This is my first time writing Sherlock. Critique is fine if you're nice.


Chapter 2: Amnesia

X X X

Hart rubbed his hands with an imitation of glee. "Good. So, this is Earth in the fifty-first century. What you think?"

Sherlock looked around. The street beneath him was smoother than any he had ever seen. It didn't give to his feet, but when he took a few steps, he could hear a faint echo. The surface was dark like black ice. "The street is paved with a metal alloy which is stronger than steel for its thickness, and does not rust or reflect much light. It covers an elaborate subway system, much like the London Underground... and I suppose you're about to tell me that it is the London Underground."

"Correct," Hart said, smirking. "It's a bit different from in your day, though."

Sherlock looked up to see something that dragged images from the original Star Wars movie to the forefront of his mind. It was a vehicle which seemed to float in the air rather than sit on wheels. "Hovercraft?"

"Oh, we're so over the hovercraft. Very last-millennium. This is anti-grav at its finest."

"There's no such thing as anti-gravity."

"Says the man looking at proof of it. It's not a nightmare that'll just go away if you—"

"A much more believable design is an intensely polarized magnet to oppose the magnetism of the earth."

Hart grinned. "If you want to get technical, yes. It's more anti-magnetism than anti-gravity. I guess this smarty-pants deduction proves that you are indeed one of the best minds of historical London. Do you believe yet that you're not in the twenty-first century anymore?"

"What if I'm not?" Sherlock challenged. "What does it matter if I believe it or not? That isn't why you brought me here."

"Mm, not entirely, no. Come on; let's walk for a bit. Even though it's not my primary goal, getting you familiar with ideas like time travel is important."

Knowing that for now he was at Hart's mercy, Sherlock fell into step beside his abductor. "Assuming we did just time travel, what year is it?"

"It's fifty ninety-nine. Just after the fall of the Time Agency. I think they'll revive it, but not this century, and probably not the next."

Time Agency. Sherlock logged the name away. "And why did you bring me to this particular year?"

"Because it's relatively safe. It's not until fifty-one oh-one that the Federation decided to dispose of all the former time agents. I still don't know if there are any others living—other than me and Jack, of course."

"Why would they kill them?"

"Oh, you know how it is—your elite organization goes under, suddenly you start wondering what those elite members are doing, and what they could do, and what they know, and if they know too much, and eventually you decide it's safer to do a little clean-up job now than a big one later."

Sherlock nodded. He has no trouble feeding me information, and he doesn't seem to be lying. Either he's confident that I'm going to help him, or he doesn't think I'll be able to use this information against him. Or both. Best to watch out for him deciding to do one of these "little clean-up" jobs himself.

His thoughts came to a screeching halt when they rounded the corner. The buildings were all wrong. The sounds were all wrong. The people were all wrong... Are those even "people"?

"And now what do you think?" Hart prompted.

"It's... rather a lot to take in." It was a rare thing indeed for Sherlock to be at a loss for words. He didn't know where to look first, how to begin describing what he was seeing. Why compare any single thing to its counterpart from his normal life when everything was so completely different? "Either you've told me the truth and I have time traveled... or I fell asleep with too many nicotine patches on."

Hart laughed. "Delightful. Either way, this is going to be the greatest adventure you've had. So, dream or not, you should embrace it, eh?"

At last, the strange man was talking sense. "That would seem to be a sensible attitude."

"Glad you agree." Hart stepped up to a stationary anti-grav car and pressed his palm to the driver's side window. The door hissed open. "This is my ride. Hop in."

Sherlock went around to the other side and the passenger door opened for him. The seat was very comfortable.

"Sorry we left your arm behind."

"If this is a dream, it's of no importance. And if it's not... it was only a prop, after all. It can be replaced."

"Oh, and I thought it was real," Hart said with obvious sarcasm.

I know he's seen combat-he probably knows what a real severed arm looks like.

Almost before he realized it, the vehicle was moving. It glided over the smooth metal street with hardly a sound.

"Where are we going?"

"Out of the city. Somewhere quiet and inexpensive."

"You don't live here, then."

"Oh, no. No, no, no. No one will be looking for me here."

"The Time Agency isn't based in London, then."

"The Time Agency isn't based on Earth."

Time travel, space travel... in this dream, or in this century, there seemed to be no boundaries. If this is a dream, Sherlock decided, I hope to God it lasts a long, long time, and I remember every detail upon waking.

X X X

"There you are!"

Sherlock opened his eyes slowly. It shouldn't be light. Light is bad. Go away.

"Where the hell were you yesterday? I tried to call you over and over..."

Sherlock stopped listening to John and fished in his pocket for his phone. Nineteen text messages.

"...searched everywhere, even called LeStrade. I found that bloody arm of yours and thought something terrible must have happened. Thought you'd been kidnapped or something. I nearly called Mycroft."

"Arm?"

"Yes, that stupid prop arm that you were going to try to use to get Carmichael to confess. Turns out you didn't need it, by the way—they found a new witness that led to more physical evidence first thing this morning, so they're charging him."

"Prop arm." Sherlock opened his first text message. "On my way home. Need anything?" "Stupid prop arm to get a confession... yes, that might work."

"You're not listening! I said they got him. They're satisfied he did it, they've booked him and charged him."

Second text message: "Thought u'd be home. Where r u now?" "Good for them. Seems all they needed this time around was a nudge in the right direction. LeStrade isn't so useless as he pretends."

"So, where were you?"

Third text message: "Srsly, where r u?" "I'm trying to figure that out. Give me a moment."

Fourth text Message: "If u don't want me along ok but where #ell r u?"

"You don't know where you were?"

Fifth message: "Is anything wrong?"

"Sherlock?"

Sixth message: "r u ok?"

Seventh message: "At least tell if u'll B home 4 sup"

"Not yet. Quiet, please."

Eighth message: "Starting w/out u."

Ninth message: "Its getting cold."

Tenth message: "r u in trouble?"

Eleventh message: "LeStrade doesn't know where u r. I'm worried."

Twelfth message: "Tell me SOMETHING damit"

Thirteenth message: "Do u need help?"

Fourteenth message: "If u just forgot to charge ur phone I'll kill u."

Fifteenth message: "Found that arm... what's going on?"

Sixteenth message: "Back 221. Ansr."

Seventeenth message: "It's late. What devil u doing?"

Eighteenth message: "Going 2 bed. Wake when u get home."

Nineteenth message: "Don't worry, I'll be in touch. We should do lunch. ~JH"

Sherlock frowned. J. H. ? Who has those initials...? He sprang up off the couch and nearly toppled over immediately.

"Figured it out?" John asked impatiently.

"Not yet. Hidden number... Where's the laptop..." He crossed the room to sit at the table where his laptop sat open. He typed his password quickly and opened his email. It's not a contact saved in my phone. Maybe someone I've gotten email from...

But the only J. H. in his address book was no one that would invite him to lunch. Or tell him not to worry. Or have an explanation for his not remembering the last twelve-plus hours.

"John, do you know anyone with the initials J. H.?"

"J. H." John frowned. "Probably. I don't know."

"Check your phone."

John sighed, but he complied immediately. His curiosity obviously far outweighed his exasperation. "Um... Nope. Only J. H. I've got is a woman who doesn't know you, much less have your number."

"Strange."

"Yup. You ever going to explain...?"

"I do remember thinking of how to get Carmichael to confess, but it's all very blurry. I don't remember formulating a solid plan. Though a severed body part does seem like the logical way..."

"Oh, it does, does it? Have I ever told you that you need psychiatric help?"

"And you say I'd gotten an arm."

"Yes. That's what you told me. You were going to get an arm, doctor it up to look freshly detached and scare him with it or something. I said I didn't want to be in on it, you said it was a one-man job anyway, we went our separate ways, and then... you tell me?"

"Fascinating. Give me a bit of time to think."

"I've been doing that."

"No, John. You've been hovering. Is the paper here?"

"I'll go have a look."

Sherlock returned to the couch and concentrated. I'm in the same clothes I was wearing yesterday. Hardly much of a clue—I often sleep in my clothes. I'd gotten a prop arm and probably bloodied it up to use to scare Carmichael into a confession. He checked his hands. No traces of food coloring or other fake blood ingredients... perhaps I washed up carefully after.

The door opened and closed.

"Where did you find it?"

"On the step, like always."

"The arm. Last night. Where did you find it?"

"Oh... um. On Crispin Street, I think. It's in your room now."

Sherlock sprang up again and hurried to his room as John called after him, "Nothing much in the paper—there'll be a story about the arrest in the evening edition, I expect."

Plastic arm in a real sleeve, fake blood... corn syrup and food coloring. Very simple. Well-dried now; somewhat sticky in places.

"John," Sherlock called, "where did I mix up the fake blood?"

"Here, I think. I wasn't in."

Back downstairs, to the kitchen. Yes, there was a bowl in the sink that held pink water. "And when was that?"

"After lunch, I think."

"Did I have the arm yet?"

"Don't think so."

"So I mixed the blood before acquiring the arm. I would have needed a bottle or something..." His eyes moved to the shelf. "There was an old vanilla extract bottle there—it's gone now. So, where would I go to find an arm?"

Back to the laptop. Google... In his browsing history was the search "arm prop" under Google's "shopping" category. Following highlighted links, Sherlock found a local costume shop. "I paid eight pounds for this thing?!"

"Sure you went to that shop?"

Sherlock nodded. "It's starting to give me a severe case of déjà vu. I don't actually remember yet, but I remember remembering." He paused. "I went down to the shop. I was closer to St. Bartholomew's so I took it there. Took an old shirt out of the lost and found and fitted the sleeve. Bloodied it up. Found out Carmichael had taken a train out of town, but I knew he'd be back late that night. So I headed home, planning to finish the job when he returned. But on my way home..."

"Yes?" John prompted.

Sherlock shook his head. "Something happened. I don't know what. I'm going back to Crispin Street."

"Leaving the arm?"

"I dropped it last time—obviously, it wasn't any help in whatever situation arose."

"Do you want me to come with you?"

Sherlock hesitated. His instinct was to go alone. But he had gone alone last time and lost some twelve hours of memory. It feels like more than twelve hours. "If you wish, but I'm leaving now."

"Let me get proper clothes on at least."

"Honestly, how many times have we talked about priorities? What difference does it make if you're in your pajamas?"

John rolled his eyes. "It makes a difference. It makes... a difference."

X X X

Sherlock went over every inch of the pavement around the area John indicated. "It does feel familiar," he said slowly. "You're sure it was just here?"

"Well, it was dark. I could be mistaken. But it was this street."

Sherlock walked up and down the sidewalk again. Nothing to go on. Not a smoking gun, not a bloody footprint, nothing. He looked up at the passing traffic and then at the surrounding buildings. "Something's wrong."

"How do you mean?"

"Wrong, wrong, wrong." He turned on his heel 360 degrees. "It's all wrong, but I can't begin to say why." He took a few steps, testing the sidewalk under his feet.

"Perhaps it's the time of day," John suggested. "Your number stopped dialing after it got dark. It's morning now... bound to look different."

"The time of day." Sherlock looked around again. "Of course. It was sunset."

"No, I just told you. It was after dark when you went MIA."

Sherlock shook his head. "That's what's wrong. It's something about the time. I'm certain of it. Not just that it was sunset when it was supposed to be night, but it was the wrong..." He stopped himself. He couldn't say "it was the wrong year." Watson already thought his sanity was questionable. "The ground, the buildings, everything's wrong."

"What do you mean by that?"

Something else suddenly sprang into Sherlock's mind: a hazy figure. "There was a man... a man in a military coat. He had a gun."

John's eyes widened. "Who was it?"

"I don't know. I'd never met him before. It's coming back, though. He wasn't an ordinary highwayman. He was looking for me in particular. He wanted me for something. Had nothing to do with Carmichael. He was average height... unremarkable hair... middle aged..."

"Just average all around, eh?"

"He had more than a gun—a sword, I think. No, two guns and a sword. And he fancied me."

"Are you sure this is amnesia wearing off and not just you remembering your latest bizarre dream?" John asked skeptically.

"It was very dreamlike," Sherlock remembered. "I remember wondering if it was a dream, but I couldn't wake from it. I'm certain it was real."

John sighed and folded his arms. "So, we're looking for a middle aged, average height man in a military coat, carrying two guns and a sword—and who fancies you." He turned to walk away with an ironic laugh, but halted abruptly when he ran into a middle aged, average height man in a military coat, carrying two guns and a sword.

"Ask and you shall receive," the stranger said, smiling broadly.


That's all for now, folks. Let me know what you think. ^^