The Charred Remains
Summary: Four months after Sherlock's death, John is brutally attacked on his way home from work. He wakes a week later, no memory of the past few years, but a shoe box full of letters promises to explain everything. He just wishes he could remember the life his letters tell him about, and most of all he wishes he could remember how he came to be married to a man.
Chapter 1: Read Me
By: Raven612
Disclaimer: I own the idea, but not the characters. They belong to Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss, and other respective parties with enough money to own rights to them.
A/N: know I should have updated Spoils, but that muse has left me high and dry. I'm hoping to lure it back by working on this fic. We'll see I suppose. This idea just randomly struck me one day. I think it's sort of a mix of the movie P.S. I Love You and The Notebook, but less romantic than those movies. The first few chapters will be in letter form unless I feel like adding some bits otherwise. Also, just to ease some feels, it will eventually be Johnlock. This fic will be posted here and on Ao3, but on Ao3 my penname is malzysaur. I hope you enjoy, and please review! Thanks so much! Thanks as always to my amazing beta MeddlingAdler!
It was like waking from a deep sleep, a deep sleep which felt like a lifetime for John Watson. His head pounded painfully, stars danced at the edges of his vision, and the darkness threatened to pull him down once more, but he fought against it. He concentrated on his breathing, letting the waves of nausea pass before he ventured to take in his surroundings. He was in a hospital room…an exceptionally nice looking room. He blinked, trying to recall what had landed him in such a place, but all he could remember was pain. He groaned before seeing the door to his room open. He watched a nurse and doctor approach him. He saw their mouths moving, though the fog in his brain refused to make sense of their words. He closed his eyes for a moment, attempting to pull together some stream of consciousness before the doctor's words penetrated the fog.
"…been in a coma for a week. Test results show damage to the frontal lobe and hippocampus which could mean memory loss. We've repaired the damage as best we could, but only time will tell how severe the memory loss is; if it will be permanent." The doctor, a lofty, skinny man smiled as he finished talking.
John wasn't sure how to respond. He opened and closed his mouth, though no sound came out. The nurse, a pretty red head smiled sympathetically as she passed him a Styrofoam cup of cool water. John was grateful for it, but knew he'd have to take small sips. When the cup was drained he turned his gaze back to the doctor, expecting him to continue, because so far nothing made sense to John.
The doctor gave a small jump when he realised why John was looking at him in such a confused manner, "Oh, forgive me, I didn't realise…I'm Doctor Ward. I've been watching over you since you were brought in last Thursday night from St. Bart's. As I said before, your frontal lobe and hippocampus was damaged in an attack. Swelling and blood against your brain has caused some bruising leading to possible memory loss. You've been in a coma for about a week now. Sorry to heave all of this information on at once, but can you tell me what your last memory is?"
John let out a slow breath. That was a lot to take in, and as he took stock of his body, he found that more than just his head hurt, and in fact his leg was in a cast. He frowned. What the hell happened? He turned his gaze inwards again as he attempted to pull forward his most recent memory. It was like clawing his way through a thick, dense fog. Everything was fuzzy, and nothing was making sense. He remembered his childhood, each parent's death, Harry, Harry's wedding, joining the army, medical school, becoming a doctor, being a battlefield surgeon, being shot, being invalided home, and then nothing. He furrowed his brows. He felt like there was more missing, but he couldn't recall a single thing. He looked up at the doctor.
"I remember being sent home from Afghanistan in January of 2010. Harry, my sister, helped me get settled in a flat and I saw a therapist…her name is Ella…other than that I don't know," he looked up at the nurse and doctor, completely lost.
Dr. Ward frowned, but nodded, "Very good John, so you recall being a doctor, that information wasn't lost, but I'm afraid everything from the last few years has been lost. It's March 13th of 2012 right now." He turned away from John then.
A smile flowed across the nurse's face as she watched the doctor.
John cocked his own head as well; curious as to what the doctor was doing.
"Fortunately we anticipated for memory loss and your…significant other took it upon himself to write you letters explaining your lost years in hopes it would trigger your memories to return. He asked, upon your waking, that I give you this box. He'll come see you once you've finished reading the letters. If you need anything John, you can reach Kirsty with just the press of a button." Doctor Ward smiled at John as he set a shoe box in his lap.
Kirsty stepped forward once the doctor was gone, "He's a handsome one, your man. Didn't leave your side once while you slept, not until you started coming 'round last night," the nurse spoke, her accent speaking of Irish roots. John liked her well enough, she seemed sunny and was good looking, but according to her and the doctor, he was with a man, which was confusing. What he could remember, he didn't feel attractions to other men outside of rushed meetings during the war when stress relief was a vital part of survival. He swallowed thickly again.
"He started writing the letters last week when he learned you might lose some memories. He wasn't sure what you'd remember so he started at the beginning. He even arranged for you to be transferred here from St. Bart's, says you've always thrived in the country. What I wouldn't give to find a man like that," she sighed dreamily before grabbing John's chart to record a few different vital stats.
If John felt like he was going to pass out before, he felt it even more keenly now. It made no sense, but if the man took the time to write him letters, then he'd take the time to read them, see if they triggered something. He looked up as the nurse prepared to leave after jotting a few notes down, "Thank you, I'll let you know what happens," he said quietly, his own words sending small shocks of pain through his head.
Silence settled on the room once more. John was alone with a shoe box, a shoe box that promised to chase away the fog in his brain. He was terrified to note the way his hands shook as he opened the lid to the box. Inside were dozens of folded pieces of notebook paper. Each paper had a number scribbled on it. John riffled through until he found the paper with a number one scrawled on it. He picked it up, studying it before setting it down again. He looked out into the room. Could he do this, could he read through his life and hope to remember it, or could he just leave the hospital and start fresh. He was about to shift the shoe box off to the side when a glinting light caught his eye. He raised his left hand to see a silver band adorning his ring finger.
"Bugger that…I'm married…to a bloke…?" he uttered in a breathless whisper.
He rubbed his thumb over the metal, stunned. He couldn't recall even an inkling of a wedding. His breath escaped him for a moment. He wasn't sure about anything, but someone did go through a lot of trouble writing the letters in the shoe box, and if what they said was true, well then he owed it to the man to read what was written for him. He sucked in a deep breath before picking the box up again and setting it in his lap. He picked up the letter with the number one scrawled on it, unfolded it, and began to read the neat script written across the page.
My Dearest John,
I know you may not remember me, but I've taken the liberty to try and help you remember. It may come as a shock to wake and find yourself married, to a man no less, but I'd be lost without you. I had to try and help, and in an attempt to be less intrusive, I decided that writing letters might be more helpful.
Let me begin.
My name is James Moriarty.
We met a little over two years ago, and were married almost a year ago.
Please read on and remember. I'll be here when you're done.
Love, always,
JM.
A/N: I'm evil, I know. Please review! Thanks so much for reading!