Hi, Just a few quick things. Firstly this story pre-dates John Watson's relationship and subsequent marriage to Mary Morstan. So I guess it pre-dates The Reichenbach Fall as well. But it could slot in anywhere before then I think. Secondly I don't own anything to do with Sherlock. That privilege belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle, The BBC, Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. Thirdly and Finally I reserve the right to change the title if I can come up with anything better when I haven't been awake for the best part of 24 hours (Sorry!). The bad title is evidence of the fact that I do not have the help and support of a beta reader. So any mistakes spelling, grammatical or otherwise are my own and I apologise in advance. Ok so this is me shutting up now and leaving you to it… on with the show (so to speak)!

I would like to thank anyone that takes the time to read this and I really hope you enjoy it.

Make-believe Moments and Mislaid Memories

Chapter 1

Frustration seeped into his body. He felt it tainting his skin, infecting every part of him. His feet succumbed first, preventing even the most basic of movements. Every instinct instilled as a doctor, soldier and human being screamed at him to walk away. But his body betrayed him. The enemy that invaded continued its march. He felt the muscles in his legs tighten and his knees lock painfully. Frustration gave way to annoyance, and the rival within gained momentum. His stomach and chest constricted, his arms hugged his sides. Fingers clenched involuntarily, knuckles paled against the strain placed on them. Military training reasserted itself and his whole demeanour changed as his arched back uncurled slowly becoming ramrod straight and his shoulders crept back. He felt annoyance transform into anger and that familiar feeling of rage start to bubble in the pit of his stomach. He wasn't an easy man to break but he had finally reached his limit. He knew beyond doubt that if he couldn't haul his unwilling body out of this flat he wouldn't be responsible for his actions.

Only one man was able to bring Captain John Watson to his knees, only one solitary being could drag kind, compassionate Doctor John Watson to the very end of his tether. .. Sherlock Holmes, friend, flatmate and firebrand. Too many times the long-suffering surgeon had let his temper get the better of him just for the detective to wave away his anger and pain with a dismissive flick of the hand or a well- chosen, razor sharp put-down. Not this time. This time the doctor was determined to walk away with his self-respect and friendship intact. He would not allow his anger to become physical, he would not allow Sherlock to dismiss or demean him, would make sure that just this once he was in control. So without uttering a single word he turned and walked out of the flat closing the door quietly behind him.

Not really knowing where else to go and badly needing something stronger than PG Tips the harassed doctor remembered a nice little pub around the corner from the surgery he was currently stationed in as a family doctor. Knowing that Sherlock wouldn't follow him there and glad of the distance it would put between them he set off at a brisk pace. Thirty minutes later he crossed the threshold.

After buying himself a pint of best bitter he found a nice, quiet, dark corner and settled himself down. As the first mouthful slid past his lips and the ice cold liquid snaked southwards he felt every muscle in his body start to relax and his anger and anxiety ebb away. As the alcohol began to take effect the ex-soldier thought back over the last few weeks, finding he needed to understand how things had got so bad before he could figure out how to deal with it.

He was on to his second pint before realising that what had happened between Sherlock and himself earlier had been threatening for days. Every sarcastic, caustic word, every dismissive look, every unfulfilled request had exacerbated an already tense atmosphere until in the end something had to give. So it was that he found himself staring into the depths of the glass before him recognizing with startling clarity the root of the problems that had plagued them both for weeks now….boredom! Without a case for a good couple of weeks the self- proclaimed consulting detective had grown more and more petulant and lethargic and, despite holding down a full time job as a GP, John realised without the thrill of a 4am chase across London, the adrenalin that flowed through him on staring down the barrel of a pistol or the fear that propelled him forward despite the gleam on his chest of a sniper rifle's sight; he too was bored with his monotonous, mundane life. He grimaced to himself slightly as he realised he owed Sherlock an apology; no they owed each other an apology. But knowing the great detective considered himself above such commonalities he resolved to sort out the mess himself.

His mind wandered for a brief moment and a smile played on his lips as he realised he had come up with own scale for measuring the difficulty of certain problems. Sherlock had his nicotine patch scale; John Watson had his bitter scale. This he concluded had been a two pint problem.

As he chuckled inwardly at his own joke his attention was captured by a pretty, young woman he estimated to be early twenties. Her long, blonde hair tumbled down her back and her fringe fell over her eyes. Her brilliant brown eyes shone with vibrancy as she ordered her drink and her slim, toned figure slid on to a stool. He stared at her face unable to stop himself. Her skin, the colour of delicate porcelain, started to blush a little; rising from her beautiful chiselled cheekbones to her sparkling eyes. A vivid red gloss graced her full lips complimenting the pastel hues adorning her eyes. Each cosmetic combining to create the perfect accompaniment to the gorgeous scarlet dress poured over her body. The long sleeves and modest frontage belied the plunging line behind, exposing her flawless, muscled back. A split ran up the right leg to the thigh, displaying a pair of perfectly shaped legs, the outfit finished with a pair of bright red, stiletto heels. He knew it was wrong. She was young enough to be his daughter for Christ Sake. But there was just something about her, he was like a moth to a flame and he couldn't stop himself. She was intoxicating.

Until now the good doctor had sat in the shadows, the bleakness around him reflecting his mood, his solitary figure alone with his thoughts. As soon as he set eyes on her Sherlock Holmes was all but forgotten. His male instincts drove him to walk over to her and make his move. As the bartender placed her cocktail in front of her he casually offered to pay for her drink. She looks at him cautiously but graciously accepts his approach nonetheless. The good doctor may be single but his confident, caring manner is a hit with the ladies and the conversation soon flows.

"Hi, I hope you'll forgive my audacity. But I couldn't help noticing you were alone and no-one as beautiful as you should be alone in a bar. So I was wondering if maybe you would allow me to buy that drink for you and I could perhaps keep you company for a while."

"I'm not sure I should be accepting drinks from strange men in bars." She stared at him nervously. Her eyes seemed to take in every inch of his face; almost as if she was trying to decide if was trustworthy or just another middle aged letch. Finally she came to a conclusion. "But for you I'll make an exception. My name is Jennifer by the way, Jennifer Atherton." She offered her hand to John who softly took it in his and kissed her gently just below the wrist. "John…John Watson."

The touch of his lips on her skin prompted a nervous giggle and her smile took his breath away "Pleased to meet you John Watson." Looking her straight in the eye and still holding her hand his reply came unbidden "The pleasure's all mine."

The flow of the banter coincidentally paralleled the flow of the liquor and an hour or so later saw the pair laughing and joking together having consumed another drink or two. The elder of the two however had memories of past experiences where alcohol and the wooing of attractive women had been a disastrous mix, memories he had no wish to re-enact. This being the case as soon as his focus had turned to Jennifer Atherton he had switched his liquor of choice to no more than a soft drink.

He had only turned his head for a split second when he heard the cry of pain. In the middle of ordering another round of drinks he turned sharply to be greeted with a sight that momentarily froze him. She had her left wrist in a death grip. Her left palm upturned, a steady stream of fresh, crimson blood snaked along the contours of her skin and disappeared between her fingers as it fell to the floor. He could see the slice that opened up her hand and knew instinctively it was a glass cut with his first glance, so tightly honed were his medical and military expertise. It was only then he took in the full scene before him. Finally seeing the shards of glass that punctured the varnished wood of the bar and hearing the crunch underfoot of shoe leather on cocktail flute. His instincts kicked in and he yelled at the bartender for a clean, dry towel. Wrapping it quickly around the cut to stem the blood flow he realised stiches were going to be needed and knowing he was still sober enough to do a professional job he offered his services. "Jennifer, I'm a GP at the surgery round the corner. Your wound is deep and bleeding pretty heavily. But I have the equipment in my consulting room to deal with this and provide you with some pain relief. It'll be quicker than going to A&E and there won't be any drunks or drug addicts in the waiting room (both managed a small smile at his half- hearted attempt to lighten the situation). But we have only just met so if you would rather go to the hospital I'll be happy to take you.

Frowning she searched his face and then voiced the question that had clearly been bothering her. "How much have you had to drink?"

"I had two pints of bitter before I came over to you, since then nothing but soft drinks."

"Really" Surprise registered on her face, the pain momentarily forgotten. "You've been drinking what Lemonade or something all this time?"

"Tonic Water" John Supplied. "Off your face drunk isn't a good look when you're chatting up a woman. I speak from experience." She saw the echo of a memory flash across his face and the beginnings of a smile on his lips and broke out into laughter. "Well Doctor John Watson, your surgery it is then. While you work you can tell me about the Tonic water."

Doctor John Watson had worked his way up from locum to permanent fixture with a mixture of hard work, determination and charm and with the job offer came a set of keys to his new empire; which made entry for the enchanting Jennifer Atherton and her new suitor mere child's play. Within 10 minutes of leaving the bar they found themselves in the doctor's consulting room, the scarlet woman seated on the bed, the middle aged physician tending to her wound. He administered a light local anaesthetic and stitched the wound quickly and skilfully, bound and dressed his handiwork and provided pain relief in the form of a couple of Ibuprofen tablets and a plastic cup of water to down them with. Thirty minutes later they remained in the domain of the doctor both nursing a steaming cup of Coffee, John in his own chair, Jennifer on the desk slightly to his right. In the silence and solitude of the empty building electricity continued to crackle between them. Conversation petered out and eventually it was the younger of the two that took the initiative. Taking both hot drinks she placed them down on the desk and scooted over until she was directly opposite her prey. Moving closer she wrapped her left hand around his neck as best and she could and felt his hands in her hair and on her back as a response. Closing the last of the distance between them she brought her lips to his and kissed him passionately.

Fog swirled around his mind and as hard as he tried he couldn't seem to think coherently. He felt his body roll over, cocooned in a soft, warm sheath. It took him what seemed like hours to realise his eyes were closed. Slowly he began to prise them open. Attacked by blinding light as soon as he started it took time and patience. But eventually he was rewarded with his first proper look at his surroundings and, despite the fog that still enveloped him, his recognition of his own bedroom at Baker Street was immediate. Groaning with the effort and the ache that seemed to go bone deep he moved again to try and get comfortable. Fragments of memories started to assault him and it took every ounce of concentration he had to try and piece them together. Slowly but surely it came together. He remembered him and Sherlock fighting, he remembered leaving Baker Street in anger, he remembered the captivating, stunning blonde in the bar, he remembered tending to her injury and he remembered that deep, loving kiss and then…nothing. The more he thought about it, the more he realised he didn't know. How far did he go with the Blonde? What was her name again? How much did he have to drink last night? How did he get home? Looking around he fully understood for the first time just how much of last night was missing. He was in bed, naked and alone. Where was the Blonde? And more importantly how the hell had he ended up in bed naked if he couldn't remember getting himself there? Not since his squaddie days had he gone out and drunk so much he had suffered memory loss of the night before. But even then, and he could put away a fair bit in his younger army days, never had he lost this much time or had this many questions. He needed help. Dragging his sorry backside to the edge of the bed he started to swing his legs over and catching sight of his bare skin he re-evaluated. No, he needed clothes then he needed help. So having found a few old comfy clothes that would do temporarily he went in search of the next thing he needed…help.

"Sherlock"