First of all, if you're reading this, thank you! This is the first fanfiction I've ever had the courage to publish... I've started writing them so many times, but never felt that they were good enough to share with anyone. But I thought 'What the heck' and decided to publish this one, so I hope you enjoy it. It was betad by the lovely kodkodkittie, and any reviews/comments are more than welcome...now, on with the story...

It was late at night when John Watson returned from the abyss of his mind. At least, he thought it was John Watson. Maybe it was Jim… no, not Jim. John sounded more familiar, easier on the tongue. He'd heard it before, from someone else's mouth. A friend maybe…or a stranger. Did he even have any friends? Jim – no, John Watson wasn't sure. For a while now, John Watson had felt strange, as if he were floating in vast, bottomless ocean. His hearing, at one point fully blocked up, had melded into a fuzzy buzzing. His vision was gone, and no matter how hard he told himself, no matter how hard he pushed himself, he just couldn't open his eyes. He'd been paralyzed, trapped inside his own body. There were points where he wondered if he was ever going to wake up. Even in his catatonic state, John had felt little stabs of pain – they where what kept him sane. Each prick was reassurance that he wasn't dead yet. But tonight, he pushed harder than normal. He forced himself to wake up, gasping inside his head as the dark ocean drowning him in his mind drained away. The dull throb of his mind, beating a tattoo against his skull that reverberated throughout his entire body echoing his heartbeat, sapped him of the little energy he possessed, leaving him too tired to consider much of anything. John thought he could sense a ticking coming from somewhere nearby, slowly he turned his head to the side, trying in vain to not make the throbbing worse. However, even from this slight movement, pain radiated through his head, and he winced. Why was he in pain? It seemed odd– he hadn't been injured in a while…had he? John couldn't really remember. He thought he remembered his life being boring, and dull, and normal, and overrated. Wasn't it? He couldn't remember, not that he doubted that it mattered. It was strange, this sensation of not knowing information that had the nagging feeling of being extremely important. It was there, in the farthest depths of his brain, right on the tip of his tongue. He just couldn't reach it.

The room he occupied was dark the only light coming from a small emergency sign placed somewhere above him, emitting a piercing green glow. It hurt John's eyes. Squinting, he noticed a small clock stood on the table beside his bed. The glowing numbers read 22:18. It was odd, that number. It seemed fairly familiar, and gave him a calm sort of feeling. From where, though? How could a number be familiar? Considering there were so many out there, so many different combinations, why would he prefer just one? Could it be sentiment? No, somehow he didn't think so. But he doubted it mattered because, the truth was, John Watson didn't know where he was. He'd woken in a strange room, too light and airy to be his home. The bed seemed too hard to be his own, with not nearly enough pillows – he could feel the stiffness of his neck the lack of pillows caused. The air smelled too clean, like someone had sprayed chemicals everywhere, and he could taste it when he breathed in. The room was quiet too, only the sounds of were ticking, breathing, the throbbing in his head and the regular beats of the heart monitor stationed nearby. John stared at it. There was nothing wrong with his heart. Why was it there? Where was he? Panic bubbled up inside him, hot and angry, and John instinctively clenched his left hand into a fist. He wasn't sure why, but it felt right. He sat up, ignoring the pain, ignoring the beeping of the monitor as it displayed his panic in a loud, highly annoying way. Twisting around a little, the needle in his arm tugged. It was irritating, so he ripped it out. It slipped off the bed, dripping some sort of fluid onto the tiled floor beside his bed. There were other wires too, and a strange band, displaying his name and some other various information in the form of numbers, around his wrist. The wires were easy to defeat, but the band was stubborn and wouldn't come off. The beeping stopped as soon as the monitor was disconnected from him, and John was glad of the silence. He sat for a moment, looking around himself. The room was rather small, and he was alone in it. On the far side, there were 3 chairs, a small table and a wheelchair. There were some coat pegs nailed to the back of the door, which had a little glass window right at the top, and some sort of instructions below it. They were too dark to read. To the left of his bed, there was a small window covered with dark blue curtains that were drawn together in the center. When John finished his assessment of the room, he decided it was really time to get out. Pushing the covers off himself, he registered some scratchy material taped to his skin in various places that tugged when he moved, but he ignored them completely as he levered himself off the bed. Placing both feet gingerly on the floor, he shivered at the cold that shot through him. He had no shoes, no socks and was clad in only a thin, green gown that didn't cover nearly enough for his liking. Although John wasn't sure how he usually dressed he had a creeping suspicion that it wasn't like this. Transferring his weight onto his feet, he gasped as his head swum. He saw red and black float across his vision, and his head rushed with pain. Reaching up, he felt the same scratchy material that was on his body wrapped around his head. Gingerly, he touched the offending area and was rewarded by a violent surge of pain. He panted, and waited for it to subside, before walking towards the door.

He slipped once, when his legs protested against the movement, but caught himself on the door frame. His whole body ached. It was more than just a small, annoying ache – it was big and brutal and felt like he'd been punched all over and thrown against walls and blown up. Blown up? Why would he… Suddenly, an image flashed through his mind, a bright yellow and red burst of colour and the sounds of breaking glass and someone calling his name and then rain or water or something cold and he was going to kill him for this. And just as quickly as the vision started, it stopped. John's eyes widened, and he glanced around quickly. The image had been fleeting, but John had no idea what it meant. Was he meant to see it? Maybe his brain hadn't wanted him to know – that's why it cut off. But he didn't have time to worry about that now. He needed to get out of here. Taking a step outside the door, he looked around. Ward 103? He was in a hospital? Strangely, John wasn't surprised by this. Somehow, in the back of his mind, John realised he knew a lot about hospitals, and the IV and chemical smell should have alerted him earlier. The pain as well – that was another give away. As he wandered down the hallway, he noticed a sign for the exit. Ah, that's where he needed to go. The dull pain in the back of his head throbbed painfully, and John did his best to ignore it. As he walked, he passed a few nurses that stared blankly at him, pausing in whatever important work they were doing, and just staring. It made him uncomfortable. He just smiled at them and kept walking, nodding towards the exit sign. They didn't smile back. Hmm, that was odd. John didn't think he looked strange. Maybe there was something on his face…

He continued along the corridor, and as he turned right, he saw a man up ahead. The man was talking loudly to himself, sitting next to a hot drinks machine. John stopped for a moment, holding onto the hand rail on the wall for support, and was proud to say he only swayed a tiny bit. Even though the whole corridor seemed to ripple, he felt completely fine. Focusing back on the voice, John listened. The voice was low, rising in pitch and volume as the man became obviously agitated, and taut with some kind of emotion. John wasn't sure which one – maybe it was a mixture. It was smooth, the voice, like the sheets of the bed he'd just vacated; it also had a sort of lumpy quality, like the pillows John had been lying on. It was a nice voice, he decided, and sounded strangely familiar.

"For God's sake," the voice was thick as it said this, layered with all those emotions John was thinking about, and the man took a deep breath and all but punched the machine, his shoulders heaving. Frowning, John walked towards him again. There was a rough sound echoing from the man's throat, and he put it hands together, as if in prayer, and pressed them against his forehead. John could see him breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling rapidly. John wasn't sure what he should do – something told him he should ask how he was, ask if the man needed any help. Then again, John had no idea who he was. The man continued to mutter – God, John thought, I could listen to that voice all day…As much as he wanted to just stand there and listen, though, the cup of tea that was stood on the floor next to the man was getting cold. And nobody likes cold tea. So, clearing his throat, he decided on the former option.

"Excuse me," he tried to make his voice sound professional but it was merely more than a squeak. He tried again, "Do you know where I can find the exit?"

The man sighed, grasped the tea off the floor (his hand shaking slightly, John noted) and stood up with a small stretch. John was surprised by how tall he was - much taller than John, but still in proportion. His hair was dark and slightly curly, and hadn't been washed in a few days. That was a shame really, because it was nice hair. Turning to face him, the man opened his mouth to speak but stopped dead when he saw the asker. John waited, eyeing the cup of tea with some interest - he'd only now noticed how thirsty he was. Maybe if the man didn't want it… he'd expected an answer, though. Frowning, he glanced at the man's face. It was pale and thin, the eyes rimmed with red and slightly narrowed. His nose and cheeks were angular, the bones prominent and sharp. His mouth had closed and was now pressed into a thin line, the full lips suddenly thin and white. John smiled at him, raising his eyebrows to indicate the lack of response. The man didn't smile back. He just stared at John, his frame nearly trembling. Before John could move away, the man stepped forward harshly, releasing his cup of tea. It sailed to the floor, John's eyes following it as it fell, the lid flying off comically before it had hit even made contact with the ground. Scalding liquid flooded the floor between them, and John marvelled at the sensation of it burning his toes. The pain registered a little later, and he jumped to the side holding the railing for support. The man didn't move. There was tea staining his dark trousers, but he didn't seem to care. He just stared at John. And kept staring. Nervously, John glanced down the corridor. He could run if he had too, he was sure of it. Before he could, the voice spoke.

"John? What the hell are you doing?" the man said, all anger leaving it's voice midway and replaced by something softer, still slightly louder than John would have liked. It hurt his ears, and his head panged with pain. Frowning, John shook his head. Bad idea. His head swum and the man seemed to triple in front of him, a collection of strangers surrounding him. Somewhere, deep in his mind, he was telling himself to turn around and run, to get out of danger, to get out of line of sight. He ignored it – John could handle it by himself.

"I'm sorry – do I know you?" he was fairly sure he didn't. But then again, John Watson wasn't sure of much these days.

The man's face had changed – it looked worried now. Very worried. And he was frowning too, his dark eyebrows making cutting lines on his forehead. John was glad he wasn't the only confused person here.

"Don't be an idiot, John. It's me." The man said. John shook his head again, not catching the joke.

"I'm sorry; I don't think we've met." John was slightly scared now –this man was obviously a bit strange. Could be dangerous, someone whispered in the back of his head.

"John. It's me. You're scaring me." The look of fear was clear on the man's face, more evident in his eyes which seemed to see right through him. He seemed surprised as he said the last words, as if they felt out of place in his mouth. The surprise was quickly extinguished, though, with a look of rage. The man looked around, muttering about doctors and hospitals and IQ's…taking a step away, John decided he'd better go. He didn't like this corridor anyway. It was too bright. His bones felt heavy, and his vision flickered as he moved his head too sharply. He swayed again, taking a deep breath through his nose. The man was walking towards him now. John staggered backwards, grabbing the wall to steady himself.

"It's me, John. It's Sherlock Holmes."

John shook his head, trying to clear it. He wanted the man to shut up. He thought he was going to pass out. He should have never left the room, he should have stayed and asked someone and - another image flashed across his vision – "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker-"John gasped, clutching at the hand rail. He whimpered slightly, aware of the man grasping his arm and guiding him to the floor and shouting for someone, and saying his name over and over. John slumped against the wall, his brain aching. He wanted it to stop. He couldn't remember who he was. He couldn't remember who this man was: he couldn't remember anything.