After a moment, Mycroft's gaze relaxed and with a look of true amazement, he announced, "Remarkable. Truly remarkable." John felt that this was probably the time to speak out.
"What is? What the Hell is going on here?"
Mycroft, an amused look on his face, pressed a button underneath the table and at that point, a door, which John had not noticed before, opened in the corner of the room and through it, to John's extreme surprise and shock, walked an astounded Sherlock Holmes.
"Remarkable! Truly remarkable!" exclaimed Sherlock. But John did not hear it. Overwhelmed by what had happened to him, and the shock of seeing Sherlock, he passed out where he sat.
When he woke, he was lying down on a hard, metallic surface, Mycroft staring down at him. Oh my God! He is going to dissect me! Mycroft leaned back and suddenly, it was Sherlock who was staring down.
"Sherlock! Is it really you? I'm not dreaming, am I?"
A look of discomfort passed over Sherlock's face and it was Mycroft who replied, "No, you're not dreaming."
Then, John felt hands being place on his back and he was slowly tilted up to face them and a series of cushions placed behind him. It seemed he hadn't moved much – he was still in the interrogation room, except that now he was lying on the table, rather than sitting on the chair.
"It is you! It is you!" he cried and reached out to touch Sherlock's face but Sherlock stepped back, a look of disgust on his face.
"What's wrong?" he cried, "What have I done?"
Mycroft sat down and Sherlock stepped even further back, leaning against the wall and staring at John in disbelief and horror.
Mycroft now let a look of discomfort pass across his face and he sat down at the foot of the table. After a deep sigh, he leaned forward and said, "Do you know who you are?"
John blinked in bewilderment, "I'm John Watson. I'm an ex army surgeon and I'm currently unemployed, although I do some late night work at Barts. I live at 221B Baker Street with my…" John stopped for a second, then continued, "With my friend, Sherlock Holmes and our landlady, Mrs Hudson. And you're Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's brother."
Mycroft sighed and turned to Sherlock, "You see how it is?"
Sherlock nodded, "But it's remarkable. I wouldn't have known and that's saying something. What has been doing these past few weeks?"
Mycroft turned back to John, "Normally, I'd try to deduce everything that's happened. But I think this is one time where it might be best to ask you. What can you remember?"
John buried his face in his hands, "I'm not sure. I woke up in the club and I couldn't remember how I'd gotten there. And then Colin took me to the hotel and in the bathroom I found…" He looked up at Sherlock, who looked away, avoiding eye contact.
"Yes," said Mycroft, "We know what you found. What happened then?"
John was silent for a second, then spoke, in a tired and broken voice, "Colin took me to Baker Street. No one had been there for months. I had a nap there and when I woke up, I remembered Sherlock … saying goodbye. And I remembered being shot at by someone and running away. Then, we went to Colin's flat and…well, I had something to eat and then we were going to get a taxi to his friend's place when we were shot at." There was a pause as Mycroft looked at Sherlock, knowingly. Then, in a weak and desperate voice, John cried, "What's going on? Why can't I remember?" He shook his head in frustration but suddenly, he felt a cold sweat come all over him and he fell off the table, onto the floor, every muscle in his body contracting and expanding, every fibre twitching, his whole body trembling and quaking all over, rocking around violently on the floor.