A Case of Identity
Martin came back to his sleeping body with a slight twitch to his fingers, a calibrating shiver up his spine, as though the vertebrae were setting themselves into a more comfortable configuration. He stretched in his bed, eyes still closed, and heard all the little nitrogen pockets in his body bursting in a nauseating cacophony. He grimaced. He had always been squeamish about the smallest things.
His eyelids took some effort to open, like cabinet doors in need of an oiling, and he felt the sleep caught in his tear ducts. It was still pitch black in his room-this was good, meant his alarm to get ready for the flight hadn't gone off yet-and made a move to get rid of the dusty muck in his eyes.
His hand overshot, hitting the pillow behind him with unintentional force. He breathed out in surprise. Had he slept on that arm? He brought it into the air above him, sticking straight up, and he felt it tottering from side to side, fighting for balance. It tipped over to one side just a smidgen too far, and even Martin's straining to pull it back did not keep it from falling to his side with a light thump.
This was worrying. Which, honestly, didn't say much for Martin who fretted over things that had perhaps never been fretted over before in the history of man; but certainly, being unable to control your own body when you were expected to control a plane carrying other bodies would make anyone ill at ease. The sheer escalation of panic felt by the ginger pilot, however, could really only be chalked up to one simple thing: his being Martin Crieff.
His breath caught in his throat, got uncaught, and then came in short bursts only to be trapped all over again. Shaking now, he tried lifting his other arm an inch off the bed, but instead it flew into the air, angling backwards. With a strange sounding yelp-even for Martin- he brought the arm back again, slamming it into the mattress so hard the extremity felt numb.
His hands clutched the sheets in pure terror, wondering if he had suffered a stroke in the night. He had felt funny the moment he had woken up, he should have seen the signs, he shouldn't have skipped that check-up to for a moving job, he should-Martin gasped, he should call 911 of course! This was an emergency, was it not? But how would he punch in the numbers when he couldn't control his fingers? He panicked all over again, whimpering slightly, sounding nothing like himself in his fear.
Light! Of course, turn on the light, much simpler than pressing specific little keys, just a flick of the hand, arm, knee, nose. Not much motor control involved at all. Once he could see where he was going, he could get one of the students downstairs to call for him. He felt proud for a second, wondering if even the great Douglas Richardson could think himself out of a situation when under such pressure. He sighed. Of course he could, he was the great Douglas Richardson.
He made a move to sit up, doing so successfully. He noticed then that his bed was spring-tight, as though it hadn't been used in ages. Odd, he thought, quirking an eyebrow. When Martin wasn't flying planes for free or being a Man with a Van, he was sleeping. It had made his mattress uncomfortably soft and sinkable, two things he wasn't feeling at that moment. He decided that it could be wondered at later; strokes were more pressing.
He shuffled sideways, expecting to fall off the edge much sooner than he did. He hit the hardwood floor with a thump and scowled as pain reverberated through his bony body. He shook himself out, arms loose as spaghetti noodles, hoping to bring his body back up to speed.
Now for the big challenge, especially when he couldn't see his own hand in front of him. Holding the bed for support with arms that were finally co-operating with him, he pulled himself up to a standing position. He let go of the bed, shakily coming to full height, and breathed a sigh of relief when he realized he wasn't going to fall forward on his face.
Something was still wrong though, he felt it in the bones that seemed held together the wrong way, covered by skin stretched tighter than usual. And his height; without being able to see himself, he knew intrinsically that he was much taller than he should be, head bobbing slightly as though it were perched precariously high.
Before he started hyperventilating again, he reminded himself: light, Martin, the light.
Moving a cautious foot forward, he felt like he was Frankenstein's monster taking its first steps. He made his way to where he knew the light switch would be, right beside the door downstairs to the common room; to rescue.
He hit a wall, that, by all rights, shouldn't be there. He had only taken what-five little steps-and had already met the wall? Martin figured he must be really out of tune with his body. He brought his hands to rest against the barrier, both for support and to find the light switch. Making his way along, step by step, tracing out a room that he realized-with dawning horror-certainly wasn't his, his fingers finally collided with the protrusion of a switch.
Almost collapsing with relief, chin resting on his chest, he flicked the light on and brought his head back up, now facing the room.
He screamed. This was not his room, bedroom though it may be. Instead of his cramped metal-barred bed, was a royally purple monstrosity that took up most of the room. The floors were wood, just as in the attic, but these floors shone whereas his managed to make his miniscule abode look even smaller than it was.
More importantly, he realized, taking a step back from comparing the relevant poshery of this room to his, this wasn't his room. Had he been kidnapped? He sucked in a sharp breath. Drugged, and then kidnapped? That would certainly explain the lingering slowness to his movements, like his brain wasn't co-operating completely with his body.
Oh. Another thought occurred to him. Caroline would be furious. They were supposed to fly to Zimbabwe that morning, early. He didn't doubt they were wondering where he was at that moment, the morning getting brighter outside already. He imagined it: Caroline expressing her frustration in the uselessness of unpaid pilots, Douglas would make some sarcastic, biting comment, and Arthur would try to cheer everyone up in his simple, light-hearted way; perhaps by extoling the virtues of juggling apples.
But, more importantly, Martin reminded himself: THIS WAS NOT HIS ROOM. Why was he here, why could he possibly be here? He didn't remember a thing from the previous night, but he was pretty sure he hadn't gone to a bar. He had most likely been in his attic, sleeping, playing his flight simulator, reading up on the new manual changes.
Whoever had brought him here, he knew, probably hadn't brought him for tea and biscuits. No, something much more sinister was going on, and Martin felt helpless, not knowing what he was going to be used for. A thousand possibilities went through his panic-addled brain, each one worse than the last, until he worked himself into absolute terror, his breath coming in short gasps. Martin's eyes roamed around the room for some sort of escape, and finding it almost immediately, let out a little oxygen-deprived squeal.
He ran towards the door—not a good idea when you've been supposedly drugged—and by the time he got there he was gripping the door knob as a lifeline while his feet scrabbled spastically on the floor, trying to gain purchase. Martin attempted to control his breathing—succeeding only marginally—and then lifted himself back up to a standing position.
He froze. What if it wouldn't open, what if it was locked and he couldn't get out? He would have to wait until his tormentors came to him. He would die of sheer anxiety if that was the case. He'd just drop dead on those nicely polished floors, gasping like a fish in his overwhelming nervousness, and that's how they—whoever they were—would find him, their captive ruined for whatever they had had planned for him.
He almost didn't want to turn the doorknob. Instead, he found his hand-such long fingers-turning it slowly and he hoped for release, watching himself as though he were outside his body.
Martin nearly collapsed when the door opened, and he slumped forward into it. The door creaked under his nervous weight. Galvanized by his panic, he stood up quickly and stilled its noisy movement.
He looked out. It was a hallway, dark, except for the light coming from a door off to the right. The hall ended in pitch black and Martin shivered just thinking about forcing himself into that unknown. He shook himself, and started reciting before-flight instructions in his head to gain some sort of calm. He was interrupted immediately.
Somewhere past the black of the hallway came the sound of tired, heavy footsteps, and a quiet muttering that made Martin's heart seize up in terror. He looked around wildly, the footsteps getting closer, and saw his only escape in the door to the right. He prayed to Douglas Richardson that the door was unlocked.
Leaping over to it, he turned the knob. He almost cried out when it gave way but thought better of it, and slipped himself quickly inside, closing the door with a soft click behind him.
He pressed himself against the door, back ram-rod straight in painful tension, and realized, looking around the brightened surroundings, that he was in a bathroom.
Before any other thoughts or observations could bombard him, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. A terrified face stared back at him, a face that was distinctly not his. Ginger hair was replaced by dark curls coming to rest at the nape of not-his neck, not-his lips were parted slightly in cupid-bow lips, not-his cheekbones seemed to be straining out of his skin, and not-his eyes bored into him with unmatched intensity.
He brought a hand up to his face, softly feeling the skin on his cheek, and shuddered as the man in the mirror did the same. Yes, he thought, definitely drugged.
As he continued to study the intimidating face, he realized he'd seen it somewhere before; those sharp features attached to that long lanky body refused to be forgotten so easily. Someone famous, it must be. If he had seen this man—even in passing—he would have been stopped in his tracks.
No, he had seen this face from afar—through the telly, the news, the internet...With a gasp that forced the man's features into a well-worn expression of epiphany, he realized exactly who this was. He had read his website regularly, and had read the blog of his flat mate even more. This face, this body, it belonged to the great-
"Sherlock?" Came a voice outside in the hall. Someone rapped lightly on the door. "Sherlock, are you okay in there? I heard shouting..."
Martin froze.
"Sherlock?"
Oh, he was addressing him. Yes, of course.
He cleared his throat.
"I-" Martin jumped back against the door. That voice-his voice was...it was deep, not the high squeak the pilot would have expected if circumstances had been a little more normal. Even with that one little syllable, it managed to sound commanding, contemptuous even, as if the person on the other side of the door wasn't worth his time.
And who was the person on the other side of the door? Ah, yes, his blogger and flatmate. Martin floundered for a second as he tried to remember the name. Jim, James, Jack? No, no, no. Martin bit his knuckles as the tapping foot of the man outside became more insistent. The name started with J, he knew, and ended with Watson. It was something common, easily forgettable. It was…it was—
"John!" Martin yelled out without thinking, proud of himself for dredging up the name from his lagging brain. He clamped a hand over his mouth, half scared he'd given himself away as not-Sherlock and half wondering at the velvety richness of the voice he possessed. It was a voice begging to be heard.
"Erm, yes, it's me, John. Are you alright in there Sherlock? It's five in the morning…" Martin ignored the rest of what "his" flatmate was saying—something about violins and noxious fumes—and realized he had to be flying in less than an hour and a half ,and at the airfield in half an hour. Wherever he was in London at the moment, he was sure he wouldn't be able to fly even if he did get to Fitton on time. His brain was slow and fatigued, he didn't have his uniform, and most importantly, he was—by some trick of Science, magic, or a caffeine addled brain—no longer the Martin Crieff he had been for the past thirty-odd years.
Caroline was going to hang him.