Wordcount: 2,773
Summary: Following an injury during a case, Watson's memory comes back slowly, but there are some things he doesn't remember...
A/N: My entry for the challenge 012, amnesia, prompt on the LiveJournal community watsons_woes.
_Past Recollection_
The smell was the first thing to pierce the fog that clouded his senses. He frowned, trying to place it, knowing it was familiar but unable to say why or even put a name to it.
The sound of voices, footsteps in the hallway -hallway? yes, that's what it was called- and, nearer, the sound of someone breathing, shifting, and he wondered who it might be.
The sight of the small, nondescript room -also distressingly familiar- and the man in the chair beside his bed. The man was disheveled and looked utterly careworn as he slouched in the chair staring vacantly at the wall, one hand on the bed and nearly touching his own. He tried to move his hand, uncertain what would happen, and it twitched, brushing the other man's hand and evidently startling him, for he nearly leaped out of the chair in his hurry to sit up and look at him carefully.
"Good to see you awake again."
Again?
"I won't bother to ask how you feel; they've still got you so drugged it's astonishing you can wake at all. So let me ask you this: What do you remember?"
He thought hard, but all that he could find were vague impressions and the certainty that he used to be able to recall so much more. "I - I don't-" he stammered in frustration.
The man patted his hand. "Something simpler, then. What's your name?"
It shouldn't have been so difficult, that much he knew. But at length he had to concede that he didn't even remember his own name. His distress must have been evident in his expression, for the man took his hand and squeezed it gently.
"No, no, it's all right. It'll come back in time."
"What happened?" He felt lost and confused, and was grateful this man, whoever he was, was here with him.
The man rubbed his face with his hand. "I'd rather not explain it again until you're capable of remembering it. If you don't mind."
"How many times have you explained it already?"
"Three, and you've been awake twice more, not counting right now."
"Oh." His next question would've been how long he'd been here, and where he was, but he had a feeling that was part of explaining what happened, so he didn't ask. "Please, what's your name?"
He seemed even more tired and sad when he said, "Holmes."
Holmes. That was nice. It sounded like home.
The next time he woke he immediately looked at the chair and felt a surge of panic when it was empty. The man -Holmes- was gone. He wasn't sure why his presence mattered so much, but his absence was certainly distressing. A soft, cool hand touched his brow and he realized there was someone new in the room. "Where did he-" he started to ask.
"Shh, he'll be back soon." She seemed kind, and smiled when he turned his head toward her.
She helped him sit up; everything was spinning dizzily for a few moments, but the room soon stilled. As she unwrapped the bandages around his head, she asked him questions about his name, his location, his occupation, his family. While he'd slept his mind had rediscovered the word 'hospital' though he still didn't know why the place was familiar. Had he been there often?
She let him feel the wound above his right ear, the stitches crusted over with blood, which she gently dabbed with a damp cloth. The fruitless interrogation continued until he asked, "Where is Holmes?"
"Do you remember his name or did he tell you?" she asked, steadfastly not answering his question.
"He told me," he admitted.
"Did he tell you his first name?"
"No."
"Do you remember what it is?"
He tried to think despite a growing headache. "It starts with S," he said uncertainly, "and it's unusual."
She chuckled softly. "It is, indeed."
She had just finished re-bandaging his head when he knew he had it. "Sherlock," he said triumphantly. But something else teased the corners of his mind; recalling Holmes' name brought him that much nearer to his own.
"I'm right here, old boy, no need for name-calling," Holmes joked as he stepped into the room.
Watson spared him a smile, then returned to studying his hands in his lap. He was so close to having it, he knew it, and if he concentrated just a little harder . . . distantly he heard the nurse leave the room. "John," he said, his hesitance making it sound like a question, and looked up when Holmes' hand grasped his. "My name is John. John . . . Watson."
Abruptly Holmes' hands were on his cheeks and Holmes' lips were pressing to his. He barely had time to react before Holmes returned to his perch on the edge of the bed, his hand merely grasping Watson's. Holmes didn't seem at all discomfited by this rapid chain of events, so he could only conclude this was a normal interaction between them.
There was so much he had yet to remember.
Names were the first to surface, names of people, of places, of things all jumbled together topsy-turvy: Baker Street, Kandahar, Norbury, Murray, Mary, Philip, Maiwand, Gloria Scott, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Stamford, Roylott, Afghanistan, London, Thames . . . It was bewildering to have the names endlessly circling, devoid of any context or real meaning.
The hospital staff insisted that Holmes allow him to remember rather than being told, so Holmes hinted and mimed and did everything he could short of outright telling him things to help awaken his memory. When he'd recalled that he was a doctor and Holmes a detective, Holmes found a new way around the command: he collected several of Watson's notebooks and all of his published stories and brought them to his bedside, sitting next to Watson on the bed while they read.
Holmes read aloud when Watson's headache prevented him from reading for himself and, when they took a few turns up and down the hallway each afternoon, he would answer Watson's questions about the cases. One of the first questions he'd asked was who had written the stories, and it took him quite a while to digest and accept that he himself had done. It was an aspect of himself he hadn't rediscovered yet.
Once he was used to the idea, he wondered who would write up the case that had led him here. He could not, it was impossible. The doctors said he may never regain that part of his memory, and he knew they were probably right. Holmes' expression was unreadable when Watson asked about it, and he insisted it was better that this case be lost to the sands of time.
Watson was content to leave it be for the time being, considering how much of his life he had yet to recall. His childhood was murky with a few incidents standing out vivid in his mind; he knew he'd gone to school and on to medical school but the details were vague; he'd gathered from a few mentions in the stories that he'd been in the Army and sent to war, but that meant as little to him as the story of someone else's woe in the morning paper. The clearest memories were of Holmes and cases, and he wondered how much of that he'd remember if it weren't for Holmes bringing those stories to him.
It was vexing. And the names kept circling like vultures, waiting to swoop down into their proper places in his recollections but the circling made him nervous and it seemed he would never remember enough to make the names to cease troubling him.
"Holmes, who is Mary?" he finally asked in exasperation as Holmes was helping him shave.
"Mary was your wife," Holmes said evenly, keeping his eyes on the razor he was sweeping along Watson's jaw.
He took note of the past tense. "What happened to her?"
"She died."
"Of what?" A vague sense of dread came over him, and he tried to use the mirror to see Holmes' expression.
"I don't know."
"Why don't you know? Where were you?"
"On the continent," he said shortly.
"And I didn't tell you what happened?" This seemed odd, and Holmes stiffened. He could see the set of Holmes' shoulders change in the mirror.
"You thought I was dead." It was almost a whisper.
There was a brush of lips against his jaw, and Holmes turned away, the shaving finished. Watson absorbed the new information without speaking, the words rousing a rush of emotion though he wasn't recalling the particulars of the situation. "I think you need to read me those stories, Holmes." There would be stories about it. There had to be.
"If you insist." Holmes smiled wanly.
Watson did insist, though he had to sleep for a while before they could begin. He made no comment through both the tale of Holmes' "death" and that of his return, trying to listen without making a judgment until he had all of the information.
"I assure you, it was the only way," Holmes said thickly after he'd finished, and pressed a kiss to Watson's temple.
Watson let his head rest on Holmes' shoulder. "I believe you," he said simply. "But I would prefer you let me in on such things, you know."
Holmes laughed. "Yes, you made that quite clear the first time we discussed this."
The nightmares didn't begin until after he was allowed to return home to Baker Street, the doctors hoping that familiar surroundings would fill in some of the lingering gaps in his memory. They did, a little too well, and returned to him a period that Watson would really have preferred to leave forgotten.
He woke himself with his screams, that first night. As he sat, heart pounding and breath rasping in the nighttime silence, there was a quiet knock on his door then Holmes was there, sitting on the bed, taking him in his arms. Holmes stayed with him, holding him firmly, kissing away his tears, murmuring reassuringly for the rest of the night.
The second night, Holmes roused him from the memory-dreams then crawled into bed with him and remained there at least until Watson fell asleep. Watson was fairly certain Holmes remained there until morning but couldn't prove it, for Holmes had risen by the time he awoke. They didn't talk about it during the daylight hours, except for Watson asking whether the dreams were actually true. It was a question Holmes couldn't answer precisely, not having been in Afghanistan, but said it was quite likely.
By the end of the first week Holmes would retire with him, sleep in his bed at his side, in hopes the company could forestall the dreams. It didn't, but it did make them easier to bear.
By the end of the second week Holmes convinced him that they should sleep in Holmes' bed which, he argued, was slightly larger in addition to being located on the main floor, so Watson wouldn't have to navigate an extra set of stairs. Lack of sleep made him stiff, and being stiff made his leg cramp and ache. So Watson agreed.
During the day he would often doze on the settee while Holmes puttered about doing whatever it was that captured his fancy at that particular moment. Watson read more of his notebooks, including some he found secreted away in his wardrobe, and gradually felt the pieces falling together, finally forming a more complete picture of John Watson as he had been, though he sometimes wondered if he would ever go back to being that John Watson. Something seemed different now, somehow.
Amongst the notebooks from the wardrobe were his jottings from the war, as sporadic and hurried as they were, for a doctor in wartime does not have many moments to call his own. It helped, to read his musings on the terrible things his mind was so plentifully providing during the night, and he started to cope with the memories, carefully examining them and placing them in their proper places on the shelves of his mind. Horrific and devastating and trying as they were, they were only memories, and he'd already had to put them away once, so it was not as difficult as he'd feared to put them away again. They seemed to remove themselves from their shelves more readily than they had before, but that might just be a lingering effect of the head trauma.
The nightmares lessened, but still he slept in Holmes' room, in Holmes' bed, at Holmes' side. It felt only natural.
Though his doctors assured him that he had made excellent progress, there were still gaps that might never be completely restored. Of the night of his injury and the days immediately after he had no recollection and never would; more bothersome were the gaps in the year or so prior. He didn't understand why he should lose almost a year from one blow, and he wondered if that year would explain the change in relationship between him and Holmes.
Watson certainly didn't recall being on such . . . intimate terms with Holmes before, and found no mention of it in any of his notes (but would he really make notes on such a thing?). Which wasn't to say the kisses and the feel of Holmes' body against his in bed weren't welcome; if anything, he wished Holmes would take it further, but the one time Watson had tried to pursue matters, Holmes drew back as if afraid Watson were porcelain and would break.
Then Mrs. Hudson brought him a journal that she had found under his mattress while changing the sheets -she was rightly concerned that he didn't remember it was there. He skimmed the pages before flushing and hoping that Mrs. Hudson hadn't tried to read any of it. But at least his tendency to write everything down was serving him in good stead: here, at last, were his answers.
He read the journal more carefully the next day, lounging on the settee as had become habit during his recuperation. Holmes joined him as the afternoon waned into evening, wedging himself between Watson and the back of the settee, his head on Watson's shoulder as he tried to read the paper -not an easy task at that angle. Watson dithered for a little while, but decided he ought to forge ahead. He set the open journal face-down on his chest and cleared his throat.
"Tell me something, Holmes." Holmes grunted in response and turned the paper over. "Why is it that we didn't do things like this before?"
"Perhaps you just don't remember it," Holmes said off-handedly, still appearing to read the paper. "Your memory of the recent past is still impaired, after all."
"I'm not relying on my memory," Watson countered, tapping a finger against the journal's cover. "You're forgetting that I take notes on just about everything. And my notes tell me we were doing nothing of the kind."
Holmes carefully folded the paper and cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. "Well, I, ah . . ." he started, then flushed and fell silent again. "I was rather hoping that, ah, we could avoid this awkwardness. That is, I thought if you thought this was how things had been . . . by the time you remembered otherwise, you wouldn't be averse to continuing in this manner. . . Then there wouldn't be the possibility of misunderstanding as a result of, er, clumsy statements . . ." he spoke in fits and starts, one minute rushing his words together, the next searching for words.
Watson thought he understood. "But how did you know I wouldn't reject the idea? I thought I had kept my feelings on the matter quite private, though evidently I did write them down."
Holmes chuckled. "Alas, I had no indication. But you said some things before I could get you to hospital, and . . . I swore that if you survived I . . . I wouldn't waste any more time," his voice grew choked toward the end, and he slid his arms around Watson and clung to him. "I nearly lost you," he murmured against Watson's waistcoat.
Watson held him tightly in return and said nothing. He'd known his injury had been serious, but he hadn't thought about Holmes having to endure fear and worry for his sake during the fortnight he'd been mostly unaware.
At length Holmes cleared his throat. "I had rather hoped to avoid any untoward displays of emotion, but that worked as well as my little plan," he said wryly, sounding more himself.
Watson laughed and set the journal on the floor. Its purpose was served, and he suspected he wouldn't need it anymore.