AN: It's been so long I don't even know how to open this chapter. I ended up with writer's block (a usual occurrence for me) and it lasted for so long I wasn't even sure I'd be able to get back into this story. Then I started 2 new jobs, rehearsals for a show as well. The last 12 months have been crazy.

But thankfully my last job somehow manged to give me the idea for the last half of this chapter and I'm now back to writing, so hopefully I can start updating more regularly.

Well, there isn't much else to say but enjoy!

Chapter 3 – Inside My Head

John and Mary Watson's Home - London

Tonight was unseemly quiet. There were no stars beaming down at him. No wind brushing across his skin. The air was quiet. Too quiet. John tilted his head back, downing his third glass of whiskey as he looked up at the empty sky above him. It was as if the weather knew that he needed time to contemplate. And as eerie as it was, John was grateful for the lack of ambience given everything Mycroft had told him.

Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes. The man who seemed to treat everyone he spoke to as though they were bugs waiting to be stepped on.

Anything he had to say was never good. Ever. In the times that John had encountered the cynical middle class man, any words that passed his lips were either jibs, insults, or facts about how someone had gotten hold of something they shouldn't have. Effectively, John shouldn't have been as surprised as he was when Mycroft informed him about Project Crystal and its details, and yet he was all the same.

The war veteran huffed, shaking his head as the words of the elder Holmes brother ran through his head over and over like a song on repeat. It was one of those stories that sounded too good to be true. Something you would only ever expect to see in a James Bond film. He couldn't believe it. The only difference was it wasn't a fantasy; it was reality. A reality John now had to accept.

Project Crystal.

A phrase he had only heard her use. The Girl with No Name. The fact that she had mentioned it in her dream just several hours before his meeting with Mycroft seemed more than just a coincidence. Coincidence and Mycroft in the same sentence hardly ever occurred. From what Mycroft told him it was…well, to be honest, he still wasn't sure what is was. Only that it was important and dangerous, which seemed to be the case whenever Mycroft was involved.

"A matter of national security" as he put it.

John couldn't help but be filled with uncertainty when it came to the amnesiac they had found in Sherlock's flat three days ago, if he couldn't trust her when he first met her, he certainly wasn't going to now. Especially given what Mycroft had told him, which, in fact, wasn't that much but it was enough.

He felt as though he was back in the same situation he was in when Irene Adler was still walking the earth. Only this time it felt closer to home. Having Sherlock right at the centre of this tale again meant John was going to have be smart. Smarter than usual.

The real question, the only question, was whether he was going to tell Sherlock. Of course, he knew that the man would know he had been to see his brother. John wasn't exactly the best of liars, not to mention Sherlock's heightened sense of deduction. There was no hiding that. No, this most definitely wasn't going to be easy trying to keep something like this from Sherlock. The man could spot a lie like a needle in a haystack. How he was going to get past that was something John was going to have work out as each day passed.

This girl, whoever she was, knew more than she was letting on. He was sure of that, at least. What he wasn't sure of was what was on the next page of this already crazy journey. The only thing he had going for him was his determination to get to the bottom of this muddled puzzle. Whether that was going to be enough to keep him going was something that could only be confirmed as they unravelled this web of mystery.

"John?" Mary called from inside their house.

The veteran turned to see his wife standing in the doorway, head resting against the door, concern across her face. "What are you doing up at this time of night?"

"No reason. Just can't sleep."

Mary gave a light smile and shook her head as she chuckled.

"It's a good thing I didn't marry you for being a great liar." She smiled, pulling her silk dressing gown around her middle. "You're terrible at it."

Rolling his eyes, John finished his glass of whiskey and sighed. He turned back to his wife and almost bumped into her extended hand. He took a moment and before entwining their fingers and heading back into the living room. As John walked past, Mary pulled on his hand so he faced her.

"Whatever it is, tell him. I know what you do when you keep things from him. Just tell him."

John nodded, softly pressing his lips to his wife's head before ascending the stairs to their bedroom.

Why are women always right?

St. Barts Hospital - London

He seemed different. The fact that Sherlock was sitting a few feet away from the pathologist after being exiled from the country no longer mattered. The first thing she had noticed was how different he was. There was something about the woman he had brought with him that had turned him into a different someone Molly could no longer recognise. As she sat watching him interact with this woman, she was beginning to doubt whether this was Sherlock Holmes. The man who barely even looked at women unless they were either dead or if he was showing off his cognitive skills. The only woman he seemed to show any emotional interest in was dead. Supposedly. A memory that stilled pained the pathologist, no matter how hard she tried to push it from her mind.

Molly had so many questions. So many dots she needed connected. About Sherlock. About them both, but they were being trumped by this woman Sherlock seemed so…interested in. Molly couldn't help but feel the pangs of jealousy return in an instant. She always knew that he was never going to see her in the same light she saw him and she had accepted that, as hard as it was to do so. She had done so all the same. But that didn't mean it still didn't hurt seeing him act the way he was with someone else.

Yet, here he was, with another woman who he seemed to have his complete attention without even saying so much as a word. The more Molly studied the woman's features, the more she realised just how vulnerable she looked. It was as though something was missing in her life. Like a void that was waiting to be fixed and whatever it was, it seemed to be a big part of who she was. Her entire demeanour seemed off because of it. Now the pathologist found herself wanting to give this woman a hug, to wrap her arms around her and give her kind, supportive words but she knew it wasn't going to do any good. So, she just resorted to the typical British coping mechanism when no one could think of anything else to say in such a situation.

"Do you want a cup of tea?"

The woman's eyes locked with Molly's and her eyebrows furrowed. A small silence passed and Molly realised she hadn't said it loud enough.

"Tea. Would you like one? I know I've just made a coffee and well…it doesn't really taste nice, so I'm gonna go get a tea. Much better than the coffee. You fancy coming?"

The woman glanced in Sherlock's direction, who was still typing away in the corner. She hesitated, as if she was waiting for a reaction from him, before sliding off her stool and following Molly to the door.

The two women walked down the corridor in complete silence. Neither knowing what exactly to say. Molly wasn't entirely sure as to why she had asked her if she wanted to come. For some reason, it felt right to her. It gave her more of a chance to get to know this woman and what better way to do that than a good old cup of tea. Besides, it wasn't as if Sherlock was providing her with stimulating conversation. He had barely said a word to her in the hour that they had been sitting in the lab.

"I know he can be a bit frustrating at times, can't he?" Molly said, her attempt of making a joke falling just short of her expectations.

"Actually, for what I've heard about him he's not as bad as I presumed he would be."

"So…you know, err…you know Sherlock, then?" Molly asked, her curiosity beginning to peak.

"Not exactly."

"Oh?"

"Well, let's just say we're acquaintances…of some sort."

Molly frowned, a little confused and a part of her wasn't sure if she wanted to know any more so she just nodded and turned her gaze to the floor.

Sherlock was still typing away by the time they returned from their trip. They sat in an awkward silence which was broken moments later by Sherlock slamming his fist on the table he was sitting at. The sound of which caused both women to jump and spill their drinks.

"What's he hiding?" Sherlock asked, running a hand through his dark curls. "Something's not right. Something's missing."

Shaking her head, Molly returned to her work. She knew there was no point in asking, she'd end up finding out whatever Sherlock was working on. Whether she wanted to know or not. That's just how he was.

The sociopath looked up and locked eyes with the woman sitting next to him. He was still trying to figure out exactly how she fit into whatever it was Mycroft was keeping from him. There was something about her presence that put him in a place he never usually allowed himself to go. A place he viewed as a distraction from the task at hand. Another run through of his dark brown curls and he got his head back into the game. This woman, whoever she was, had come to him for a reason. It wasn't as simple as her finding her way to his house because of his reputation. She needed what almost everyone needed when they came to him. His help.

There was no doubt about that, and he knew it was to help her regain a piece of her identity that had seemingly dissipated into thin air. But, Sherlock knew that it was more than just that. His every instinct was telling him so. The only unfortunate thing was every avenue he was taking seemed to leading him to dead ends.

He closed his eyes and brought the palms of his hands together underneath his chin. When he opened his eyes, the elusive detective was standing in back in his bedroom. Jane Doe, as they were now calling her, asleep in his bed. He turned and looked and saw Mrs Hudson heading downstairs with the bag of damp clothing he had handed to her that night. Sherlock watched her leave and shook his head, closing his eyes again.

"Need to go back further." He said, holding his hands out in front of him as though he was holding a box. He pushed his hands through the air, sifting the scene he was standing in to side. It looked as though he was in the middle of a film scene on rewind. Everything moved backwards, playing in reverse. Mrs Hudson handed him back the bag, John walked backwards down the hall and waited in the small living room and Sherlock returned Jane back to her unconscious position in the bath.

By the time, Sherlock opened his eyes, he was stood in the bathroom, looking at a frozen moment in time. There he was, holding the top of Jane as he turned to put it in the bag, he had pulled from the cupboard. Kneeling next to himself, Sherlock leant towards the top and inspected the item of clothing. Despite the blood, Sherlock's perceptive eyes picked up a small speck on sleeve of her t-shirt. He pulled out his small magnifier, opening it up to get a closer look. It was the fragment of mirror. He found a few more and mentally pieced them together, smiling when pulled back.

"Sherlock?" A voice called him as he stood up.

He turned around to see who it was, only to be faced with the door. Frowning Sherlock went to open the door but the voice called him a second time.

"Sherlock?"

Turning around again, he saw Jane sitting in the bath, in the clothes she was wearing in the lab. He took a moment and lowered his head to the floor, and when he raised his head, he was back in the lab eyes locked with the raven-haired girl who had become his ward over the past few days.

"Right now, if I ask you to think back to that night what is the first thing you remember?"

The woman frowned and tilted her head as she watched Sherlock jump up from his seat and begin to pace the room. She took a moment and shifted in her seat, allowing her mind to drift back to the night she ended up in Sherlock's house and instantly brought her hand across her nose, trying to stop herself from gagging.

"Blood," she replied. The red pungent substance instantly filling her senses.

Her first thought when she came around and saw herself covered in the liquid was whether it was hers or someone else's. A question she still hadn't been able to answer, much to her discretion.

The silence from the consultant detective told her he was waiting for more answers, but unfortunately, she couldn't give him any. Her heartbeat was already racing and her stomach had dropped. A cold chill rather through her and she shivered as her breath began to loosen and she felt weak. Vulnerable. A feeling she hated with her very core.

"I…I…please…" was all she could say.

He quickly came to a stop, and glanced at her, realising his current location was not the place to be doing what he was about to engage in. Pulling his seat closer towards her, Sherlock sat down and placed his fingers on either side of her temple, only for her to slide off her seat and back into a counter behind her.

"I…can't remember anything else." She told him, though they both knew it was a lie.

Well…more of a half-truth. It wasn't the fact she couldn't remember, because she couldn't. But the sense of fear she had just felt scared her more than anything right now and she wasn't sure if she was ready to experience that for a second time. If that dream she had whilst they were in the café had taught her anything it was that whatever had happened to her put her in a place of vulnerability that made her extremely uncomfortable to say the least.

Sherlock tapped the seat in front of him and lightly smiled. He knew what he was asking was going to be something of an uncomfortable experience for her but it was something that had to be done for them to get any closer to unravelling this case. As if it wasn't complicated enough already. But she didn't move, she couldn't. Softening his gaze, Sherlock shifted his chair back so at to put some distance between them. He couldn't force her into this, it had to be done of her own volition and he knew that she wanted answers just as much as he did, but he could tell she was scared about what those answers could mean. Going back to an experience where the only memory you had was blood meant a million different things and he understood that she was scared, but he there was no other way to do this.

"Trust me." He assured her.

Could she trust him? This man who she only knew through newspaper articles and 90 second news segments?

"Who am I kidding? It's not exactly like I have any other choice."

Retaking her seat, Sherlock reached for her temple again but slowly ran his thumbs in small circles on either side of her forehead to calm her. He remembered seeing Mary do so to John during their rehearsal dinner and thought it would work. To tell the truth, he thought it was weird. He understood the mechanics of it, of course, yet it didn't change his opinion of it all the same. He had no problems with intimacy or engaging in it, he only used it when it was necessary to further a case. This course of action he was currently performing was one of those things. He still saw romance, love and all its connections as a distraction. It caused people to change and he had no time for it, nor did he want to make the time for it. Or at least Sherlock seemed to think so.

The two of them sat there for what seemed like hours, although in fact it was most likely a few minutes, any sense of resistance no longer emanating from her, engaged in this weird ritual of sorts. It was weird for Sherlock; he hadn't known this woman for an entire week and he felt as though he knew her. Something shifted between them, as they sat there. The connection he had with her upon their first meeting seemed to be similar when he had first met Irene Adler. The mysterious awe to her, the unspoken words left in the air, the same sense of familiarity despite this being the first time either had been in each other's presence. Sherlock frowned as he looked upon this woman opposite him, trying to figure her out. He realised that the connection from his hands, the action with which they were moving was probably sending signals he had not wanted to send.

Quickly dropping his hands from her face, Sherlock pulled out his phone and dialled a number.

"I have an idea and it's one that means you might end up hating me for the rest of your life." Sherlock told her as he finished inputting the number and pressing the "Call" button.

"I think we've already discovered that I don't have any other choice, so do what you need to do." She told him just as the person on the other end of the phone picked up.

"George." Sherlock began.

"It's Greg."

"I need you run a search for any subway mirrors that were repaired within the last week, and bring the information to me at my house." He continued, ignoring Greg's correction.

"What? Why do you want me to run that?"

"Just do it." Sherlock snapped, hanging up before allowing Greg to ask another question.

Turning to Molly, who was still gaping at him from watching his temple exchange with Jane moments ago.

"Lamps. Where are they?"

Frowning, Molly turned to look at him, a look of confusion flooding her face.

"Why? What are you going to do with it?"

"Something that I believe will help. Can you get me one?" He asked, heading back to his chair for his coat.

Nodding, Molly disappeared out of the room and returned moments later with a large floor lamp, wheeling it over to him and then returning to her work. She would have asked another question but her previous experience with him told her there would be no point. Sherlock wasn't one to openly divulge information about the things he was doing unless he wanted people to know.

"Right, let's go. Enjoy your patient, Molly." The detective told her, heading for the door.

"You should do that more often."

All the while Molly Hooper was watching with intensive eyes, wondering what on earth this woman had done to the Sherlock Holmes she was used to.

221B Baker Street – Later That Evening

John entered the flat to find Sherlock sitting in his chair, palms together underneath his chin.

"Ah, John. Glad you finally join us." Sherlock greeted sarcastically. "Mary okay?"

"Hmm. What? Oh fine. Yeah, she's fine."

John frowned as he looked at the floor and saw "Jane Doe" sitting on the floor, eyes closed, handcuffed to one of the legs of the kitchen table. The surrounding floor covered in what John could only assume was blood. He spotted a floor lamp beaming down upon her as he flicked his gaze between her current position and the empty chair in which their clients usually sat a few times before settling on Sherlock.

"Do I even want to know what's going on right now?" John asked to no answer.

The war veteran kept his position as he stood and watched his friend focus on what he could only describe as some form of role-play. Whatever Sherlock was doing right now, he had no idea. He always seemed to do things that John could never understand.

"Sherlock, what in the world are you doing?"

Before Sherlock could answer, a guttural scream came from the seemingly unconscious woman on the floor. John's training kicked in and he went to head towards her, only for Sherlock to pull him back.

"Don't John! She's not awake." He warned.

"Not awake? What the bloody hell have you done to her, Sherlock?"

"Just wait, John."

Turning to look back at the girl in their care, John clenched his fists to keep him tied to where he was standing. He hated it when Sherlock did things like this. He was used to it, mind you, but that didn't mean he still didn't like it. Whatever this was, he hoped that it was going to get them some progress because this case was being to head down to a dead end.

"Sherlock, I hope you know what you're bloody well doing." John retorted, knowing that Sherlock would pick up on his current frustration.

"Just…wait."

The sharp pain in her head, added with the severe lack of strength she was feeling made her almost feel glad for the chains that were keeping her suspended. The last amount of strength she did have, she was using to keep her head up so, at least she didn't look as though she had lost all her strength. As for the amount of time she'd been in her current state, she had no idea. It was most likely in double figures in terms of hours, but that didn't matter. Her main focus was on attempting to save the strength she knew she had already lost. Whoever was holding her captive had already planned what they were going to do, that much she knew. Everything that had already happened to her; the handcuffs to the pipe, the meticulous dunking, and now this had been on a schedule from what she could work out. She may not have known the exact time of day but the time in between each stage of torture had been very similar.

Not one question had been asked of her, not that she would have told them anyway. It told her that they already knew everything they needed to know. They were trying to break her, but not in the way you saw in the movies Hollywood made. Nothing like Bond's torture in Die Another Day or Casino Royale, especially not the latter. She had no balls to break. Well, least not physical ones. Instead, she was being left for hours upon hours just for the sake of it. No rescue coming for her, she knew that from the second she was caught.

There was no stealthy breakout or extreme shootout involving all kinds of heroic moves. No nightmare room filled with poisonous insects or reptiles of any kind. In fact, this entire ordeal was boring. It was the one thing she remembered being told in training.

"Training?" A voice repeated.

"Did you write that down?" Another voice asked.

"Why's she said that?"

"Oh, for goodness sake, if you haven't figured that out then you obviously haven't learnt anything from me at all."

"Since when were you supposed to be teaching me?"

Before she could even question the voices that were coming from her head, she felt a hand slide around her neck cutting off her air supply. Typically, a gasp would have passed through anyone's lips due to the sudden, unexpected touch. However, she barely had enough energy to keep her eyes open, let alone release a wasted breath of air. Her lack of reaction, however, surprised the unknown assailant standing behind her, hand still clasped around her neck.

"No sound? No cry for help? No last-minute prayer to he who made the world?" The man asked as he applied a small amount of pressure to her neck. "He taught you well. It seems you've learnt from the best."

She forced her eyes open as he slowly ran his thumb up and down her throat. She frowned as the realisation came to her that she'd heard this man's voice before, she was sure of it. There was something familiar about the tone. The slight rough gravel whenever he used consonants. Given her current energy levels she wasn't in the state to question anything else about it.

"Now, there's two ways I can go about this. I could kill you, which, although tempting, is too easy and a complete waste of time. Why keep you all this time to kill you when I could have done that the second you were caught? No, I can't do that. I think you've realised there is no heroic rescue coming your way, I know you realised the second you knew you cover was blown."

She rolled her eyes as he stood in front of her, taunting her. All she wanted to do was sleep, not listen to him go off on some villain's tangent. If she wanted one of those, she could watch an episode of Scandal and listen to one of Rowan Pope's many soliloquy's.

"Oh, I'm sorry, am I boring you? The stereotypical villain speech. Maybe I should add in a nefarious laugh at the end, but then, what exactly makes me the villain in this story?" He asked as he began to circle her, coming to stand behind her, his free hand wrapping around her matted clump of hair.

"It was you who infiltrated this building. It was you who was looking to steal something from me. It was you who ended up killing two of my guards before you were caught, so who's the real villain here?"

His question had some merit to it. To him, it did look as though she was the antagonist in the situation. Yet, the torture wasn't something associated with protagonists, so that answered that.

"I suppose you're wondering how the things you've been put through still qualify me as the hero of this little story, right?" He asked, to which she frowned.

He'd done it again.

Somehow, without her even saying so much as a word or moving a muscle, he knew exactly what she was thinking. He wasn't a mind reader, they don't exist, she knew that much, at least. But it was still something that completely bewildered her. It didn't help she barely had the strength to keep her mind on the conversation, so it looked as though that was just going to have to stay an unsolved mystery at present.

"Cause and effect, my dear." He answered. "Well, mostly your cause and your effect, but you get the idea."

Something felt different about him being here. He wasn't here to gloat, or to ask her questions, it was as though he was here to give her an explanation. A simple explanation and leave the interpretation up to her. It was strange. Seizing a handful of her hair, the unknown man yanked her head back to look at him and raised it to look ahead, pointing to the opposite end of the room.

"Mirror?" Have you got that, John?"

There was it was again, the voices she knew weren't real. There was no else in the room except this unhinged man and herself. She hadn't been here that long for her mind to start unravelling, had she? Had she?

She didn't get long to think as the man had started talking again.

"This is the part where I'm supposed to say something clever, isn't it? Some witty one-liner that has more meaning than you realise and where I leave you in an empty room of ambiguity." He laughed, the mere thought of being that overdramatic seemed to tickle his humour in a way she couldn't grasp her head around.

"No, no, I think I'll let this beautiful object here do the talking for me." He told her before disappearing behind her.

She paid close attention to his retreating footsteps to see if she could determine how far into the room she was, but after no more than 5 steps he stopped. Allowing her head to rest on her bicep, she waited for the sound of a closing door but no sound came. It took her longer than it should have for her to realise he was still in the room.

Focusing her gaze in the direction he had pointed, she was greeted with a large ornate golden mirror that took up the entire wall she was facing. It wasn't until she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror did she finally realise what all this was for. He wasn't going to do anything to break her. Thanks to this obviously expensive mirror that looked as though the only way it could have been acquired was via auction, she was going to break herself.

AN: There we go! Please don't forget to review and add to your favourites!

Feel free to read my other stories!

See you all soon.

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