Prompt: Molly has amnesia and doesn't remember Sherlock. He doesn't realize how much he counted on her unwavering love until it's not there anymore. As I have it planned out, I'm afraid it will be pretty angsty. And there will be several chapters (4-6) but with quick updating as I have the first few chapters ready to go already.
Trigger Warning: There are some very unpleasant issues addressed here at the beginning, including but not limited to sexual assault. I do not go into any explicit details but I feel safer letting every reader know to proceed with caution. I don't want anyone to have any bad experiences as a result of my work. If you feel the need to talk about ANYTHING please feel free to PM me. Much love. - CG
Disclaimer: The characters in the following are the property of the writers/producers of BBC's Sherlock. No copyright infringement intended.
-x-x-x- Chapter 1 - what if i fall and hurt myself -x-x-x-
John reached for a cup and poured himself some of the tepid brew that passed for coffee in the staff lounge at the clinic. Why couldn't this machine keep a simple pot of coffee hot? Rubbing at the tense muscles in the back of his neck, he moved to join Sarah and one of the nurses at a wobbly round table. The ladies were already in the middle of a conversation so he sat in a hard plastic chair and tried to catch up.
"I told her I would file a report, but without any description of the creep, I doubt the police will be able to do anything."
"Did she want to speak with a counselor?"
"No. That was the really odd part. She was upset that it had happened, obviously, but not like any victim I've ever seen. And you know we see more than I'd like. More than anything she was confused about how it could have happened without her remembering anything."
"John," Sarah said, turning to him, "Maybe you can help. You deal with some odd things, working with Sherlock. Would he take a case that isn't murder?"
"Sure, well…it depends doesn't it. What kind of case is it?" He sipped at his cup and made a face. Cold.
"A patient came in earlier today for a pelvic exam. Said she was experiencing some odd tenderness and the like and just wanted to get checked out. All signs point to her having recently experienced a significant sexual assault. She's married so I asked her, as gently as possible of course, if her husband was violent or had any tendencies like that."
"That would be the most obvious explanation, unfortunate though it is," chimed in the nurse.
"Right," Sarah continued, "but her husband is in the military and has been overseas for better than four months. I had to tell her the only other explanation was rape. You know how sometimes the victim will just block it out, only to later fall apart when there was evidence in front of her? I expected the walls to come crashing down and to have her sobbing in front of me while I called a counselor."
"Sounds like a standard case to me, why would Sherlock be interested?" John asked.
"She didn't fall apart, didn't show any signs at all of remembering. I'm beginning to doubt what really happened. She just seems really confused like there are no memories at all, nothing for her to block out even. I want to send it to the police, but I'm not sure if there's anything to report. She couldn't even remember when it had happened."
"Well, Sherlock might be able to at least deduce the when and maybe the where from looking at her, you know how he is. But are you sure you want to expose a potential rape victim to Mr. Insensitivity?"
"I'll give her a call and explain everything, see if she will go meet him. Just don't leave her alone with him and make sure she gets out of there if he starts getting too…Sherlock."
John chuckled, "Yeah, I'll do my best."
-x-x-x-
The next day found Kara Walton sitting uncomfortably in the middle of a dark and frankly foreboding sitting room, staring at the odd assortment of things on the mantle in front of her.
"Is that a skull?"
"Yes. But that is irrelevant. John made it seem like this case would interest me so, dispense with the obvious and get to the point. Why are you here?"
Kara squirmed a bit under the detective's gaze and shot a worried glance over to Dr. Watson. John smiled at her and nodded his head to encourage her to begin. Clearing her throat a little, she spoke softly but clearly.
"I went to the clinic yesterday because I felt sore, you know, like something wasn't right. And I had some bruises that I couldn't remember getting. I wanted to make sure that I hadn't passed out or something and fallen."
"Do you have a history of blacking out, Mrs. Walton?" John asked, scrawling in his notebook.
"No. I just wanted to find out what had happened to get all these bruises. And then the doctor said she thought maybe I'd been raped. That just can't be right. I'd have remembered something like that. Wouldn't I? I just want answers. I need to know what to tell my husband when he gets home." Recounting her experience at the clinic left Kara flustered, but still she remained composed. Certainly unlike any rape victim John had ever encountered. Her entire attitude was one of bewilderment and confusion.
"You could tell him you want a divorce."
"What?!" Kara exclaimed.
"Sherlock!" John interjected simultaneously. Both he and Kara shot looks of anger at the detective who merely huffed and rose to pace in front of the woman.
"Really, John. She is a military wife – notorious for being unfaithful while their husbands are away. They get 'lonely'," he sneered throwing air quotes around the word indicating that this was another human emotion that did not apply to him. John would argue otherwise, knowing how his friend had reacted during a time neither of them spoke about. But he indulged the man his need to compartmentalize during casework. He settled for a pointed look and a scowl in Sherlock's direction.
"I swear to you I have not cheated on my husband," Kara interrupted their staring match.
"Will you at least look at her, Sherlock? Her bruises alone should speak for the fact that she's been through something and we'd like some information to give the police. A when and where if nothing else."
Sighing dramatically, he circled the woman. Then directed her to stand and extend her arms for him to examine the bruises. Looking closely at her wrists his eyes shifted and he stood directly in front of her, locking his eyes on hers.
"Answer my questions with only 'yes' or 'no' responses. Do you understand?"
"Yes," she replied obediently.
"Good. Is your name Kara Walton?"
"Yes."
"Do you live in London?"
"Yes."
"Do you play tennis?"
"No."
"Do you have a dog?"
"Yes. Three."
"Yes or no, only Mrs. Walton. Are you left-handed?"
"No."
"Did you cheat on your husband?"
"NO."
"Hmm. Very well, you may sit." Kara collapsed into the chair, blinking furiously as if she had just been released from a spell.
"Sherlock, what was that all about?" John hissed as he looked worriedly at the woman who was still trembling from her interrogation. "Can I get you a glass of water?" he asked her. She nodded and he went to the kitchen for a glass while Sherlock explained.
"I merely needed to know if she was telling the truth, so I administered a form of polygraph test. While answering the questions, I watched her breathing, eye dilation, and perspiration on her brow and upper lip. I compared her answers with what I already knew about her. The fact that she lives in London is the easiest, she visited your clinic, so she lives locally. She does not play tennis, but does swim extensively based on the condition of her hair, damaged by chlorine and the musculature of her upper arms. Both arms are roughly the same in tone but there are clear callouses on her right index and middle fingers where she holds her pen too tightly while writing, she is right-handed. She and her husband indeed have three dogs: a German shepherd, a golden retriever, and a Labrador mixed-breed judging from the hairs all over her clothing. Most likely they were all rescues. I can now agree that she did not cheat on her husband. Furthermore, I'm also certain she has been sexually assaulted."
"But I would have remembered!"
"Retrograde amnesia is a possibility, but I feel that something else may be at work here. Time to call the Met, John. See if there are any other mysterious rape reports. Chances are very good that this criminal has struck before or will strike again."
-x-x-x-
As Sherlock was so fond of saying, the game was on. Phoning the police resulted in four other cases of mysterious rape reports with the victims remembering nothing. They all simply woke one morning with bruises and couldn't provide even a rough description of the attacker. It took a couple of days, but Sherlock was able to track down a suspect using overlapping routines of the five women to narrow down the suspect's likely territory. Investigating abandoned buildings in the area, he finally happened upon a disgusting space that held promise.
Something squelched under his foot and he inhaled sharply, nearly gagging on the smell of an unwashed male body and weeks of accumulated filth, including it seemed human waste in a bucket in the corner. Sherlock's face wrinkled in disgust. He was accustomed to the sights and smells of vagrancy from his work with the homeless of London but if this was the base of their suspect, he was not surprised that the victims had deleted the memory. It was appalling. He would also be deleting all the fetid odors and images shortly after this case closed. Picking his way slowly through the mess he found what he was after.
Tucked behind a ratty sheet suspended behind some packing cartons, which he supposed might be the suspect's bed based on the heap of material stacked on top, was a shabby table and an amateur chemistry set-up. Beakers, tubing, and various stands were scattered along the top of the table with stacks of wrinkled papers covered with smudges of unidentifiable chemicals. Sherlock was fleetingly reminded him of his own equipment. He made a mental note to try and tidy up a bit when he got home, after a long hot shower to wash off the stench. Carefully, Sherlock shifted some papers around, although he doubted the suspect would be able to tell if anything had been disturbed. Still, he didn't want to raise an alarm before there was enough evidence to arrest him. The sound of a glass tube rolling across the surface of the table caught his attention and he grabbed for it at is fell over the edge, catching it just before it shattered on the concrete floor of the abandoned building.
His face was now centimeters from a small case containing several capped vials of a clear liquid. Eureka. This was the drug he was looking for amongst all this rubbish. Silently pocketing one for further study, he removed himself from the hovel, seeking the clean air outside. Sherlock would need a mass spectrometer to properly analyze and identify the components of the mystery substance, but he was certain there was plenty of evidence behind him to warrant an arrest. Determining the chemical composition of the mind altering drug in his possession would be a bonus. It was why he took this case after all. He quickly made for a main road to hail a cab, texting on his way. The details of the location to the DI in charge, rape investigations were not Dimmock nor Lestrade's division, and John to meet him at Barts to begin the analysis.
-x-x-x-
Sweeping through the doors, Sherlock called out to his pathologist. Well, she wasn't actually his, she was employed by the hospital, but Molly Hooper was among the few friends he had in this world and he trusted his work with her. He particularly liked that she was always so accommodating in the use of her equipment for his cases.
"Molly! I need to run a mass spec on this chemical." He reached into his pocket and displayed the mystery vial, twiddling it back and forth in his fingers. "I need to know what it is to prove he drugged the victims, thus wiping their memory of the event."
She smiled at him, "Oh, of course. Just set it here on the counter and I'll get it set up."
John spoke as he came bustling through the door on the heels of the detective, "How long is this going to take?"
"At least a couple of hours, sorry," Molly apologized.
"I've been at the clinic all morning and now I have to rush all the way over here to sit around waiting. I haven't eaten all day," he grumbled.
"Why don't you both pop up to the cafeteria for a bite and I'll get everything started."
"Thanks, Molly. I'm starving. Even hospital food sounds good. C'mon, Sherlock, you can keep me company and stay out of her way while she works."
Before he could protest, or pretend to be absorbed in microscope slides and petri dishes, John took hold of Sherlock's elbow and steered him out the door. Molly laughed quietly, knowing that would only be a few minutes before he was back. Sherlock didn't eat while on a case, but would become ravenous upon its conclusion. Since he was already here, he would want to pull out some of his ongoing experiments while they both waited for the spectroscopy results. Then there would be analysis and other investigations to perform, possibly even trying to replicate the concoction. She would draw the line at that. No mad science experiments today. Turning back to the bench Molly assembled all the necessary equipment and put on a fresh pair of gloves.
Opening the vial a pungent odor wafted up making Molly crinkle her nose. She blinked furiously and tried to keep her head as far as possible from the vapor. It was awful. Drawing out a sample with a pipette in her right hand, she tried to cap the vial with her left to contain the smell. Her fingers slipped, knocking the little glass container to the floor. It broke spilling the foul substance all over the tile. Hastily, Molly reached down trying to contain the mess. It was too late, however, as she was enveloped in the vapor. She gagged on the gas that now overwhelmed her senses. It was bitter, but briefly hinted of cedar and verbena. Then, dangerously, it tasted and smelled like blood. Gasping for fresh air, she reached for the emergency button on the wall by the door. A haze clouded her vision and she shook her head trying to focus. It didn't help. She only managed a couple of steps before the haze closed around her. Molly collapsed, completely unconscious.
True to form, Sherlock was on his way back to the lab not five minutes after John sat down with his questionable cafeteria food. He had placated his friend by pocketing a sandwich and insisting that he was going to take a cup of coffee back for Molly. Two cups in hand, he strolled down the sterile halls, anxious to get back to work. Confident the case was already closed, the arrest details had been messaged to him in the interim, he now wanted to satisfy his curiosity as to the chemical makeup of the drug. What could possibly be potent enough to keep the victims completely in the dark about their attacker? Imagine the criminal possibilities of a drug that could selectively manipulate memory. It would be a con-artist's dream.
Upon opening the door, Sherlock was momentarily confused by the lack of pathologist standing at her station. Then he caught a trace of the chemical in the air. Clearly Molly had spilled the drug, but why hadn't she sounded the alarm? His eyes darted around the room. Lying on the floor, just around the edge of the bench was Molly's purple gloved hand, stretched toward the door. Panic gripped him him as Sherlock took in the sight of her limp body sprawled out on the floor. The same feeling as when John had been grazed by a bullet during a past case. He pushed his scarf around his mouth and nose darting to her prone figure. Tugging on the collar of her lab coat, he pulled her to the doors. He slammed his elbow into the emergency button while scooping her up. Once in the cool air of the hallway, he leaned against a wall and slid to the floor cradling her crumpled form in his arms. Gently he brushed her hair away from her face, thankful she was still breathing. The sirens and lights cried for help which he hoped wasn't too late in coming. Sherlock could do nothing but wait and try to quiet the voice in his head telling him this was his fault.
