A man bolted awake from his sleep. He blinked slowly in the bright summer sunshine. Summer. Sun. Warmth. Much too warm for the heavy overcoat he was wearing. Why was he wearing an overcoat? Last he remembered... The man's thoughts trailed off. He didn't remember. He remembered nothing, save for a few moments ago when he woke up. He had to know something, someone, anything! Nothing. He searched his mental recesses again. This time, he found something. An address. 221 B Baker Street. He slipped the overcoat over his arm as he started walking.
The doorbell rang at 221 B Baker Street. The sound of someone playing a violin was heard as an older women opened the door.
"Are you here to see Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson asked the man standing at the doorstep.
"Uh, yeah." the man said, confused. Who was Sherlock? Wasn't this address his flat?
"Well, come on in. I don't know if he's taking any cases today though. He's been rather unsociable lately, not that he ever really is one for conversation." Mrs. Hudson said, opening the door up to let the man in.
"Sherlock, someone's here to see you!" Mrs. Husdon called up to Sherlock's flat. People came at all hours of the day now, during afternoon tea, for shame! She had just settled down to her own cup when the doorbell rand.
"I'm composing." came the curt reply from Sherlock.
"Oh, Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson replied, dissatisfied with the detective's lack of interest in a new case. He used to love them, but then John got busy with Mary and their daughter, and Sherlock stopped going out. Hadn't left the flat in weeks.
"Well, come on in I suppose. Sherlock will be ready for you in a few minutes, won't he?" the last part of Mrs. Hudson's comment was directed at Sherlock, and no response was heard from him.
The two settled down in the sitting room of Mrs. Hudson's flat and waited for the elusive detective to stop composing and start sleuthing. Mrs. Hudson attempted to make polite conversation with the man, but he didn't seem to want to talk much, or at least didn't answer the questions that she asked. Perhaps he was a "I'll only talk to Sherlock" type. Either way, the man was a puzzle.
"What is it Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock said as he entered the sitting room.
"I'm not an it, I'm a he!" the man said.
"Oh. Well then, who is it?" Sherlock replied.
"I don't know. That's the problem. I don't know who I am. I don't remember anything, except this address. 221B Baker Street. I don't know why. I thought it was my house, I thought it was something important, but then I show up here and nothing. Nothing familiar, nothing that I even recognize. I know what things are but—"
"Stop there." Sherlock interrupted him. "Your clothes, at least seven years out of date. Your coat, much to heavy for summer. You're clean shaven. Unscuffed shoes. No memories."
"That about sums it up." The man started to say
"Stop thinking, I can feel it and it is distracting." Sherlock turned in a slow circle. His mind was at work. Remembering nothing, except for one thing. That didn't happen in naturally. This memory loss, the out of date clothes, they were connected. Somehow. Sherlock didn't know how, and that scared him. He had returned a few weeks ago because Moriarty was back. At least, that was how the evidence pointed to. They hadn't heard anything from him. It would have been possible to survive the bullet would, had he been given the right medical care in time. If he had, then he was back. If not, then there was someone else here at play. Someone who liked to play games. This man might be a piece in the game.
"Amnesia." was the detective's conclusion.
"What?" the man replied.
"Amnesia. Quite simple really. Memory loss, in a shortened way of putting it. You forgot who you are, nearly seven years ago."
Hi! Yes, this is the fourth miltichap fic going on at the same time, and yes, most of my stories are on hiatus because of busy summer plans. Sorry about that. Updates will be few and far between, but I'm excited to post my first venture into Sherlock fan fiction! Please review, favorite, and follow! Starship T.A.R.D.I.S. out!