Rating: PG
Warnings: Spoilers for FINA and EMPT, injury
Author's Note: Spoilers - read only if you can't be spoiled: The case in this is mentioned in SOLI, as happening around the same time. Since SOLI is set in 1895, it is shortly after Holmes return to life in EMPT.
Hope you enjoy the story! Please leave a review, if you did, and especially if you favourite (I want to know why ;)).
PART I
Memory is the treasury and guardian of all things.
Memoria est thesaurus omnium rerum e custos.
- Cicero
In retrospect, I should have known from the first that such an injury could not go without consequences.
But as it is the human nature, even I am, on occasion, susceptible to hoping against hope, and guilty of twisting the facts as they suit my personal wishes. During my prolonged vigil at the hospital bed, I am not ashamed to confess, all other thought was banned from my mind, save the one: My good friend and colleague Watson had to be well, and awake at any moment.
I could not bear to think of any other eventuality. It was quite unacceptable that we should be separated again by something so trivial so soon after my return to London, and, in progress, to life.
Watson had been overwhelmed with joy after he had overcome his original chagrin over the fact that I had not informed him of my survival. In the subsequent weeks, we shied away from work and spent our time enjoying each other's company in various of our favourite pastimes.
Mycroft has remarked that my alleged death has made me 'less unsociable' and maybe he is indeed correct, for I enjoyed those days spent in amiable company just as much as my dear Watson.
While the signs of grief were hard to overlook in the first days, barely a week had rendered him into the same joyous and friendly man I had known, with an even more pronounced sense of humour than I remembered.
To see him so very still and deathly pale in the white sheets of the hospital bed was a harsh contrast to say the least. At first, I was relieved that he had fallen unconscious, for it spared him the pain of his injury, but as the days progressed, I was increasingly disquieted by his stillness.
The doctors who tended to my friend assured me that after such a trauma to the head, a longer period of unconsciousness was to be expected, and affirmed my own assessment that the original wound was healing up nicely.
I can but assume that it was my own joy to see Watson finally awake that allured me into believing that everything was fine and caused me to overlook the initial signs.
"Watson, are you truly awake?"
He blinked up at me with confused and bleary eyes, as it was only natural after so long a period of unconsciousness. "Holmes? What happened? Where am I?"
I clasped his hand tightly while I reached for a glass of water on the sidetable. "You had the misfortune to be hit by a cab out of control – or rather, I pulled you out of harm's way, which caused you to stumble and hit you head on the nearest lamppost. I'm really very sorry, my dear Watson, and so very relieved to see you awake."
Watson reached up to touch the light bandage that was still wrapped around his head. "How bad is it?"
"Not at all, not any more. It has healed nicely, my dear fellow, and if your doctors have no objections, we shall travel back to Baker Street in just a few moments."
I left his bedside for barely a minute to inform the doctors of my decision – there was no way I would allow Watson to remain in hospital a minute longer. I have heard fearful tales of said places, and have investigated more than one gruesome murder which had been committed in the whitewashed walls of such an institution. I was not in the position to criticise this particular hospital, but I was certain that we would both feel the better for our familiar surroundings at Baker Street. That set aside, I was certain that our good landlady was quite worried out of her mind. I may have been remiss in not sending her word for several days, but truth be told, I had barely slept at all and felt that it was taking its toll.
To my relief, no lengthy argument was necessary. The doctors were happy to be rid of a recovered patient and have space for a someone else. As usual, I would leave it to Mycroft to handle this kind of financial affair, and see to it personally that Watson arrived safely at home.
He could walk quite amiably, even though his balance was still a little impaired. With his arm linked in mine, we walked out of the hospital and towards the waiting cab. All the while, Watson had been very silent and looked about him with something akin to confusion, but I attributed it to the fact that he was still rather dazed.
"I'm sorry for rushing you like this, Watson. I promise we will take our time once we are home."
He smiled tentatively up at me. "So this is where we are going. You could have told me, Holmes! My head still hurts..."
Maybe I should have paid more heed to the first part of his statement, but my mind, curious as it is, focussed only on the second. "You need rest, of course. Mrs Hudson will see to all you needs once we are back. And I promise solemnly I won't bother you with any musical cacophony."
He chuckled, and the sound warmed my heart. It was almost as if the accident had never happened. "A little sleep would be what I appreciated most at the moment."
"Then sleep is what you shall get."
Once back in Baker Street, I accompanied Watson into the sitting room, where he settled down on the sofa, before I went to inform Mrs Hudson of all necessary facts. The good woman instantly tried to fuss over Watson, but I asked her merely to bring something light for dinner and leave the man to his peace. Maybe it was because, in the back of my mind, I had already realised that not all was well, even though my consciousness refused to recognise that fact.
As it was, I spent a relaxing evening reading for once, while Watson drowsed on the sofa. I left him to his sleep when I retired for the night, unwilling to disturb his much needed rest.
However, it was still in the middle of the night when a sound in the sitting room awoke me. I have always been a light sleeper, and those years of travel have sharpened that particular trait of mine. It had been essential to be always on my guard during my flight from Moriarty's remaining henchmen, and such a skill is not easily shed.
However, in the familiar surroundings of my own home, I must admit to being somewhat drowsy as I entered the sitting room, illuminated by a single candle on the coffee table by the sofa. Watson said there, upright and wide awake, the small box of matches which he had used to light the candle still clutched in his hands.
"Watson? Are you all right? Do you require me to fetch you anything?"
Watson continued to stare at his trembling hands for a further five seconds before he lifted his head to look at me. "Holmes?"
"Yes, of course." I crossed the small space between us in order to allow him to see me fully. Squinting against the light of the candle, he had probably only been able to see the outline of a figure in the doorway. "I'm sorry, Watson. I should not have retired. But you were sleeping, and I failed to deduce that you might still be confused."
He slowly shook his head. "I'm sure you have nothing to apologize for."
I could not agree with him on that point – after all, it had been my actions which caused his injury – but I had no wish to interrupt him as long as he was so clearly upset.
"The extent of head injuries is hard to estimate, old chap. Never mind – I did not want to wake you, Holmes. We are at Baker Street, of course. I assume I have dreamed."
He seemed to notice my frown, for he was quick to smile and reassure me that he was feeling all right and that he would retire to his own room now, leaving me to my sleep.
For the moment, I was willing to believe his words, and returned to my bed, but a strange feeling had settled in the pit of my stomach – intuition, as it usually presented itself to me. I would be watching my fellow lodger very closely.
In the morning, I rose to find Watson already in the sitting room. He was hunched over his writing table, wearing his most comfortable dressing gown, and scribbling furiously in one of his small notebooks.
He had removed his bandage and replaced it by a small patch of fabric over the red and blue area on his forehead, only just sufficient to keep away the dirt from the not fully healed gash. I was uncertain whether this course of action was wise, but Watson was the doctor, after all.
Carefully, as to not startle him, I approached and cleared my throat.
Watson finished his sentence, or whatever he had been writing, and flipped the book shut. "Holmes."
"Good morning. You look better."
"A slight headache is all." He took up his notebook and pen again and turned halfway around in his chair to face me. "I'm sorry to have breakfasted without you."
"Never mind," I replied, somewhat distracted from his actual words by the strange tone in his voice. Watson could be many things, and I have remarked once or twice that I would never know his limits, but I had hardly ever heard him speaking with such an iron self-control resonating in his voice, save when he tried to control his temper, which clearly wasn't the case at present. Maybe all those signs should have been warning enough for me, and indeed, in retrospect, I cannot imagine how it was possible that I failed to deduce the truth. Even so, I had the impression later on that Watson, for himself, had already realised that something was amiss.
"You really should eat a bite, Holmes. You look like you have been starving yourself again."
He was not entirely wrong in that observation. I had, indeed, only a dim recollection of eating something, but I was fairly certain that said meal had been the sandwich Mrs Hudson had intruded upon me when I had last stopped at Baker Street three days ago. "I shall be happy to devour this most excellent breakfast, Watson, never fear. Will you join me at the table?"
"Certainly." He brought his notebook and a pen along with him, and placed both of them on the edge of the table.
"Did your muse strike again, Watson?"
For a moment, as he met my gaze, I was aware of the harrowing confusion ruling behind the strong façade he had willed over his hazel eyes. But then, every feeling disappeared in those hazel depth, and I was facing a harsh stare as I had seldom seen it in my companion. "Ah, no... I was just scribbling down some random notes. Would you mind telling me what happened? I seem to be unable to recall the exact sequence of events."
Avoiding his strange gaze, I busied myself with my tea. I had no particular wish to talk about the events that had led to Watson's injury again, for they were all too clearly engraved in my mind. Maybe it was unnecessary and indeed foolish to blame myself for the consequences. Had I not acted, Watson would certainly have been injured far more gravely, but I could not help feeling responsible. It was just possible that this was another proof of Mycroft's judgement – I had certainly become more susceptible to human feelings during my years of absence. "There's not much to tell, really, Watson."
"You mustn't feel guilty, Holmes."
"I'm not. Well, what is the last thing you remember?"
"We were out for dinner, and just going home again. We were... conversing about the fact that the chef of the restaurant was clearly cheating on his wife with the waitress."
"Amiable, Watson. We were, indeed, on our way back to Baker Street when a cab careened aroung the corner of Tottenham Court Road into Mortimer Street. The coachman had abandoned it as the horse went wild and it was quite out of control. We were in the progress of crossing the road, and if I hadn't pulled you back, you would certainly have been run over by the cab. Unfortunately, as I pulled you back, you lost your balance and collapsed against a lamppost. That's how you acquire the gash on you forehead. It was bleeding quite severely, and I therefore decided to take you to a hospital. You were unconscious by the time we arrived there, and remained in that state for five days."
"And after I awoke, we returned to Baker Street, since the wound seems to heal nicely."
"As you have had occasion to observe for yourself when you changed that bandage, yes."
"I see." Watson picked up the notebook, flipped it open and started to scribble again.
By now, I was certain that he was far from all right, but I still failed to deduce the obvious. It may be said in my defence that it was quite an unusual case.
I had scarcely finished breakfast when Mrs Hudson entered, carrying a telegram. "A telegram has just been delivered for you, Mr Holmes. The boy did not wait for a reply."
While I opened the missive, she exchanged some cordialities with Watson, who did not stop writing all the while. When I looked up again, Mrs Hudson was bearing the same look of bemusement that had threatened to overtake my own features.
"Thank you, Mrs Hudson," I said, and pressed the breakfast tray into her arms while guiding her to the door.
"Is the doctor fine?" she asked in a hushed voice.
"I'm sure it is merely the stress, Mrs Hudson. Don't you worry yourself."
But when I had shut the door behind her, Watson was still furiously scribbling, this time with the telegram balanced on his knees. There was only one possible conclusion: He was copying the missive. "My dear Watson, I don't even know if the case is going to be an interesting one. Besides, I am more than happy to let you keep the telegram for your notes."
He flushed and snapped the book shut as if I had caught him in some forbidden act. "Of course. Well, will you see Mr Greenstone?"
"If you have no objections, I will. Even if the case doesn't seem particularly interesting, this Mr Greenstone seems to be an extraordinary personality. Note how he demands to see me, rather than asking for an appointment. His name suggest no royalty, I can therefore safely deduce that he is some pompous, rich businessman."
"Holmes!"
I smirked at Watson's mock outrage, for a moment forgetting all worries. Truth be told, I was more than happy to pretend everything was fine as long as Watson did the same. Still, I never quite managed to ban the strange expression of his eyes from my mind. Also, I had become obsessed with the idea of learning what he had scribbled into that notebook.
During the entire interview with Mr Greenstone, who, indeed, was a businessman, a tobacconist who was under the impression of being persecuted by misfortune, I hovered behind Watson. However, he never jotted down anything of further interest than his usual case notes.
As for the case, it was not without interest, but still I could give Mr Greenstone several important leads without leaving my armchair, and quickly dismissed the man with the order to return to me should any new developments arise.
As soon as Greenstone was gone, Watson closed his notebook and with a sigh, moved over to the sofa. "I'm very sorry, Holmes, but I feel confoundedly tired."
"Take a nap, by all means, Watson! I shall find something quiet to do."
He was asleep in a matter of minutes, his chest lifting slowly with each intake of breath. As silently as it was humanly possible, I rose from my armchair to fetch the notebook which lay on the writing table, and opened the last page. It was completely covered with casenotes, therefore I flipped the page, and read what Watson had scribbled in less than his steady hand in which he penned down the notes for his accounts.
'Remember' was scrolled in capital letters on the top of the page, and underlined twice.
REMEMBER
head injury, minor gash on forehead, healed nicely, estimate: a week since the original injury
Day #1:
8:00
I can't recall how I came back to Baker Street, nor a stay at the hospital. H would not leave my side if this was my first day home.
Breakfast: scrambled eggs and tea
Mrs Hudson looks worried. Tells me to see to it that H takes care of himself.
8:15 I can't remember any of the above.
How I came by my injury:
uncontrolled cab
Holmes pulls me back
fall against lamppost
bleeding causes H to take me to the hospital
H has not eaten or slept properly for at least 5 days; inference: said time progressed since my injury – confirmed
long period of unconsciousness
back at Baker Street for less than two days
H notices nothing.
Telegram announces client. Mr Greenstone. H deduces he is a rich businessman.
Then followed the exact copy of the telegram, as I had correctly deduced. I assumed he had added the line over my deductions later, after he had already copied the missive.
Needless to say, I was shocked. Watson had noticed what was amiss even though he failed to remember the words shortly after he had written them – but Watson had come to rely so thoroughly on his notes that it had to be natural to him to consult them in frequent intervals. I assumed that was partly a reason why he had managed the feat of appearing normal even though he was far from it.
Secondly, I could not help but marvel at his extraordinary ability to read the emotions and feelings of the people around him. He knew me decidedly well, and had used all his knowledge to deduce what he had forgotten. I would be certain not to mock his abilities of inference in the near future.
How terrifying the facts now obvious to me were, one thing was also quite clear: Watson's long term memory was not affected. He recalled all events and identities up to the point of his injury. However, his mind seemed to be unable to fix any new impressions in his memory. When he had taken up the notebook in the morning, he had already forgotten our nightly encounter. I was also certain that in the night, he had not been able to recall when he had come to Baker Street.
From his notes I gathered that he was willing to try managing without aid, probably in the hope that this strange affliction would pass in time.
My fear, however, was that this would never be the case. It would be ironic indeed that my clumsy attempt at saving his life should have ruined him in such a fashion. I was certain that he would have forgotten to have scribbled down his notes once he awoke. Moreover, as days progressed, he would have to read more and more information if he continued this journal, and I knew better than any man that there was a limit to what man is able to remember. The strain would grow upon him, and eventually, even Watson would give in.
I had no wish whatsoever to see my friend reduced to a confused and broken man, depending entirely on the aid and memory of others. What a terror indeed to wake each morning without remembering having gone to bed, or any occurrence at all of the previous day. To Watson, the time had frozen – each day, the moments right before his accident would be the last to come to his mind, and as the wounds healed, he would not even remember the accident. While everything moved on around him, he was suspended, trapped by his own inability to recollect.
Even if he managed nicely with his notes and excellent judgement of human nature, I could not possibly take him on any of my more dangerous cases. But then again, I had grown accustomed to his presence in the most dire situations. Should I be injured now, even under his very eyes, it would only take approximately a quarter of an hour until he had no more knowledge of it. There was no possible way he could tend me, or save my life, as he so often had in the past.
But I must not be selfish in such a situation. It was unacceptable that Watson's condition should be permanent, and if I could do anything about it, this ailment would not trouble my friend for much longer.
-TBC-