Hello, everyone! It's been a while since I've posted something. (If you're a fan of my Bones stories, I sincerely apologize. My laptop crashed that contained all my fanfictions and it took forever to find a way to recover them.) This story will be exactly 30 chapters long, unless I have the ambition or demand to keep going. It's based off of the 30 Day Prompt Challenge. Each chapter is going to be based on a prompt.

The prompts are as follows (hint, hint. I'm going in order. So if you'd like to suggest something for an upcoming chapter, let me know.): beginning. accusation. restless. snowflake. haze. flame. formal. companion. move. silver. prepared. knowledge. denial. wind. order. thanks. look. summer. transformation. tremble. sunset. mad. thousand. outside. winter. diamond. letters. promise. simple. future.

Thank you in advance for reading! :) And I'm sure everyone's aware that I do not own Sherlock.

It all began with a simple word.

A word that may not have meant much to someone else, but a word he'd heard since he was a child. A babe, in fact. The word reached him slowly. It confused him at first. Words never seemed to be much of a struggle for him before. Why now? He tried to reply to the voice, but found that his lips would not move, his vocal chords would not obey. What was wrong with him?

He tried to move. Nothing. Was he even breathing?

Panic surged through the man. Something was wrong. Something was horribly wrong.

"Sherlock?"

There. There was that word again. It drifted into his foggy mind and he clung on to it. Sherlock. That was his name. He was Sherlock Holmes. Consulting detective. He felt the pull of unconsciousness at the back of his brain. No. He needed to wake up. He needed to know what was wrong. Sherlock was too stubborn to let sleep have him so soon after just being released from its clutches.

He tried opening his eyes and felt them flutter. A small glimmer of light poked through in that instant and set his head pounding. He winced and turned his head away. Good. He was moving, at least.

"Sherlock!"

The voice rang out through his head with each thud. He felt a groan pass through his lips.

"Sherlock, please. I need you to open your eyes. Can you do that for me?"

No. Sherlock didn't want to. Who was this person that they could demand such things of him? He shook his head ever so slightly.

"Please, Sherlock."

Sherlock took a deep breath in to try and fire back a retort and ended up choking. He felt hands lift him up into an upright position as he continued to cough. His chest burned and he felt his eyes begin to water. His whole body shook with the coughs. Pain was beginning to blossom up in places he didn't know possible or was aware he had.

"Breathe, mate." Lestrade. Lestrade was telling him to breathe. But it hadn't been Lestrade before. Was he hallucinating? He then felt something cool run through his nose and down into his throat. He sucked it in with one big gulp as he felt gentle fingers move something behind his ears. His coughing eventually stopped and he was left with a raw throat and a pounding head and body.

"Can you open your eyes, Sherlock?" There was that gentle voice again. Definitely not Lestrade. A gentle voice that matched the gentle fingers he could feel on his face. What were those fingers doing there he wondered? The detective's thoughts were still quite cloudy.

"You still with us, Sherlock?" The DI asked.

Sherlock swallowed hard before trying to speak. His throat was raw and his words came out distorted. " 'm here."

A sigh of relief. "Good. Now please, Sherlock, I know it might hurt, but I really need you to open your eyes."

The gentle voice. It was Molly. Sherlock opened his eyes a crack. He saw a flash of mousy brown hair, before his eyes drooped shut again.

"That's it, Sherlock." Molly coaxed. He realized she was holding his head upright. "Just a bit more."

His head was jostled a bit as he assumed Lestrade took the job of keeping his head upright. He felt the cool touch of Molly's fingers by his eyes. He slid his eyes open halfway and looked up at Molly. "There you go." She said with a warm smile. Her fingers kept the lid of Sherlock's left eye open as she brought a flash light up to check his pupil reaction. Molly did the same with his right eye. "You definitely have a concussion." She murmured.

"I could've told you that."

Molly shot a glare at Lestrade. "Why don't you go get some ice?" The mortician stated it as more of a demand than a question, however. She then turned back to look at Sherlock with a softer glance. Sherlock felt himself being laid back against what he assumed was a couch.

"How's your memory, Sherlock?" Molly asked. She kept eye contact with Sherlock at all times, making sure he was alert.

"My m'm'ry is fine." Sherlock answered, although it was an all-out lie. He couldn't remember for the life of him what had happened. Actually, his thoughts just hadn't brought him to the point where he wondered what had happened to him yet.

"What's my name?" She asked.

Her name? Why was that important? "Molly H'per." He answered.

Lestrade walked back over and gently placed a bag of ice onto Sherlock's forehead. Because of Sherlock's head being tilted back slightly, the ice stayed perched on the detective's forehead. A sigh escaped Sherlock's lips as the coolness of the ice relieved a great deal of the pain. "And what about my name?"

"Lestrade." Sherlock noted his speech was getting better, his head becoming less bleary.

"First name?" Lestrade asked.

"Greg." Sherlock croaked back.

"Good, good." Molly smiled. "Last question, when is your birthday?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes a bit at Molly. The last thing he needed was for her to know his birthday. "January 6th, 1976."

Molly looked up to Lestrade for confirmation and the DI gave a nod of his head.

"Sherlock," Lestrade started hesitantly. "Do you…Do you remember what happened to you?"

Sherlock took a deep breath in, relishing the cool sensation it gave him. He realized that Molly had supplied him with extra oxygen. His eyes traced the tube he found lying on his chest, down to the tank on the floor.

"Sherlock?" Molly prodded gently. "You remember, don't you? What happened at Barts?"

Barts. St. Bart's. Saint Bartholomew's Hospital. The place that he'd spent weeks at recovering from overdoses. The place where he'd first met John Watson. The only place that allowed him to use their facilities anymore without fear of him blowing the place up. The place he'd met Molly Hooper. And, he soon realized, the last place he'd seen John Watson.

The last place he would ever see John Watson for a long time.

All the memories came rushing back to him in one painful rush. His head seared in pain and he reached up to press the ice tighter to his head. He screwed his eyes shut as the events of the past twenty four hours played themselves out in front of him all in one jumbled mess.

He felt his stomach begin to churn and he took a deep, shaky breath. He assumed his complexion must have changed colors because he heard Molly say, "Go get a bin. Quick."

No sooner was the bin pressed between his knees than Sherlock felt the bile in his throat. He pitched forward, the ice falling to the floor, and vomited.

Sherlock Holmes was a coward. Sherlock Holmes was a fraud. Sherlock Holmes was dead. He wasn't a consulting detective anymore. He was a fugitive. Today marked the beginning of a new life for the detective. A life of living on the streets and hunting down men.

And he hated it already.