Chapter 1
Here it was. It was that time of day once more.
Was everything ready?
John looked at his desk. Yep, everything was there. His journal was already out and opened to the introductory section so that it would draw him into reading it. He allowed his eyes to linger on his scrawls for a second. He managed to read the first sentence before he tore his eyes away.
"Your name is John Hamish Watson, and you have just forgotten your whole life again."
That introductory sentence was burned into his mind, branded there until the hour struck. Why he couldn't seem to remember his day after midnight struck was a mystery to him. He went through the facts really quickly in his head before he forgot them again. He had served the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers for many years as a medical doctor. Once he had retired respectfully from the army with an injury, he took up refuge with Sherlock Holmes, the world's greatest (and only) consulting detective. They built a good reputation for themselves. Sherlock was known as the mastermind, and John was known as his partner, the blogger. He didn't mind it. He enjoyed writing down Sherlock's achievements for the public to read, and applaud him for. However, as of late, the great detective was missing. No one had any idea where he had disappeared to. Apparently John had been the last person with him, and was now being tried for his disappearance. He was being investigated. The only reason they were now waiting on his trial was because his mind kept resetting itself.
"They think you're insane, John," he muttered, walking over to the window where the maroon curtain billowed in the cool evening breeze. "They think that your PTSD has caused you to become a psychopath."
John allowed his gaze to linger on the buildings, that had been transformed to the shadows with the night. Stars twinkled into view overhead; bright sparks of light dull in comparison to the lamp the moon was. A few people were lingering on the sidewalks, talking to one another. No one seemed to notice him standing in the window, his form lit up by the lamps that were softly glowing inside the flat of 221B Baker Street.
John looked down at his wristwatch. Two more minutes until the reset. The least he could do was try to figure out what happened to Sherlock again.
Sherlock Holmes had disappeared over three weeks ago, the same time that John's mind started its funky reset thing. John tried hard to remember the facts that led up to his disappearance. All he could seem to remember were snatches. He remembered the cabin they were going to investigate as part of the case they were working on. Sherlock had gotten a call the previous day with a case from a woman, Miss Murans, who swear she saw a ghost stealing her belongings. Sherlock had been intrigued and had gone over there since he was bored. Unfortunately, that was where John's recollection came to its end. He didn't remember anything else after that.
All he knew was, whatever had transpired, he was now no longer able to retain his memories, and Sherlock was missing.
One minute to go.
John sighed, tucking his hands into his pockets. He was discouraged with himself. His mind should be stronger than this, especially after all the time that he had spent with Sherlock solving cases. His mind should be sharp not dull; attentive not forgetful. He always wondered what Sherlock would do if he were in his shoes. If Sherlock was the one who kept forgetting everything, and was being tried for the murder of his partner-in-detecting, what would he do? How would he go about solving this matter?
Quickly, before the hour struck, John decided what his best plan of action might be in terms of finding out where Sherlock was. John raced over to his journal and flipped to a clean sheet in the back. He picked up the pen that lay idle beside it, and started to write down all of the questions that he had, and were determined to answer. He would write down all the aspects of the case that needed to be investigated so he would have it still, even after his mind reset.
Go over every facet of the case again...leave no detail unattended.
Investigate everyone involved – Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly, Anderson, Donovan, Mrs. Hudson, Miss Murans, everyone!
Why am I being framed for murder, and by whom? Is it a ghost from my past?
If it is someone from my past, why are they coming after me now? What have I done to cause them to still harbor animosity toward me after all these years?
Could it be another game of Moriarty's? If so, what is his catch this time?
Why do I have so many questions, and so little answers?
What would Sherlock do?
John placed the pen down. He knew that it was almost time for the hour to come about. Sighing, he looked at the framed picture of Sherlock that sat on the desk. It was a picture of the two of them, standing together, happy. They had just finished solving one of their cases, and were getting mobbed by the paparazzi as they snapped photos. John smiled. This picture just made him more determined. His best friend was out there somewhere, and he needed help. He would find his Sherlock, or fail in the attempt. The only thing he was certain about, just as the hour started to chime, was that he was not the one who had kidnapped Sherlock.
It was now midnight. He looked around himself in confusion. What was going on? Why wasn't he asleep? Why was he standing beside his desk?
He looked down at the desk to see the writing that he had just written, but that he couldn't remember. He read it, furrowing his brow in puzzlement. What did this mean? He flipped to the beginning of the notebook as he took a seat.
"Your name is John Hamish Watson, and you have just forgotten your whole life again."
And just like the day before, it began again for John.