He does not fall back asleep.
There is shouting the next morning, and then he gets the drug. Mycroft, he gave the drug. Molly is gone. Molly doesn't come back.
He begins to make out more and more of his world. One day, he opens his eyes and sees Lestrade watching him. He smiles, and after a moment Lestrade smiles back. Lestrade calls out, and then he sees Mycroft. Lestrade is crying, but he is not sad. They say his name, they act delighted. He does not understand. He has not done anything different. He imagines that they did not notice him before, which is disquieting. They speak slowly to him, calling to him for ages, but he does not reply. He watches, studies, observes. He does not feel the need to participate, not yet.
They give him less and less of the drug. He spends much more time awake, much more time deciphering his surroundings. The words being to make sense, begin to form cohesive patterns in his mind. He begins to notice the passage of time, begins to notice that the others are changing their clothing, shedding layers and then putting them back on again. Molly returns, with nervous smiles and shaky hands. There is something wrong with her, but the other's don't notice. The others pretend not to notice?
One day he awakes to see Dr. Brusque fiddling with the stand by his bed. He watches the doctor for almost a minute, before a door in the back of his head unlocks. John. Doctor John Watson. He smiles, and speaks. "John."
John turns in surprise, frowning. He stares at him a minute, then looks out and calls to Mycroft.
He tries again. "John."
Mycroft appears in his field of vision, mirroring John's frown.
He is confused, he doesn't understand why John won't reply. "John?"
This time he hears it. The horrible, rasping, gargling noise. Is that him? Is that the noise his words make?
John and Mycroft talk over him, voices agitated and
agitated and
and
hopeful.
Their voices are hopeful. Hope. The only thing stronger than fear. He does not understand this connection, but then again he does not understand hope. Or fear, for that matter.
They bring him liquid, liquid cool and clear that slides down his throat like a blessing. Water. They bring him water. He tries again. "John." Success. "You are John. You are my doctor. You are Doctor John Watson."
John blinks down at him, his face a mystery. Joy, yes, and relief, but
and relief, but
relief, but
but
fear.
Joy, relief, and fear. Why would John be afraid? There is nothing to be afraid of. There is nothing of which to be afraid. Isn't there? John replies. "Yes, that's right."
Mycroft beams down and him. "And I?"
"Mycroft. My brother. Obviously." He knows Mycroft, has known him. It's not new. He wants new.
Mycroft and John share a laugh, which he does not understand. Lestrade arrives, out of nowhere, and grins at him.
"Do you know who this is?" John's voice is slow, patronizing.
"Lestrade. He's a friend."
Lestrade's face contorts for a moment, revealing deep emotion. "Yeah, I suppose." He grins again. "Shame Mols isn't here," Lestrade remarks to the others.
"Molly. Molly is a friend." But there is something wrong with Molly, he adds to himself.
"Would you like to sit up?" John's inquisitive face matches John's inquisitive tone, which is comforting.
"Yes." He has been lying down for a long time. A long time?
John and Lestrade prop him up with pillows, and for the first time he can properly see the entire room. It's small, white, with a bay of windows to his right. The trees are shedding their leaves. "It is fall," he remarks quietly, mostly to himself.
He begins to associate the faces he sees now with the faces in his mind. The faces before him are slightly older, slightly worn. John and Mycroft are looking slightly
looking slightly
slightly
haggard.
They are looking slightly haggard. He rolls the word around in his mind, adding it to the pile of his favorites.
They don't leave him alone for a long time. He is forced to answer simple questions, to obey simple commands. There is only one question that stumps him.
"Do you know your name?"
"Yes."
"What is your name."
He cannot answer. It is still trapped, still locked away. He knows the words, can hear the letters, can see the syllables. But he cannot force them out.
The others are disappointed. Eventually they leave, and he is left to sleep.
It comes to him in a dream. There is shouting, and screaming, and loud noises. Loud noises? Explosions, gunshots. There is a man, slinky and lithe and gone. The man escapes his head, but not before leaving it behind.
He knows his name, now.
When they come for him in the morning, he beams at them. "I know it," he announces. "I know my name."
They gather around, sans Molly. Sans. He adds that to the pile.
They gather around, Mycroft, John, Lestrade, and he tells them. He tells them his name, triumphantly.
"I am James Moriarty."
A/N: So this is based off of my own experiences with concussions, rather than actual research, so I can't promise medical accuracy. When you're concussed you tend to focus on putting yourself together rather than on doctor's testimony and fancy medical stuff. I know that this is probably hard to read, as it's rather scattered, but it's more an exercise in expressing the way you can be trapped in your own mind, and how you can deal with it. There is also plot, I think.