A/N The idea for this story was mostly inspired by 50 First Dates. Yes, I have classy taste in films. Although, this is a bit angstier than the film was, I just used the basic idea of amnesia. I've planned the first nine chapters, and in the end I think I'm aiming for about 18 chapters, though it could be shorter or longer. Anyway, I hope you enjoy :3 I've never published a Sherlock fanfic before, so my characterisation might be a little off. Feel free to rip me to shreds for it! Also, it is written as if it is a vlog. Although it's basically a story narrative, anything within square brackets is sort of 'stage directions' of what Sherlock is up to as he vlogs.
[Sherlock's bedroom at 221b. The light coming through the window is weak and grey, but a lamp on the bedside table lights Sherlock's face from the side. He is sitting in sitting cross-legged in bed, his laptop resting on a pillow in front of him. He looks uncharacteristically ruffled, and he repeatedly brushes his index finger across his nose as if in a nervous tic. He speaks directly to the webcam.]
"When I woke up this morning, I had no idea where I was. I wasn't entirely surprised; it happens. I assumed that I'd taken too much cocaine and gone home with a stranger. So I got out of bed, thinking I would just slip out quietly, but my body was… not my own. It felt bigger than it should, and I was aching. Not in a painful way, just in a way that let me know I was older than I should be. It's difficult to explain the sensation, unless you have ever aged two decades in a single night. If I had been a little less disorientated, I wouldn't have, but I… hmm. I should have said earlier, I am forty years old. When I woke, I thought I was twenty. I was surprised at the difference twenty years made in my body. Anyone would be. It is not a failing on my part.
As it was, I panicked. I was making a lot of noise, which is when John came in. He heard the racket I had been making and wanted to make sure I was okay. I didn't recognise him, but he told me that we've been flatmates for five and a half years now, and we live at 221b Baker Street. He told me I have amnesia. It hasn't just affected my long term memory, or just my short term, but both. So not only can I not remember a great deal of my past, I can't begin building new memories. It seems that I forget everything when I fall asleep. Some days, I remember most of my life, and I've only lost a few years. Some days it's worse. This morning is one of the worst I've had, according to John. I don't usually go right the way back to my university-aged mind.
[His tone is light, analytical, but he shifts uncomfortably in a manner that suggests he is more unsettled by his situation than he is saying.]
I'm not sure if I believe John. Why should I? I've never seen him before in my life, as far as I know. I told him that, and he was clearly upset. At the same time, I think I do trust him. Not just because what he says sounds true, I just have a feeling, in my gut. That's why I'm unsure as to whether I believe him. I never pay attention to my gut instincts, I analyse things, pay attention to facts. I don't have facts to go on now, though. I asked him for proof that what he said was true, and he told me things. It didn't help. He claims to have only known me since we became flatmates, and I can't remember anything that's happened in those years. I would be sure I was twenty if my body didn't deny the fact. He could tell me things about my past, too, but nothing that couldn't be found out through a little research.
However, I have little choice but to trust him. There isn't anyone else, and clearly I can't trust my own amnesiac brain any more.
[The pain is evident in Sherlock's voice, as he has lost the thing he thought was most valuable to him- his mind. He sits back on his heels, still running his finger along his nose every so often.]
After he had convinced me, he told me a little more about my day to day life. Our day to day lives, actually. John doesn't work. He used to be an army doctor, or a GP, I forget. After my amnesia set in, Mycroft convinced him to stop working and be my live-in carer, and he covers all of our costs. Probably the only useful thing he'll ever do.
I got really cross at that, though. As if I need babying. I'm hardly going to drown in the bath or leave the oven on; I have amnesia, I'm not a moron. I told John that, or rather, I shouted it at him. He laughed, and it was a hollow sort of laugh.
"You have no idea," he said, "how similar your twenty year old mind is to your forty year old mind. You're still petulant. God, I could never even convince you to go to a doctor unless something had actually shrivelled up and fallen off,"
"You're right, I don't have any idea," I said coldly. He probably wasn't intentionally trying to taunt my condition, but he had succeeded anyway. I wanted to take the high road and walk away, but I couldn't. I stayed, and I shouted at him. I can't remember what I said. I'm not proud of it. On a logical level, I know I should be nice to him, given that he's still here trying to help me. He could have just left me in a hospital. But I lashed out; it was more or less instinctive.
He didn't seem all that upset. He did take the high road, and he remained calm and accepted my shouting. Maybe he's used to it. Maybe I shout at him most days, I wouldn't know. He seemed to understand, at any rate, that all I needed was for him to leave me alone. He went and sat in the kitchen- obviously he doesn't trust me enough to leave me alone entirely- and let me burn off steam. I wanted my punching-bag, but apparently I don't box any more. Interesting how much changes when you grow up.
In the end, I paced about until I formulated an idea. Attacking problems with a cerebral mindset always helps me to centre myself and control any emotions. I went to John and told him I wanted to start keeping a journal, where I would write down everything I had discovered about myself that day. I thought that perhaps it could help me regain my memories somehow, if there was a physical representation of what I should be remembering, and I could read over the journal each morning and remind myself of the facts. I trust myself much more than I trust John.
He initially seemed uncertain, but he couldn't think of a good reason that I shouldn't, and he agreed that it couldn't hurt to see if it might bring back some of my memories, or help me build new ones that last. He suggested that keeping a video diary might be easier, as I always think faster than I can speak, but I still speak faster than I can write. This way should be less frustrating for me. Because my mind is locked in the nineties, I wasn't sure what a 'video diary' actually meant, but John showed me my laptop, which has a tiny camera built into it, which can record me. It's fascinating, really. This technology is so much more advanced than I am used to.
When he was showing me what buttons to press and so on, it occurred to me that I didn't know why I had amnesia. Stupid of me not to think of it before. I asked John, and he got a pained look on his face.
"Are you sure you want to know?" he asked. What a ridiculous question, of course I want to know. If he had lost years of his life in a single night, I'm positive he would like to know what had happened. He really didn't want to tell me, and I have no idea why. It isn't as bad as it could be. I pestered him until he relented.
"Fine. Fine, you win, you enormous bloody five year old. Before the accident, you were a consulting detective. It's a job you made up- how was it you explained it to me? 'When the police are out of their depth, which is always, they come to me'. You go to crime scenes and deduce things, tell them what happened and who to arrest. There was one man in particularly, DI Lestrade…"
He looked at me expectantly, obviously wondering if I remembered him at all. I shook my head. Of course I don't remember him.
"Anyway, you helped Lestrade out on a fair few crimes. He was one of your friends. Well, in the limited extent to which the word 'friend' applies to you. Though he wasn't really involved with what happened to you. Does the name 'Moriarty' ring any bells?"
"No, nothing," I replied. It had absolutely no effect on me, but judging by John's face I should have felt something.
"You once described him as the Napoleon of crime. He's a criminal mastermind, and he was connected to a lot of the crimes that you solved. He's a genius, an absolute genius, and he's probably the only person that could ever outsmart you. Well, apart from… your brother," the pause he gave before saying 'brother' made me vaguely think there was someone else, but I was more interested in finding out about my amnesia. I will ask John tomorrow, who this other person is.
"You being you, you had to beat him. Couldn't stand that he was as clever as you. So you threw yourself into chasing him, and you had a few encounters. He took some sick sort of pleasure in the chase, and there was a big confrontation in the end. There's a hospital, you used to go there to do experiments, St Bart's. We were there, he tricked me into leaving, and you went up to the rooftop to meet Moriarty. Nobody knows what happened up there, not really. When the police went up there, they found Moriarty's corpse. He had shot himself. When I realised that I'd been tricked, I came back to the hospital, but you were already standing on the edge of the roof. You phoned me- we have mobile phones now, you can use them anywhere- and you said… well, you said a lot of things. You told me you were sorry, you were a fake, and everything was an act. You said the call was your note. You said goodbye, and you jumped.
By all rights, you should have died. When I reached you, your head was smashed, and you were in a pool of blood. You looked dead. But by some miracle, maybe the way you'd landed, you were alive, just. You were in a coma for weeks, and when you regained consciousness, you couldn't remember anything, not even your name. Severe head trauma can cause memory loss, so nobody was too surprised. Eventually, things started coming back to you, you kept getting better, until we were at the point when you could come home with me. Now, every morning you wake up and I come through and explain all of this to you."
When he finished speaking, John was a little out of breath and his hands were shaking. He obviously didn't like telling me this story, and he had to tell it again every day. I didn't feel much. I couldn't connect that story to my own life, so it didn't really have an effect on me. The only thing I feel about it, even now, is disappointment. I have always been manic at times, but I never thought I would actually become suicidal. There is also a faint tinge of curiosity, as to what happened on the rooftop. Presumably Moriarty killed himself, and then I jumped; why? I had thought John was finished, but suddenly he started speaking again.
"One time, only a few weeks after we moved in here, we met Moriarty. He had me kidnapped; you met at a swimming pool at midnight. It was the first time you had ever met him properly, face to face. He told you that if you didn't leave him alone, he would burn the heart out of you. I didn't know what he meant at the time- well, I thought he meant something else- but now… I think he has. You depended so much on your brain; it might as well have been your heart. He's hurt you in the worst way possible, and sometimes you don't even seem to know how broken you are,"
It was at this point that I decided my gut instinct had been right, and I could trust John. He told me the brutal truth, didn't hide the fact that my life now is not a whole one. I liked that about him. Whether he knew to do it because he really has been my flatmate for years, or because he was an honest person, I can't be sure, but either way, I think he will tell me the truth. What I didn't like was the look in his eyes: when he was talking about how hurt I was, he looked really devastated inside. I make a point of not getting too close to people. Why had I let this man in to my life?
[He purses his lips and sits contemplatively, allowing all that he has learned today to settle into his mind. By the time he has gotten used to the idea, he will fall asleep and have to start again in the morning. He is fully aware of this, and the thought perturbs him.]
To conclude: my name is Sherlock Holmes. I am forty years old, and I am suffering from amnesia. Every morning, John will remind me of this video diary and so I can watch over what I have been doing, and in that way I can begin building my narrative, as opposed to living each day individually. That would be hopelessly dull."
[Sherlock studies the laptop with his usual cold, systematic eye. He brushes his finger once more across his nose before he reaches forward and taps a button. Fade to black.]