Written for the watsons_woes JWP day 07 prompt: Wrong! Have a character discover that he or she remembers a pivotal life event incorrectly.
Also fills my hc_bingo square for "skeletons in the closet"
I may have taken a few liberties with both of the prompts... And each non-dialogue paragraph is exactly 100 words.

The feeling of deja vu began when they disembarked at the train station and persisted as he and Mary strolled to their hotel, having paid someone to see to the transportation of their baggage. The hotel, too, seemed vaguely familiar, and he could have sworn he'd seen the carpeting in the hallway before. Mary did not notice his preoccupation, not even when he hesitated before the door to their room, hearing the echo of shouting voices and slamming doors though they were alone. The room was blessedly unfamiliar, and Watson returned his thoughts to where they belonged: his lovely wife.

The sense of a forgotten memory lingering close to the surface of his mind returned to trouble him the following day, as he and Mary rode the seashore railway. Their next destination was the pier, which hosted an aquarium Mary wanted to see, but somehow the thought of the pier filled him with foreboding. The day was clear and calm, but he heard the rush of crashing waves in his ears, a whistling wind nearly whisking away an alarmed cry and a splash. Mary tugged on his arm and he went willingly, hoping to drown his reservations with the fish.

After the aquarium, Mary wanted to walk to the very end of the pier, and who was he to say no? She was delighted by the people, the sounds, the sights; Watson looked down at the water and had a sudden vision of Holmes tumbling in, watching him flounder and bob underwater, of diving in after him. Watson pushed himself away from the rail with some force, wondering how it was that the eccentric genius haunted him even here, where he had never been and where he had certainly never had to rescue Holmes from the currents at high tide.

Or had he? The uncertainty plagued him through dinner, a conversation with Holmes replaying endlessly in his mind. "By your own admission you've never enjoyed it there," Holmes had said. And, "you're just too fragile to remember at present." What could possibly have happened that he would repress it from memory? He remembered being wounded at war far too well, and surely that was worse than anything that could have happened in this seaside resort town. And yet . . . Holmes was referring to something specific, and it had everything to do with Brighton. And Holmes himself, if that image was accurate.

Watson remained awake long after Mary had gone to sleep, going over the vague memories that had surfaced and trying to piece them together into something that made even the slightest sense. The attempt nearly drove him mad with frustration, and he rose from the bed to throw open the windows for some air. He stood before the sill for some time, the curtains and his nightshirt stirring gently in the slight breeze coming off the water. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, preparing to return to bed, but then something about the smell brought nearly everything crashing back.

It was a case. Of course it was a case. Something about shipping or smuggling or other activities using water transportation, and they went to Brighton to investigate. From the beginning Holmes had not had much success with his inquiries, despite long hours and much effort. One evening Watson was tasked to keep an eye on Holmes' quarry, which meant Watson ended up gambling at the next table. It was the first bit of fun Watson had had in quite some time, and he enjoyed himself a little too much-he didn't even notice when his target got up and left.

Holmes was furious when Watson finally made it back to the hotel and confessed he'd lost his man. The details were fuzzy on account of Watson having too much to drink, but he knew there was shouting once they got to Watson's room, and Holmes eventually left, slamming the door behind him. Watson had followed a few minutes later, though he couldn't remember what impulse drove him to try to find Holmes. He was never good at tracking, even sober, and Holmes was very good at covering his tracks. But Watson found him on the pier, and just in time.

There were several men accosting Holmes; whether for his wallet or in connection with the case Watson never knew. Holmes fought back well enough, but he was herded inexorably toward the far end of the pier. Watson followed, close enough to have a sense of what was happening but far enough away to be helpless, and thus he saw the moment when a well-aimed blow knocked Holmes right over the railing and into the water below. Whatever business they had with Holmes, it was ended when he went down, and they quickly dispersed without noticing Watson lurking in the shadows.

Watson rushed to where he saw Holmes go over, but he did not see him in the water below. "Holmes!" he bellowed, peering into the waves and yearning for a dark head to bob up in their midst. He thought he saw movement in the corner of his eye and looked in time to see something appear briefly before sinking down again. If it was Holmes, either he'd been hit harder than Watson realized or the fool didn't know how to swim, and in either case he was in serious trouble. Watson dove in toward the dark smudge and prayed.

It was Holmes, and he was heavy and unresisting when Watson tried to buoy him up so his nose and mouth were above the water. The currents tried to push them toward the pier and dash them against the supports; it was all Watson could do to keep Holmes somewhat above water, sometimes at the cost of being pushed underwater himself, and aim them both toward the shoreline, much less make forward progress. The swim to shore seemed unending and Watson was nearly to the end of his strength by the time he could feel the ground beneath his feet.

As soon as they were far enough onto the beach that Holmes wouldn't be stolen away by the waves, Watson turned him on his side and pounded him on the back. After a trickle of water dribbled out, Watson laid Holmes flat and forced air into his lungs, then tipped him back on his side so the escaping air was accompanied by more water. This he did countless times, begging and pleading with Holmes to start breathing, to come back, until Holmes took a deep breath under his own power and nearly choked as he coughed up yet more water.

Watson clearly remembered the panic, the desperation he'd felt while breathing for Holmes, so similar to Holmes' recent brush with death. Holmes for once did not have a witty comment when he returned to awareness, being too busy breathing and expelling water from his lungs to say much of anything, but he did hold Watson's hand in concern when Watson suddenly bent over double, coughing up his own portion of swallowed water. Watson remembered saying to Holmes that he would have to teach Holmes how to swim, but he could remember no more, not even when it might have happened.

"John? Are you all right?" It was Mary, crouching down in front of him, the moonlight from the window making her face glow with an ethereal light.

"Mary, I-" Watson started, but was uncertain how to explain. "I'm all right, I think."

Her eyes scanned his face searchingly. "You've remembered. He told me you might. Before, that is, when we were going to Brighton the first time."

"What did he tell you?" Watson demanded.

"That you had a bad time in Brighton once, but you were ill afterward and didn't seem to remember any of it."

"Ill how?"

Mary's face took on a thoughtful look. "A terrible pneumonia, I think he said. You nearly died."

Now that she mentioned it, Watson remembered recuperating from a bad bout of pneumonia several years before, but he'd thought he'd come by it from an accidental dunking in the Thames and Holmes had never corrected him. When he had completely recovered, Holmes had surprised him with a request that Watson teach him how to swim, and in exchange Holmes would teach him how to dance. Brighton had never come up, nor had Holmes' own brush with death. "I went into the water after Holmes," Watson said, and left it at that. Some skeletons were better left in their closets.