AN: "You really know how to get someone hooked" – one of the best compliments that can be bestowed upon a writer! Hopefully, I won't disappoint you all with this next chapter. It's a little longer than the others, and I hope you think it's gradually gathering speed. )
Anyway, enjoy, and as always, please read and review! Thanks – B.

"Amazing! - Extraordinary,"

Sherlock fixed John with a side-long stare: a queer look that accurately showed how perplexed he was at John's reaction. He'd just described John's life – his physical and mental problems, and his family's troubles – with such a degree of accuracy that it would have been thought impossible by the average person. Sherlock, however, was not the average person. He knew too that John was also far from average.

The scratches on the phone, John's forgetting to sit down, his specific tan-lines: nice touches, Holmes liked to think. Meretricious, he thought also, but nice. He kept this fact – not an opinion, a fact – to himself. He didn't want to scupper his chances at having an actual civil acquaintance before they'd even began, which he might do if he belittled his skills.

Perhaps, if he tried a little, he could make a friend of his new flatmate. It was an exciting prospect, but he wouldn't let on.

He wasn't yet sure that John's remark hadn't been sarcastic, though. So, he added in as tentative a way as he believed was possible for him to summon,
"That's not what people normally say,"
"What do people normally say?" Asked John, still smiling and in awe of the simple deductions Sherlock had just reeled off.

Sherlock's face twisted into an almost-ugly grimace, as he thought about rejection after rejection he'd had after exhibiting his powers – those of deduction, and reasoning.
"Piss off!"

The taxi continued on, much to Sherlock's surprise and annoyance, past the street they were supposed to be going down to view the place the victim had been found. With and indignant scowl, he leaned to the middle of the taxi, watching the police car they were following turn in the direction of Scotland Yard.

"We're going to see the victim," He muttered sourly, before leaning back and folding his arms, sulking like a petulant child.
"What, the amnesia victim? . . . Why is that a bad thing?" John asked, puzzled by Sherlock's negative reaction.

"An amnesiac can't be much use to anyone, John. I suppose that an examination of the clothes and possessions might be of some use to me," Sherlock begrudgingly conceded. But in the back of his mind a plan had already begun to take form. He added, "But Lestrade will probably insist upon me talking to them,"

John sighed. It was clear his new flatmate was a little precious when it came to his work. He'd been informed that Sherlock was a consulting detective, and not an amateur, by the man himself. He still wasn't quite sure of all of the connotations of this job title.

Sherlock leant his head against the window, watching with half-closed eyes as the bright, boring lights of streetlamps went by, his eyes flicking between them until he thought he might die from the boredom. Just when John thought he might be drifting off to sleep, he suddenly asked a question.

"Did I get anything wrong? – My deductions, John," He clarified, seeing John about to ask what he meant for the hundredth time. He was getting more used to Sherlock's cryptic statements now, though. It just took time, apparently.

"Me and Harry have never gotten along. Harry does have a problem with drink, and you were right about the divorce, too. But Harry is short for-"
"Harriet! Oh, there's always something," Holmes finished, obviously realising straight away what Watson was getting at. He'd perked up a little: hearing he was right usually had that effect on him.

But as he looked over at John through the dark of the taxi, he saw that his flatmate was grimacing. He'd just thought of something unpleasant; something he wanted to bring up, to ask.

"There's the other things, though . . . You said you could read my military career from my leg, Harry's drinking from my phone, but – but what about the other things? You said before that you thought I hadn't been invalided home, and something stupid about, about-"

"I think the phrase I used was anatomical structure," Sherlock put in. He was once again looking out of the window with far-away eyes. He recognised that they'd be arriving soon, but drifted somewhere above the conversation, wondering what he could say when the time came. "And it wasn't stupid."

John took a deep breath, and asked again, "Well, how did you kn-" He caught himself, and hastily finished, instead, with, "– how did you come up with those, those – deductions?" He stuttered, wishing he had more courage in his conviction when it came to the other man. He was just so much younger and smarter than John. It was a little bit of a knock to his confidence that his personal secrets were known by someone he'd barely met.

He somehow doubted, though, that Sherlock would tell anyone. He hadn't spoken about it in front of anyone else, and John suddenly found himself supposing that the errand he'd sent Mike on, before they'd spoken in the lab, was an ersatz one. Similarly, he'd cut himself off from talking about it when Mrs. Hudson had been in earshot.

This simply caused more bafflement in John's eyes, but he found comfort in the fact that his new flatmate was careful and protective of what he thought he knew about John. It was almost loyal.

The taxi pulled up to the curb, and they both unbuckled their seatbelts, though John never once took his eyes off of Sherlock, trying desperately to gauge his reaction and to gain an answer from it. He was unsuccessful, even when Sherlock did eventually deal him a verbal answer.

"If I told you, you wouldn't believe me," Sherlock assured him unhelpfully without even turning to face him, as he got out of the cab and walked swiftly into Scotland Yard. He heard John call his name and for him to wait, and his subsequent sigh from several metres away. He didn't stop nor turn around.

He smiled a small, sad smile to himself, slipping hands into his pockets. He would have liked to let John in on his methods, but by revealing them he always found they became a little less wondrous and a little more commonplace.

He wouldn't have admitted it, but he was trying to impress and enthral his new flatmate.
It was the only way he knew of that he could make him his friend.

Sherlock seemed so at ease as they stopped outside the interview room that John was beginning to suspect he was lying about not being an official police detective. However, he also suspected that Sherlock quite often just walked around every place he entered like he owned it. Both could equally have been true to the ex-army medic.

"We've ascertained that her name's Jennifer Wilson, and she's a reporting fashion correspondent for a Sunday newspaper supplement. We gathered that information from her belongings, which included a purse, so we're ruling out robbery for now," Lestrade began.
"And why didn't you call me sooner?" Sherlock asked coldly, glancing through the small glass window into the room. John peered through too, though didn't like what he saw.
Lestrade looked down and pursed his lips, looking even more tired than before, and then looked back up at the taller man. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I suppose this is Sgt. Donovan's influence," He said with a quick disapproving sigh, but decided not to give the Detective Inspector any more grief directly about it. He was in urgent need of a cigarette and had only nicotine patches to hand: a situation Sherlock, for once, could all too well empathise with at that moment.

"My influence along with the rest of Scotland Yard, freak," Answered a voice from behind John and Sherlock. John tried his best not to look startled, because he knew Sherlock wasn't; he felt that he had to keep up with him.

"Sally. Always a pleasure," Sherlock replied with a squinting, closed-mouth fake smile. The loathing between the two was clear as day, even to John. The DI looked fed up of the confrontation already, and opened his mouth to say so, but of course they were deep in argument by then.

"Who's he, then? Why is he in here?" Donovan demanded, pointing at John.
"Doctor Watson is a colleague of mine," The consulting detective retorted quickly, a statement John was a little surprised by, but hid it well for once, and decided to go with it.
"A colleague? How did you get a colleague?" She snorted with incredulity, before turning to John and sarcastically asking, "What, did he follow you home or something?"
"Talking about going home, maybe you should've last night – How is Anderson?"

Lestrade looked disappointed and a little embarrassed, so John decided to step into the fray.
"Alright! Calm down, both of you. There's time for that later. What were you saying, Detective Inspector?" He asked.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows at John for a second, after he'd basically done his job of handling his team for him. He wasn't angry, though: he was grateful, as he fixed Sherlock and Donovan with hard stares each. He continued with his explanation of the situation.

"Retrograde amnesia – that is to say, she can't remember how she got to where we found her, what she was doing there. She's had an MRI, like the others, but also like them, there's no sign of any sort of trauma at all. But Sherlock, just remember, she doesn't even know her own name. So, just be careful not to distress her or anything, yeah?"

"Oh, I shan't be the one talking to her," Sherlock answered dramatically, putting his plan into action, "I believe Doctor Watson, what with his experience in medicine, would be a far better candidate. He was an army medic, and so he's had his fair share of talking to traumatised victims of many descriptions. Besides, I should quite like to view the possessions and clothes of the victim," He finished, as if letting random doctors perform interviews was a routine practise during cases.

He glanced at John, who was openly gaping at the suggestion. Seeing the look Sherlock gave him helped him to restore face to a more neutral expression, and nod along with his flatmate's suggestion. He hoped Sherlock had a plan that he could go along with, and wasn't just making this up on the spot . . .

"We're already breaking enough rules letting you go and talk to her, let alone him! I mean, who is he? He could be anyone for all we know!" Donovan complained, but Lestrade pulled a face at her that said shut up, before going back to looking intrigued at Sherlock's suggestion.

"Doctor Watson is an upstanding citizen. You can check your records, you'll find no history of criminal activity, and several rewards for valour before he was unfortunately shot and removed from active duty," Sherlock assured them, with a smirking smile at the last few words in John's direction. John's stony face meant, obviously, that he was sick of his history being publicly brought up by Holmes. Sherlock well understood this, and decided it would probably be best to shut up about it if he were to gain a friend here.

Lestrade looked at each of the men in turn, and, madly, actually considered the suggestion. Of course, it would definitely be breaking the rules. But they hadn't had a break in this case since . . . Well, ever, and they were in dire need of one. They needed 'out there' thinking such as the type Holmes was producing, even though it pained him to admit that he needed him in the first place.

Lestrade sighed, and looked first to the consulting detective, and then to the ex-army medic. He shook his head, then threw his hands in the air.
"Fine! We could use some help with the belongings - they're a bit all over the shop," the D.I. admitted. Sherlock rubbed his hands with glee while Donovan audibly tutted with discontent. John felt bewildered by the situation.

Of course, he would help in any way possible: it was in his nature. But interviewing an amnesia sufferer wasn't quite what he'd expected to be doing an hour or so after looking at his new flat.

Even so, he puffed out his cheeks, and asked,
"Okay . . . What should I ask first?"

Blanched as if she'd been covered in flour, Jennifer Wilson sat with her hands on her lap, fixing her gaze on one particular speck on the grey table. Her large, tired eyes didn't falter much when John opened the door, nor when he sat down or introduced himself.

"Hello, Mrs . . . Wilson. I'm Doctor John Watson," He began, holding out his hand towards her to shake. She didn't take it. It took her about five seconds to react at all.

"Hello," She replied eventually, in a quick and stifled voice. She sniffed once; her movements were all deliberate, and precise. It was a clue as to her old personality: John's immediate judgement of her told him she was probably a woman who knew what she wanted at all times, and was smart and decisive enough to get it.

However, at that moment, one of her hands pulled at a thread on the sleeve of the police standard-issue grey sweatshirt she was wearing. John suspected from this that she probably worried a lot, too.

She had matching jogging bottoms to her grey sweater. It was a grim sight to behold: a victim dressed like a prison-dwelling criminal. Donovan had tried her best to get together some nicer clothes, but to no avail. John was sensing that trying her best but not succeeding was her modus operandi.

John smiled, trying to be reassuring; though he was sure he was failing. She wasn't looking at him anymore. He nervously checked his list of questions Lestrade wanted him to ask, as well as observations Sherlock wanted him to make. He was such a liar! 'An amnesiac can't be much use to anyone, John.' Well, he'd wanted to know what her accent was like, and it was Welsh. She was useful to him already, so there was that theory blown.

He still couldn't believe he had let Sherlock talk him into this. He scanned the clipboard again with wistfully.

He checked her ring finger for Sherlock first. Her wedding ring had been removed as evidence, but she'd been told she could have it back after the investigation. The rest of her skin aside from her ring finger – despite the pallid hue it was receiving from the unfortunate lighting – was tanned. Thus, Sherlock was expecting Mrs. Wilson to have a tan line on her ring finger from her wedding ring.

While she did have a tan line, John noticed that it was very faint, almost like she hardly wore the ring . . . Maybe sunbeds? She wouldn't want it to heat up and burn her on a sunbed when she was getting a tan.

The use of tan-lines as a tool for making deductions had been exhibited to John by Sherlock earlier, and John was beginning to see that his skills were kind of attainable. Given enough time, and an extreme degree of nosiness and boredom, that was. He almost smiled at that, but then became instantly aware of his surroundings. He gulped, and moved onto a question of Lestrade's.

"What, um . . . Oh, here we are - what's the first memory you have available to you?"
Jennifer Wilson huffed, almost rolling her eyes, though she was a little too emotionally rattled to put such a flippant gesture into practise. She seemed a little angrier than before as she answered.

"They keep asking me that, like it's something easy to answer! Listen, it's like – sort of like, when you try and think of how a dream began . . . As I keep saying, I was in the house – I don't know how I got there, thanks – and it's not a specific memory, but I was on the floor. I, I think I'd been asleep or something, though I don't know how or why I would have fallen asleep, not on that disgusting grimy floor, or in that awful house at all. Then – then I got up and there were these, these kids, screaming and running about. And . . ."

"Go on?" John urged, as he simultaneously took another observation for Sherlock. Yes, her fingernails were painted. Yes, they were totally wrecked and jagged . . . How had he known?

" . . . And – Sorry, what's that?" She demanded, pointing at the clipboard, and fixing him with a stern look.

"Hmm? Oh, it's nothing, just a list – they want me to ask you some questions is all," John told her, with a polite smile.

"Oh . . . Oh, I get it. Perfect, just . . . Perfect. They think I'm mad, don't they?" She asked, frustrated, and ignoring John's attempts at interrupting her to deny this. She was wide-eyed and sounding hysterical all of a sudden. He'd seen it before, and it wasn't a look you'd want to see in the eyes of a loved one, although he already had in his life.

"That's why they sent a doctor in here! – Why else?" She asked, shaking her head and folding her arms, and glaring at John in disbelief. Her face was cold, and though she was younger than John, the stress of the situation had aged her face until she appeared older than he was. He guessed that she was usually quite pretty.

Gradually, as they sat in silence while John froze, unable to think of what to say, the stern expression began to crack. Her top lip quivered, and her eyes began to leak against her will. Eventually, she stopped refusing to accept that she was crying, and buried her head in her hands.

John took a small packet of tissues from his pocket, and pushed them towards her across the table: he liked to be prepared for anything, though he could have never anticipated this situation. He looked at her sympathetically.

Physically stressful situations were the ones he was best at dealing with practically and accurately; he could also be helpful with his actions in emotionally stressful situations like this. But when it came to saying the right thing, they left him frozen, unable to think of what to say.

She snatched up the tissues, obviously done with trying to be brave and strong, and crumbling. She said in a suddenly less demanding and more broken voice, "I can't take this – not, not on top of everything, on top of being, being here - I'm not mad, I'm not, but . . . They, they -"

"They don't believe you. Am I close? . . . It's almost like they think you're making it up-"

John had spoken in a moment of never-before-seen inspiration on his part. Verbal consolation was not his forte, but all of a sudden, he'd been hit with an idea of what he could say. It seemed obvious to him now. After all, what she was going through wasn't so far from anything he'd experienced. How had he not seen this before?

She looked up, a few tears slipping down her face and welling above her cupid's bow. He was looking her in the eye, but not with the same look of pity as before. It was more like empathy.

"- and you know it's not your fault, you can't help it, but you feel that it doesn't make any real difference . . . You're still a burden – someone to be dealt with, and then never talked about again . . ."

She wiped her eyes delicately with her thumbs, in a way that made John think she might usually wear makeup, and be used to trying not to smudge it. If she had been wearing makeup, it would be trailing down her face now, just like her tears.

"Did you . . . Did you – forget?" She mumbled, sniffing again. Her red eyes came up to meet his, but he looked away. He felt ashamed of his own thoughts, because at that moment, even in the presence of this poor woman, he wished that he could forget.

He decided to ignore it, and try and console her with his story, though it pained him to repeat it over and over again as he had been recently. It was an edited version, yes, but it would serve to give her hope for the future.

"I used to be in the army," He explained to her, "I was shot. I couldn't walk properly, and I still have a limp, as you can see," He said, indicating his cane, which he'd propped up against the table upon entry. "I used to think that no one would care about me anymore after I got injured. Not family, or friends – but it doesn't matter. You might think you're just a burden to them now, but I can assure you, they'll just be glad to have you back. The sooner they can see you, the sooner they'll be able to show you who you are again," He told her with an earnest expression that he mentally referred to as his 'Doctor Look'. It usually did the job of making people feel more at ease.

He wasn't sure where all this hopeful thinking was coming from, nor the positivity he was conjuring, but he was suddenly coming out with heart-warming speeches about the value of family. He knew he was a hypocrite, what with his fighting with Harry and all, but he assumed she had a stable relationship with her husband that could be rebuilt.

"Can . . . Could I – could I remember again?" She asked quietly, a tissue screwed up and tear-stained in her hand. He looked her in the eye again as she replied.

"Spontaneous recovery is . . . Rare, but all you need is time. Believe me, I've seen cases like this before, Mrs. Wilson," He finished with a smile.

"Jennie," She corrected, and looked down with a sad half-smile. "I think . . . I think, I feel more like a Jennie,"

She was much calmer than before; more receptive. When he moved onto Lestrade's questions again, he did so in a more gentle way, feeling less nervous now that he had gained her trust; she was more obliging to answer them.

Obviously she hadn't been made to feel completely better, and she wasn't happy, but John's comforting had started a process of recovery in her that would take several years, but would eventually end in her being 'normal' again.

And for that reason, John Watson envied the amnesia victim he had helped . . .

. . . Somewhere upstairs, reviewing evidence, Sherlock Holmes' mouth quirked into a sly smile. This one was a keeper.

He was sifting through Jennifer Wilson's possessions. They'd already found some light grey hair in the pocket of the coat: dull, uninteresting DNA trace with no leads at all. But now, Sherlock was onto something.

He pulled out a shining five pound coin, a colour match to the hairs, from the hot-pink coat pocket. It glinted in the harsh white of the evidence room, as he held it up with a gloved hand to the light, and enthused to himself,

"Silver!"