When he awoke, he felt disoriented. His head was spinning, his eyes tightly shut against the glare of the outside world. He could feel a crisp, thin bed sheet on top of him, and could feel the soft mattress beneath his body, his entire form sunken into it. He could feel the variation between cool air touching his face and right foot, and warm, cosy air smothering the rest of his body. He could feel his heart thumping steadily in his chest, and his breathing was calm. But why did he feel so... lost? He felt as if his world had fallen apart.
He heard a door open. He relaxed his body, inhaling and exhaling deeply, trying to make it look as though he was still asleep. A wise choice, or a foolish one?
"S-Sherlock?" a small voice spoke, stuttering, tarnished with worry and loss.
Sherlock. It sounded like a name. The voice which spoke the name was familiar. Very familiar. It made something stir in his chest, and he could feel his heart rate increase slightly. He twitched, a small jerk of his body which revealed his secret.
"I know you're awake." the voice said
His eyes snapped open, and he blinked several times against the white light that was above him. He sat up slightly, leaning against the wooden headboard. He turned his head to the side, noticing the precision with which that his eyes took in everything. He could feel his brain calculating everything; the nearest exit; the shape of the bedstead; the curly lock he caught sight of as he moved his head. His head was overwhelmed with hundreds of individual thoughts, but it felt so natural. Easy as breathing.
He took in the colours. The colour of the sheet, the floor, the ceiling, the walls, the splashes of blue, red, black and grey outside the window. Then he saw the man. He was stood in the door frame, watching as he examined the room around him. The man was wearing a sandy-coloured jumper than matched his slightly curly hair. He had a round, soft face, that was marred with lines of age and sadness. His lips were chapped and he licked them nervously. He was wearing old jeans, with strong boots. He stood like a solider, but had the disposition of someone who was a kind person at heart. His left shoulder was tilted slightly lower down that his right, his entire left side looking slumped because of it. A war wound? Perhaps. But he felt an intense longing rush through him as he looked at the man's eyes. It nearly made his already exhausted body collapse even further. And... he felt a sense of trust when he looked at the man. He could trust him. He knew he could.
"Sherlock... are you okay?" the man asked, seemingly addressing him. The man's head cocked to one side as he stared blankly back at him.
He cleared his throat. The action sent vibrations through his chest, down to his stomach. It was a pleasant sensation, if not a little unfamiliar.
"Are-" he halted, unsure of his voice.
The man nodded and blinked a couple of times.
"Are you addressing... are you addressing me?" he asked.
The man looked mockingly at him, his eyes scrunching up in the corners as he smiled.
"Of course I am, Sherlock. Are you feeling alright?" the man came over to him, sitting on the edge of the bed, "It wasn't that bad a knock. Are you sure you're okay?"
The man looked into his eyes, his pupils darting from side to side, top to bottom, as he examined his face after he'd finished with his eyes. He felt himself gazing thoughtlessly off into the air, his fingers steepled under his chin. The man had called him Sherlock. Was that his name? He wasn't sure. Best to ask.
"What is my name, and what is yours?" the man looked blankly at him for a moment, before realisation broke over his features.
"Oh." the man mumbled softly, his head drooping.
He put a finger under the man's chin and raised his gaze to meet his own.
"Must I repeat myself?" his voice was flat and toneless.
This shocked him; the man's voice was cheery and full of emotion. His own was cold and guarded.
"Sherlock... I-" the man started.
"You keep saying the name Sherlock. Is that my name?" he said quickly.
"Yes, that's your name. Sherlock Holmes."
"And yours?"
"John Hamish Watson."
When the man... no, when John said his name, he... Sherlock flinched. It resonated through his head, cutting off access to several trains of thought. Why did the name John spark such an interest inside his mind?
"Where are we?" Sherlock asked.
"We're in the flat that you and I share. It's 221B Baker St. That's in London." John said slowly.
"Oh." he had no recollection of what London was, or even what Baker St. was. It was all so terribly confusing.
There was a huge, black gap in his mind. The only things he knew were himself, John and the mysterious twitches and sensations that accompanied John. Sherlock felt at an utter loss. It felt... unnatural. Very, very unnatural. It made him cringe. John placed a gentle, reassuring hand on his shoulder, and looked into his eyes.
John's eyes were a marvellous colour. Blue, but with various other colours added to, so it wasn't really blue. There were hints of green and grey in there, but primarily blue. They were beautiful eyes. So pristine, and perfect. Sherlock felt himself gazing flatly into John's eyes, making John squirm uncomfortably. He wasn't staring romantically. Just... staring. Watching. Evaluating. Observing.
John stood up swiftly.
"I think you have amnesia." John said quickly, as if the words disgusted him.
"What on earth is that?"
"It's a... well, it's usually temporary, but not always... it's a disease that makes you forget lots. You obviously remember me, or remember that you trust me, otherwise I'd be dead by now." he laughed softly, as if this was an ongoing joke between the two of them.
"I have forgotten things?" that was why the void in his head seemed so impenetrable, so dark.
"I think so. Actually, I know so. You didn't know your name."
"Sherlock Holmes..." the words rolled off of his tongue easily, and they sounded oddly familiar.
"Tell me about myself." Sherlock asked John, smiling at him.
It felt strange to smile, as if he didn't do it often. It certainly seemed that way, judging by John's somewhat shocked expression. He stopped smiling. It was far too odd, and it made John unhappy. That was unacceptable.
"Well... I don't actually know that much. Before this you were a... private person. Kept to yourself, so to speak." John said slowly, "I can tell you about your career, and that's about it. Maybe a bit about your social life. For the nitty-gritty details, we'll need to get Mycroft."
"Mycroft?" Sherlock asked.
"Your older brother. He's seven years your senior." John replied.
"Ah."
"Anyway, you are, or were, a consulting detective. When the police are out of their depth, which is always, in your eyes, they consult you."
"Detective... is that why I noticed things so much when I looked around the room?"
"I suppose so."
There was silence for a few seconds.
"My social life?" Sherlock prompted.
The information on his job was simple, boring even.
"Ah... you don't really have a social life. You only leave the house to solve crimes. I'm pretty much the only friend you've got." John looked proud as he said this, a dimple appearing in his cheek.
Sherlock's eyebrows mashed together when John said that. No social life? What did he do all day? That seemed so wrong... so out of place... but so familiar! Why couldn't he just remember everything so his damn world made sense?
"Sherlock, are you okay?" John was looking worriedly at Sherlock, chewing his lower lip nervously.
"I need to know everything again. This is just... unbearable." Sherlock said bluntly, sighing as he did so.
"It's not that easy, Sherlock. You'll need weeks, months, even years to get your memories back. It's going to be awhile before you can take up another case. I mean, before you can continue being a detective."
"You said case."
"Yeah. It's what you detect. Crimes. You've solved quite a few. And that's putting it mildly."
Solving crimes. Sounded exciting. Very, very exciting.
"Where do you come into all this?" Sherlock asked.
The mysterious John Watson, whom Sherlock trusted, and whom he lived with.
"Well... I just met you one day. Mike Stamford introduced us. And I moved in with you." John said slowly.
"Tell me about yourself."
John laughed.
"There's not much to tell. I'm a retired army doctor, I'm a GP in London, I am extremely small," Sherlock chuckled when he said that, "I
have an older sister, Harry, who is a recovering alcoholic. I got shot in the solider when I was in Afghanistan, and I used to have a psychosomatic limp. That vanished after I met you. I am not in a relationship, I am not married, nor have I ever been. You are what I would call my best friend. You'd call me a distraction. That's it, really." John finished.
"Interesting..." Sherlock mused, steepling his fingers again.
"Do you want to see the flat? It... it might help you get your life back." John asked Sherlock.
"I..."
"Go on."
"Okay."
John smiled, and Sherlock proceeded to clamber out of the bed. He was quite a bit taller than John, and he had long, lanky legs. He was reminded of a newborn giraffe as he tottered about, wobbling and shaking. He eventually reached a wall, and leant against it, breathing hard. Sherlock felt a hand on his chest, and he shuddered. Oh, it was just John, checking his heartrate. While he did so, Sherlock examined the room. Posters. Lots of posters. A certifiacte for something, written in Chinese, a periodic table, something that looked very artistic. What a varied range of art taste he had. The colours of the room were dark, and blended well. It had a... cold fire kind of atmosphere. It was chilly and prominant, but also warm and sensual. What a fantastic range of emotions.
John pulled his hand back.
"You're fine." he mumbled.
He pointed with his other hand to the door, which Sherlock stumbled over to, John following him closely. Sherlock hesitated at the door, weighing up his options. John opened the door, and pushed Sherlock gently through it. Sherlock grunted, and walked in, ready to see what he was told was his own flat. His own life.