"Am I always going to be some sort of toy for you two? I get dragged here to check up the maid, and keep you company for a bit, and then he'll pop me down somewhere between the hospital and my flat to get a taxi home and pretend I was in surgery, so you stay secret."

Sherlock waited until he had set down his cup. "You came for the maid and also because it's time for me to leave. He expects you to help me."

John choked. "He's letting you out?"

"I demanded it. I've been making too much trouble here, so he has to let me."

"How-"

"You know what all I get into."

"No, I am well aware of your ability to destroy and irritate. I mean, how does he expect to let you free?"

"He'll have enough monitoring on me to know I won't be a concern, for the most part. The surgery was done a few months back," he waved at his face, "and I'll be forced to cut and dye my hair, maybe grow some facial hair. A fake identity will be made, he'll probably have some sort of safe house all set up, probably near you."

"How do you know?"

"He's only visited five times in the twenty-five months I've been here, and this time didn't bring me anything. You know how I am when I'm bored. The maid is stable, the supposed doctoring need is fake, so you're here to get used to me being alive and get started hiding me."

He sipped the tea again. "I hate you."

"Not as much as I loved knowing you were coming." Sherlock poured himself another cup. "Originally, I was told I was going to stay here for the rest of my life."

"It's not such a bad place. I'd enjoy a vacation here."

"No communication with the outside world, dogs and men with guns keeping you in, and the only thing that comes and goes are groceries, garbage, and Mycroft. It's a prison, with the most hateful warden possible."

Incredulous, John scoffed. "You have a maid!"

"She's just as much a prisoner as I am."

"How is the maid a prisoner?"

"She's some sort of operative that the Americans want dead, never mind she has a most unlikely form of amnesia. Providential, for Mycroft. She can maintain the place and never know who's here, who's visited, or most of what's really going on."

"Oh." John set down his tea and began looking around. The place was immaculate, the tea and foods perfect. "What's wrong with her?"

"Depressed skull fracture, major concussion. Her ability to remember things long-term is crippled, and she's been trained to behave around here. She's been here almost ten years."

"That- She would have been a child!"

"She just looks young. She's about thirty."

"Yes, a child! Who wants a twenty-year old dead, and how could Mycroft do this to her?"

"She's comfortable here, the surroundings have seeped into her memory and are familiar, and it works out for him." Sherlock languidly picked up the violin placed by his chair. "Think, John."

"It is a bit better than her being in a nursing home, or assassinated."

"The Americans think she's dead by now, but if she were recognized, it would be dangerous. What you said is true, otherwise." He began to play, softly.

The place was nice, but boring. After a walk around the expansive gardens, stopping in front of the manor, Sherlock sighed. "I suppose you want lunch now and after that it'll be the best time to examine her."

"What's her name?" John followed him in.

"She doesn't have one."

"How can she not have a name?"

"She doesn't remember it, on any level. If you want to call her anything, it's fine." Coat still on but scarf in hand, Sherlock grimly smiled. "Watch. Polly! Polly, I need you!"

"Uh, I'm coming!" came from the back of the house. A few moments later, she appeared in the hallway Sherlock had lead him down. "Yes, sir, Sher…?"

"Sherlock. You know you don't have to call me sir, Helen. John would like some lunch."

"I made Welsh meat pastries," she hopefully offered, wiping her hands on her slightly dirty apron. "With the beef and Brussels sprouts."

He looked surprised. "Did you have it written down?"

She grinned, giggling a bit and fiddling with her skirt. "Yes. I'm so glad I found that note in the cookbook. You'll actually have some? I thought maybe you and the doctor would like it."

"Please."

"I'll bring it into the gold room."

"Bring it on a trolley. I want you to eat with us."

"Cool!" she jumped a bit as she scurried off.

The second door she passed, Sherlock opened to reveal a formal dining room decorated in shades of gold.

"So, she knows the house, and she knows the rooms by their colors?"

"Yes. She can't remember if you tell her to bring it to the dining room. She just can't hold onto the information, for some reason, but if you tell her a color she can retain it for a few minutes."

"Is that why she brought so many cups, for the tea?"

"Yes, five cups. She didn't know how many to bring, she couldn't remember how many people were there, but she knows the green room has five chairs."

It clicked. Suddenly, John looked around the large room. "Don't tell me she's going to bring fifty plates of Welsh pie!"

"No, she won't." Sherlock seated himself at the head of the table, nearest the large windows, and gestured for Watson to sit nearby. "Wait for it. I'm going to have to remember to hide that note if we don't want her finding it again tomorrow."

"Why doesn't she write things down?"

"Any writing utensils get confiscated. She wrote it with melted chocolate."

A moment later, a servants door opened and the girl entered, pushing a trolley. Two covered dishes were on top, and John could hear the soft clinking of table settings from the trolley shelves. She smiled, coolly, at him and began setting the table, placing a bath with a bottle of wine near Sherlock and a water pitcher in the middle of the table.

"Set it for three, Samantha."

She looked surprised, and glanced again at John. "Is he your guest?"

"Yes. I'm sure we'll have some wonderful conversation."

"Great. I hate eating silently." Instantly, she relaxed, filling a plate with two delicate pastries and a dish of Brussels sprouts.

"You could do what I do and talk to yourself."

"Not with a guest!"

John shook his head. "You two seem to be good friends."

They exchanged a look, Sherlock's curious, the maid's affectionate as she filled a second plate, having set the first in front of Sherlock. "I… I know I can't remember much, but he's in my memory, like this house. I don't remember him as well as I can remember the house and gardens, but I know his voice and a bit how he looks."

Sherlock cocked his head. "What do you remember, when it's been a while?"

John leaned back as she settled his food in front of him, watching her.

"Your long hair, and that you're different looking. I remember long coats, and silk shirts, and that you never wear a tie." She blushed slightly. "Why am I so embarrassed?"

"I would blame the time you walked in on me in the bath."

"Sorry!"

"Don't worry about it, Carla."

"Well, this food looks fantastic, sit down."

She slipped into her seat with her own plate. "So, you know each other?"

The conversation proceeded in a slow way, between bites and sips.

"Sherlock's my best friend."

She looked confused. "But… I thought he's been here."

"He has. Absence didn't change things."

"So sweet, that he's been thinking of you for so long." She straightened abruptly. "Are you two-"

"No! Oh, Christ, will the gay jokes ever stop? We are not a couple!"

"John apparently has a bride at home."

"Are you enjoying living together?"

"I'm sure he is." Sherlock's eye twinkled.

"Just having someone else around, knowing they're there, makes you feel better. I would go insane if Sherlock wasn't here."

John and he exchanged a look.

"But you can barely remember."

"But, I know someone is here, a friend. Sherlock being here sunk in, like walking on a thick lawn every day in the same spot will wear a path." She pointed a fork at Watson. "Just knowing someone is here is enough. It's still boring and a bit lonely, but I'm not going to go crazy. Have you ever lived alone?"

"Yes, but it was in London."

"Wasn't it still a bit lonely?"

"Yes," he admitted. "I'd open the windows just to let some street noises in."

"And living with your wife, you have someone, even when you're fighting."

He chuckled and nodded, "True."

Sherlock solemnly stared at her, still eating, until they were done eating or, in his case, refusing to eat more.

"I don't think I made dessert." She frowned thoughtfully. "Is it lunch or dinner?"

"Lunch."

"Ah. I usually only make dessert for dinner. Would you two mind leftovers from lunch for dinner?"

John shook his head. "No, not terribly. That was great."

"Okay, then I'll make something nice for dessert. Then you two can talk."

"I know there's a flat available beside mine. Third floor, nice area."

"Where are you living?"

"Still in Marylebone, near Hyde Park."

Sherlock smirked a bit. "Expensive area."

"Susan insisted. We plan on staying there, so our children will have regular park outings."

"I love the idea."

"What?" Had he suddenly taken an interest in John's future, one away from him?

"Mycroft has to pay my keep. I love the thought of making him shell out a huge amount."

Of course not. Just more of his machinations. "If we disguise you well enough, you could find work."

"I doubt I could be that discreet. Besides, Mycroft occasionally has government people consult with me when he's too busy."

"You could find other work over the internet. God knows I don't want you bored." He frowned at a distant roaring. "What's that noise?"

"Prissy is vacuuming. Over the internet I can't see the details."

"You'll figure something out."

Sherlock picked up his violin and began twanging at it. John ignored him, having settled in with a cup of tea and a reprint of an antique medical volume on herbs from the library.

A good twenty pages later, someone tapped on the Green Room's door.

"Come in, Ruby."

She stepped in, smiling, and nodded at John. "Sir, it's getting towards evening and I have you marked down as staying overnight. I was wondering if you'd picked a room."

"Well, I don't think there's one in this place I'd dislike," he cheerfully remarked. "Just put me near Sherlock."

"Yessir."

"Call me John!"

"I'll try!" she laughed, closing the door.

"She's a sweet thing."

"She is cheerful."

"She seems to work like a dog."

"She's restless and likes to keep moving. The work takes her mind off the memory issues."

"That goes along with most medical advice."

"Is there anything else?" Sherlock frowned, thumb impatiently strumming. "Medically, anything you can tell me."

John set his book down, thinking. "She's mostly like a normal person. She should exercise, eat right, keep busy and have hobbies. I don't have the medical equipment to get a good idea-"

He abruptly laid down his violin to leap across the room. In some drawer in the cabinets, he found what he was looking for. "There's copies of MRI's, PET, and CAT scans here."

"Hers?"

"Yes."

A few minutes later, he sighed. "The damage you're talking about is apparent, but I'm not a neurologist. There's no blood clots in the 2010 images, and her skull isn't pressing directly on her brain. Anymore." He winced at the first scan again. "Any help I can give would be based around her behavior, aside from the memory issues. Does she faint, get dizzy often, nausea, any vision or hearing loss?"

"She has dizzy spells and is deaf in her right ear."

"Any loss of consciousness?"

"Not that I know of." Sherlock sat down and thrummed at the violin again.

"In that case, given how old the injury is, I would say she's stable." A moment later, he lowered his book. "You know your leaving is going to affect her."

"I realize this, John. Let me think."

That explained the broody strumming. "Tell me if I can help."

Sometime later, after a thunderstorm, John set his book to the side. "I need to stretch my legs."

"There's a gym in the basement."

John turned and chuckled at him. "You're sure you're not going to miss this?"

"The boredom?"

"The being spoiled rotten and relaxation. You are living a dream life and pooh-poohing it because you've never been able to entertain yourself!"

"We play games," a small voice piped up behind him.

He spun and saw the maid, uncertainly leaning into the room.

"I came to tell you, your things are settled in your room. If you're bored, maybe you should look around," she offered. "Ooh! Sherlock, make up a game for us!"

In his chair, he wrinkled his nose. "I've bested you far too many times at Hide the Skull. I don't know…"

"Tag? We have enough people."

"I'm a little old for tag," John regretfully noted.

The blue girl laughed. "I won't tell!"

Sherlock stretched, walking around John towards the door. "I suppose we can find something to do." He suddenly tapped John's shoulder and darted off, howling, "Tag!"

Herself squealed and ran down the opposite way, climbing the stairs.

"This is abuse of a cripple, you know! Can't we play cards?"

A giggle floated down the nearest set of stairs. "Shut up and run, old man," the girl tauntingly laughed.

Exhaustion laced everyone's face as they gathered over tea.

"Thank you, Mary."

"You're welcome, Sherlock."

"Yes, Mary, thank you for the tea." John bit into a tiny muffin. "You didn't know his name this morning."

"It's that way every morning. She generally re-learns it by lunchtime."

Silent, she shrugged, blowing on her cup before adding more sugar.

The bath had to have a brain intent on making him fall asleep so he would drown. The blue maid, and he decided he had to pick a name for her, had stocked the bathroom with his favorite bath products, as well as his wife's.

Accustomed to Mycroft's spying, he accepted it and decided to make sure Sherlock checked their bedroom for bugs and cameras. And the bathroom. And the living room.

So, he sprayed her perfume in the air and relaxed in the hot bath. He spent at least forty-five minutes in it, listening to an ancient tape deck and going through the box of tapes he'd found beside it in the hall.

It was frustrating, not to be able to call Susan to wish her a good-night.

Aside from that, there was also no news radio to listen to or newspaper to read. Pencils and paper, he couldn't find, just as Sherlock had said. Even his London International pen was gone from his jacket pocket. Damned Mycroft.

Fine. He'd just go raid the fridge for some leftover pudding and cheesecake.

How was Sherlock not fat, living here? Skinny bastard.

I find myself in the position of begging for reviews. I know at least one person has looked at this fic twice- once Saturday and once Sunday (today). Please tell me what you think, o phantom? I don't care if it's in Hebrew, I'll translate it. I want to know what people think of this. Someone other than my coddling friends.

I suppose I should put any long author notes at the end of the page, that way to let you get more quickly to my awful writing.

My wee baby sister, the one I've been raising since I was 16 and she was four days old (looking very much like a malnourished, plucked chicken with a turtle's head) dislikes my ardent return to fanfiction writing. She's a clever little thing and likes adding pages of empty space to the beginning of my writing, so when I reopen it it looks like it's gone and I forgot to save. Little brat. She gets me EVERY TIME.

The head injury in the story is a cross between one I received when I was 12 and the fictional one in 50 First Dates. Having real life experience, though not memories, of GTA is helping me write this story realistically. My family tells me about it, I have generalized, faint memories, and there are hysterically funny videos.

Global Transient Amnesia, when it's not very 'transient', leaves you using evidence to figure out where, when, etc. you are. Hence why I love Sherlock. I have to use similar skills to identify friends, given that I can't remember names or faces. I managed to learn the little girl I'm raising's features when she was in that 2-5 year old range and didn't grow much, just staying petite and chubby. I sometimes only recognize her now, after a considerable growth spurt, by her similarities to the toddler I remember and her presence in my house. What other little girl would be wandering around my place?

I've moved several times now and have to figure out where I am every morning when I wake up. I'm in love with my PDA, Smartphone, and calendar. The Wee One is a tiny genius and impatiently reminds me of things I've forgotten. Like it being Saturday, I obviously forgot to turn off my alarm, and NO, she does not have to go to kindergarten today! How I'm considered a competent guardian, much less a decent writer, stuns me. I'm constantly thankful for the former.

Before someone flames me on it, I didn't give birth to this child. I inherited her. She is both adoring and scornful of me, and somehow it works. She's my memory and I'm her caretaker.