There is a goat.
He watches it, a few paces away, as it tugs on the grass beneath its hooves, the sound of grass rustling as it picks through the field for the best spot to feast on. Always the pitiful, hungry animals. The coppery moon hangs low, yawning near the horizon, shrouded by thin wisps of grey and black clouds, weak starlight falling upon the gnarled silhouettes of dead trees, far and few in between, and a carpet of long, unkempt grass. All perfectly normal, if the state of this place did not stay the same throughout however long it was since he found himself here, in the middle of nowhere. Time is irrelevant, he does not consult the watch on his wrist. He knows that it is not working, and if it does, it will only serve to confuse him. Instead, he studies the goat, the animal now pulling up tufts of grass and chewing upon it contentedly. Thuringian goat, mountain breed, illogical that it should be here in the plains. That's a clue, the first he's seen all day (weeks, months, does it matter anymore).
As though sensing his attention, the goat stills, head turned in his direction. It is a beautiful specimen, long, wickedly sharp horns curving back from its head, splashes of white upon its face, and a pure black coat, slender legs, white socks. In the starlight, it seems nearly regal, and then much bigger than he is, towering over him against the backdrop of blood red and grey. He blinks, and it is the normal size for a goat again.
The goat snorts, and lowers its head, tension thus broken, to once again pull at the grass before it. A clue. A hint. It must have come from somewhere, at the very least, and he stands, brushing grass and clumps of dirt from his clothes with his hands. He does not speak, and does not move, merely waits, until the goat turns, and trots away, down, down, further down over the grass and forwards on land that has no direction. Its all the same, no matter which way he goes, the landscape repeating itself until he is back to where he started from. Twenty steps to either way, and he is back where he started. The goat is thirty steps away. It does not stop. The first clue.
He follows.
Somewhere in the world, two men meet each other for the first time in their lives. Technically true for the first man walking into the warehouse, brushing cold drops of rain off from his shoulders, and not so much for the second man, who clutches onto his umbrella, and stands tall, who masks desperation with aloofness. He has tracked the first man's whereabouts through various lenses, reflections, and many eyes spread across the city. He has his research done, and knows the man's life and history as intimately as he does the back of his own hand, perhaps even better than the subject in question does, but that is secondary to what they are here for today.
"I have the urgent need of requirement of your service, Doctor Watson."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Its a skill. An ability that only you possess. One that you have kept hidden."
"One that you think no one knows about."
"And if I agree to this… "
"You have my word, Doctor Watson."
"Please."
Outside, the rain sheets down, reflecting light like shards of glass from the headlights of the lone parked car just outside the warehouse. The figure in the car shifts, looks away from the glaring light of a phone as the second man emerges from the warehouse, and watches her employer light up a cigarette for the first time in many years, inhaling nicotine and warm smoke.
Around them, London continues to rain, ignorant of the events that has just transgressed in a small, unnoticed warehouse, safe in the masses of strangers, houses, people meeting and leaving, amidst the sleeping majority. For London, nothing changes.
For the man, everything does.
If you ask him who he is, he can still, very confidently, inform you that he is Sherlock Holmes. Ask him about himself, and he could, although he would have chosen not to, about his history. The house that he was born in, the schools that he went to, the things that he did and did not do, all these he knew, because who would not know himself?
But ask him about his childhood, his family, what he did yesterday and what he is doing here, and he draws up short. Not because of his lack of emotional attachment and all of that which he despises, but because he honestly does not remember. Sherlock Holmes does not remember his brother's name, or how, in fact, he looked like, just like everyone else that went in and out of his entire life. There is a sort of vagueness, associated with anything that isn't himself, with the others. Faces blurred, just vivid splashes of colour, and a fleeting emotion when mentioned.
He doesn't know that something is wrong.
When did it start?
Sherlock Holmes does not know.
Moments of clarity were hard to come back, and each time, it felt as though he had resurfaced, breaking the surface of water to breathe in a lungful of sharp, cold air. Noise floods back in, awareness, the solid weight of reality pressing down upon his senses and skin. He sits in the restaurant, chest heaving, his heartbeat hammering in his ears, the sensation not unlike when awakening from a terrible nightmare. He presses a hand to the smooth table top, runs fingertips across surfaces, steel cutlery, the clean edge of plates, water condensing on the side of his glass, to help ground and orient himself. There is no telling how long his clarity will last for, and he digs into his coat for the little notebook that he has taped in, flipping it over to the last pages.
The last date in it corresponds with the one written on his wrist - 20th June 2013.
Today's date was 4th July 2013.
Pulling out the blue ballpoint that he tried his best to keep with him, he writes down the date, time, and location, even as he eats the obviously untouched meal before him that he had probably, somehow, managed to order all on his own. It was a little cold, but necessary nutrients, for he had no idea when was the last time that he ate. He swallowed it without tasting it, trying to remember 20th June. There was no point in trying to recall the two weeks that he had apparently lost, drawing up nothing the silver glimmer of something that could have been a memory, which could or could not be there, and knowing that all he would be grasping at are straws.
Where was he? Was he still in London? Its not raining today - fresh hell for Londoners.
He chews the cold chicken and swallows mechanically. Nothing seemed out of place. There was the constant soft clinking of cutlery, the soft flow of hushed conversations, waiters moving from table to table bearing food and drink, returning with dirty and empty plates and glasses. There wasn't anything special with the restaurant he was in, the food he was eating, and all was frustratingly, damnably normal.
He looks down, and very nearly drops the cutlery in shock.
There, on his plate, squats a large spider.
Pelinobius muticus, adult female, species native to East Africa and not at all suited to the climate of Britain.
Its body had been cut apart, a few legs separated from its body, large abdomen sawed apart to spill dark and viscous guts onto the porcelain plate, some of it's insides smeared across the clean white, mutilated with the knife in still held in his hand, part of its abdomen speared on the fork held in the other.
He drops the cutlery abruptly with a loud clang, the sound sharp in the silence of the restaurant, scrambling to his feet to put distance between him and the dead spider sprawled across his plate, fighting the rise of bile in his throat by swallowing hard.
When he turns, the attention of the entire restaurant is upon him, an unnatural stillness falling over the previously suitably noisy establishment. Heads were turned towards him, adults and children alike, all of them wearing the same expressions, the same neutral, blank look in their eyes. The attention scrapes against him like sandpaper, eyes following his every move, and turning his back on them had never been such a hard task.
So much for 4th July 2013. It was time to go.
Sunlight streamed in through the wide windows, and painted the room in rich hues of warm gold. Dust motes swirled lazily in the air, disturbed by the occasional gentle breeze, and each time Mycroft rustled the papers, turning to the next page.
Sherlock was on the floor, exhibiting a quiet sort of contentment, chewing on the ear of a particularly ratty looking bear, and grabbing at the pages of a picture book that Mycroft had set on the floor for him. He was too young to read, but it did not stop him from drooling over the illustrated pictures, or from crumpling the pages in his attempts to get to the next page. It was when there was particularly loud ripping sound, did Mycroft sigh and set down the newspaper that he had been reading to join Sherlock on the carpeted floor.
The house was quiet, a rare sort of peace enveloping the room. Mycroft's soft voice was lulling Sherlock into a daze, coupled with the sound of chirping insects and rustling trees through the window, and he slapped at the book with a small hand impatiently, still too young to learn proper muscle control.
"You're crumpling the book, Sherlock," Mycroft says patiently. Or at least that was what he might have said, but it wasn't as important as the fuzzy thing that had just come in through the window to bumble around the room clumsily.
It was nice, a quiet sort of interlude.
Sherlock was two.
Mycroft was nine.
Blood, congealing on the floor, matted in the victim's hair, the heavy tang of copper thick in the air. Scratch marks in the wallpaper, there, a coffee table setting that is much too neat. So thoughtful of him, so kind. Missing phone, washed mug sitting in the sink. Obvious, so obvious. Why don't they see it?
So, so bone-achingly boring.
He does not know how long he has been following the goat, does not know where they are going, except that they do not stop. He puts one foot before the other, again and again, until the ground beneath his feet changes, grass and mud giving way to a beaten track, and then asphalt, and there are cars, and lights, and cold, cold rain.
He walks on.