7 Amnesia
John did not know where he was. He did not know what he was supposed to be doing. He did not know his own last name.
John has amnesia.
That's all he knew. John knew his mind should not be so empty. He knew he should know his own name. But he didn't. He knew he must've had amnesia.
He sat up uncomfortably on the armchair he woke up on and gazed around the apartment he was in.
The entire place was littered with pieces of paper. The kitchen was full of lab supplies and some dirty dishes. The walls had bullet holes and a graffiti smiley face on it. The walls were tacked with articles and maps. There was an armchair opposite to him. He wondered who should occupy it.
The door creaked open and a tall, thin man with black curls stepped in. John tried to decide what color his eyes were. In the sunlight, they looked green, but if he shifted that way, they looked sapphire blue. John was sure he knew this man, but he couldn't place who he was. Friend? Colleague? Neighbor? John was sure he knew him better than that.
The man studied John with his blue-green eyes. John tried to read the emotions in them, but he couldn't. It seemed that the man was calculating him with those eyes of his. Finally, after a long awkward silence, the man spoke. "John, do you remember anything at all?" His voice was cautious, tender even. John had the vague feeling it should not be like that.
"John?" the man asked uncertainly. John realized with a jolt that he had not answered. "No," he replied quickly, trying to exact useful information from the man. "Um... where am I? Who are you? Who…who am I?"
The man tilted his head, pondering the questions. "You are John Hamish Watson, though you used to hate your middle name." A faint smile appeared on the man's face as he said that. "You invaded Afghanistan, served as an army doctor about six years ago. But now you're settling down in London, working as a doctor… and… yeah. You didn't have enough to pay for an apartment, so you moved in to 221B Baker Street-that's where you are-with me. And I am… William Sherlock Scott Holmes." The man said his pronounced his own name carefully, looking at John, trying to read his emotions.
John desperately searched his mind for a memory, finding none. At last he shook his head, mystified. "I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes… I don't remember."
John saw the man who called himself something-something-something Holmes lower his head, his blue-green eyes dimming into a bluish-gray. "Call me Sherlock."
"Sherlock." John corrected awkwardly. "So you're my roommate?"
Sherlock paused hesitantly, then nodded. "I'm a high-functioning sociopath. A consulting detective. I invented the job. You-you used to help me out on the cases. So… yes. You were my roommate."
John gazed at Sherlock in utter disbelief. "You must be joking."
Sherlock looked at John sadly, his eyes light gray. "I'm not."
John snorted. "Do you expect me to believe that you're a sociopath who's also a detective?"
Sherlock ran his fingers through his black curls in frustration. "I'm a detective. A consulting detective. The only one in the world. I invented it. And yes, I'm a high-functioning sociopath; that's my response when someone judges me as a psychopath."
John frowned. "Why would people judge you as a psychopath?"
Sherlock grimaced. "You wouldn't believe me."
John shrugged. "That's for me to decide."
Sherlock bit his lip hesitantly, then opened his mouth to speak, his voice hollow. "I… deduce. I have an excellent brain. I, for example, deduced your military background from your posture and your limp, and your family background from your phone."
John was getting more agitated by the moment. "My limp? I don't limp." To prove his point, he flexed both legs twice easily. He patted his pockets for a phone, but he didn't have one. He knew this Sherlock man was bluffing. What in the world? He must be lying!
"Do you really expect me to believe all this?" John finally demanded, glaring up at him.
Sherlock slumped onto the armchair opposite and buried his face in his hands. Finally, he replied quietly: "No, I don't. But it's the truth."
John glared at the man defiantly. "Evidence?"
Sherlock stood up and paced the room, searching wildly around for anything to back up his claim, but there were none. He raised his hands in defeat.
John saw this as his win. "Look, I don't know a thing what's going on here. But I know you're not going to fool me." He stood up, and after a moment of hesitation, speed-walked to the door Sherlock came in and slammed it shut behind him. Sherlock did not move.
-oOo-
Sherlock couldn't move as John spun on his heel and left. He could only feel the warm tears drip from his now light gray eyes as his once most loyal supporter of worst times slam the door in his face as the biggest disbeliever ever.
Because everyone writes amnesia someday :-) tho it's kinda long
And I thought I said to read and REVIEW?! But I have EVERYONE to thank for the two hundred something views!
So this is the last I've got in store, so you've either got to REVIEW for more inspirations or see this fic marked as complete :-( But whoever gives me a killer inspiration gets a whole chapter dedicated to them :-) So please please please read and REVIEW, y'all! -Ctenophore.D
