Chapter 1
Waking, there was kind beeping, muffled sounds, and bright white. There was, of course, the basic knowledge that she was in a hospital, that she was in a lot of pain, but… where? Where, exactly, could she be, and who, exactly, was she? Letting out a strangled sound of pain, the woman tried to sit up.
One arm in a cast, she caused herself more trouble than planned, and a throbbing in her head followed. Leaning over herself, she felt sick at the sharp pain in her ribs, but it was still better than lying down. What was happening? What happened to her?
Taking in a deep breath, her free hand went over her face. Gauze on her forehead, her cheek felt rough and scraped, and even lightly touching her eyelids hurt though that was likely from exhaustion rather than injury. Wincing at the sudden twinge at her temple, the hand dropped. She turned a bit, to find something to help her or call a nurse – she could call a nurse, right? – but it was hard to reach from where she sat, and that the remote was on her side with the broken arm.
The door to her room opened when she was attempting to shift, biting her lip to keep from making a sound too loud, only it wasn't any nurse or doctor. It was a very young, tall and thin man who looked like he hadn't slept, wearing rumpled clothes. Was this someone that she knew? The man holding the coffee, striding in with trepidation like this room were utter hell?
"What happened?" Her voice cracked and was quiet, catching the attention of the man before he'd even looked up and noticed her.
When he did, the cup dropped from his hand and she thought he may cry. The woman didn't want to see anyone cry, she tried to remember him as he rushed to her bedside, but nothing came to mind. More than cautious for her wounds, the man kissed her non-scraped cheek, holding her uninjured hand, sitting on the side of her bed.
"I'm sorry." He did cry, just one of two tears, leaning near her. It was awkward and sad, but the woman didn't move. She was too afraid to hurt herself in the process to back away from the stranger. "It's my fault – you were pushed off the roof. We're in the hospital – St. Bart's."
The woman remembered only that this was London. Nothing else. Not a thing came to mind. "Who am I?"
Those words startled the man into moving back. His look changed from despair and guilt to complete annihilation. "Johanna." He spoke with this deep, mournful voice. "You- It's Johanna, remember? Spelt J-o-h-a-n-n-a, pronounced Jonah. You love correcting people."
It was clear he was desperate she remember it, but Johanna-pronounced-Jonah had no idea that was who she was. "Who are you?" She went on, feeling his grip on her hand tense a bit.
"Jo- I'm… Sherlock. It's Sherlock." She had never heard such a name, but her heart pumped painfully. Johanna didn't remember him.
But she was scared now. She had a name she didn't know, he was someone close to her that she didn't know, and he had said she was pushed. "Did you push me?" She asked with tears. "I was pushed off a roof. Who would push me off a roof?"
They could each hear the heart monitor beginning to beep a little faster as her pulse elevated. She was panicking, and the man let go of her. "I would never. Johanna, I'm–"
Before he could tell her, the door opened again and this time, it was a doctor. "She doesn't remember anything!" Sherlock shouted.
The doctor seemed surprised to even see her awake, and then sympathetic. "Mr. Holmes, I need to check up on her. Do you mind waiting outside?" He asked of the strange man.
"I'm not leaving her." Sherlock ordered.
While Johanna didn't hate the compassion, she was still alarmed and scared, not knowing what was happening. "I don't even know you!" She bit out without meaning to. "I don't know me! Leave me alone!"
Her voice turned to a near scream. The doctor made the man leave, and other nurses came. They consoled her, gave her medicine, explained the amnesia. They even told her her name again, told her she was twenty-two, that she had light brown hair she couldn't see and green eyes she couldn't see. She'd survived a fall, and only just at four stories. She was lucky to have been alive, they said, that this was all minimal damage. That she should focus on recovery and spend as much time as possible with her husband.
Johanna startled then. "No, no." She told the doctor quickly. There was no way she'd forget her husband – how could someone forget anybody they loved so much? Unless she didn't love him. "I can't! I don't want to. I'm not married, I can't be married."
"We're going to keep you a few more days." The doctor carried on without trying to convince her otherwise, ignoring her crying. "We'll encourage you to see as many visitors as you can, see if it triggers your memory; hopefully it will come back. It could happen all at one or every now and then, but you may never remember the incident."
The incident. Being pushed off of a building, clearly, was the incident. How could he call it something like that? The incident. Why not just call it what it was? Being pushed off a roof, simple as that.
Over the next few days, she had visitors even though she didn't want to. That man, Sherlock, another person name Mycroft, an older woman claiming to be her aunt – she didn't even have parents. A university professor, an old friend, her neighbor she was apparently close with, her landlord who told her they used to chat all the time. He even brought a picture of her home as if that was going to jog her memory.
Nothing helped. Especially not her mood swings. Sherlock brought her flowers once – he always seemed so depressing and Johanna couldn't bring herself to ask if he was the husband she forgot. Either way, he brought flowers; ones she didn't recognize with three yellow petals and one purple one, stripes in the yellow.
"Pansies." He commented as she stared at them at the table next to her bed. Such a simple word she couldn't even remember. "They were… you used to favor them."
Johanna just felt upset to say these were her favorites when she could hardly remember what other flowers looked like. "They're hideous." She told him, first words she'd spoken to him that entire day.
"I know." Sherlock told her. Maybe she was supposed to laugh, but she was upset.
And they weren't bad. The petals looked like little faces. "I don't want them." She blurted despite it. Just because she was upset to not know how much she liked them.
Sherlock took the small potted plant and threw it away. Right into the hospital rubbish bin, without an expression on his face. This bothered Johanna even more than him bringing them. No, she wasn't bothered when he brought them, just when he said she liked them. So if she liked them, he should have ignored when she said she didn't want them.
"Why would you do that?" Johanna asked.
"You didn't want them." He answered lightly, getting upset with her like she was with him.
She sat up. "But they're my favorite!"
Without fixing anything, saying anything, Sherlock left the room. Johanna couldn't get up, her cracked ribs prevented that, but if she could have she would have taken the flowers from the trash. They really weren't horrible: she was. She was horrible.
Nothing got better, and nothing got worse. Johanna couldn't ever stand her visitors, she couldn't make herself ask about her life, and she couldn't go home. Wherever, whatever home was, it was a strange place. Everything was a strange place, with strange people. But real strangers were better than the ones that knew everything she didn't know about herself. So, essentially, she ran away.
