Sherlock Holmes is having an odd day. For one thing, perfect strangers know who he is. Well, they're not perfect, but they're definitely strangers, even if they say they're not. For another, they claim to be his friends. Friends? What friends? And for yet another, he's affianced to a mousy-looking girl, which is completely unbelievable. Why on earth would he be attached to someone like her?

"Are you sure it's amnesia and you're not reverting to your completely dickish behavior?" the former army doctor says. He can tell he was an army doctor, it's just harder to believe this short, annoying man is his partner in detecting and chronicler of such cases. He obviously types with just two fingers, the pointer finger of each hand. Then again, blogging doesn't seem to require actual typing or writing skills.

Sherlock lifted his chin. "I'm behaving perfectly normally. I don't see what your problem is."

"Oh God," the man who called himself John Watson sighed. "Molly, if you want to stay over at our place-"

"No, it's fine," the frumpy little Molly Hooper said nervously. "You said the inspector would look after him, see that nobody will attack any time soon."

The short blonde man sighed. "Yeah, well, I didn't figure somebody would use a car to knock this idiot out. Dunno what they've got planned next."

"I'm not an idiot," Sherlock snapped. "Just because I'm not aware of what's happened in the last few years-"

"It's all right," Molly put her hands up. "You'll remember. You'll figure it out. You always do. And when you do, you and John will get the bad guys, like you always do."

John smiled a crooked grin. "There, you're getting the hang of it," he patted Molly on the shoulder.

Sherlock frowned. "Getting the hang of what?"

"Cheering your sorry self up," his so-called friend grinned unrepentantly. "All right, we'll get you home, then I'll talk to Lestrade, and Molly here will try to catch you up on everything that isn't online." He gave Molly a look, and she blushed a little. Sherlock found he didn't like how suspicious that was, but the detective inspector, whom he did remember, vouched for them both, so he may as well go home and get cleaned up. At the very least, it should be no problem overpowering the female if she should prove intractable.

Once they got home to 221B, Molly explained his current circumstances to the landlady, who was more nosy and bothersome than he expected for someone who housed him longer than a month, and fairly flew up the stairs. He thought it a bit odd that it had seventeen steps, but one couldn't count on perfect architecture from this period. He scanned the living room, which bore his marks quite clearly, including a smiling face spray painted on the wallpaper, and bullet holes punctuating said graffiti. He wondered if the landlady, Mrs. Hudson, was a bit senile due to indulging in a form of semi-legal pharmaceutical relaxants since the last time he saw her in Florida. Most of his books were on the shelves, including a few so-called thrillers he supposed was from his previous flatmate, along with a handful of "romance novels" and a couple of textbooks from the still-practicing Dr. Hooper.

He narrowed his eyes as the long-haired girl came up the stairs. "Well, my things are here," he said, "at least that much is true."

She murmured, "Your things are everywhere. If you haven't seen the kitchen yet, it's got body parts in the fridge, and your bedroom's there." She pointed to the room opposite the living room. "I'm up there," and she pointed to another set of steps.

He frowned again. "We're not really affianced, are we?"

She sighed, and sat down, a large spotted-white tabby soon leaping onto her lap. "No. Just to let you know, it was all your idea," she said quickly, "you wouldn't marry Irene Adler because it was your mother's and brother's idea." Then she put a hand to her mouth. "You do remember your family, don't you?"

He rolled his eyes. "Unfortunately, yes. And why would Adler, no," he put up a hand, working backwards from her statement and his rather ridiculous solution to reach the source, "oh. Yes, of course she would want their money. And of course, I wouldn't want to give in to their whims. The question becomes," he frowned at her, "why are you going along with this?"

She shook her head. "It sounded harmless at the time, but after being constantly hounded by Irene every time you dodged her, or getting yelled at by your mum at tea," his eyes widened, he couldn't believe this flustered woman would go that far for a farce, "and occasionally getting surprised by a fan or two, well, I thought it would be over a long time ago." She blinked. "The fake engagement, I mean."

"I know," his lower lip jutted slightly up. "Still, this is strange. Why would Mummy dredge up someone like Adler to be my fiancée? I'm surprised Mycroft didn't offer one of his underlings up for the sacrifice of spying on me." His eyes narrowed again. "You don't look like a spy."

"I'm not!" she cried, pink spots dotting her cheeks. "Your brother tried to bribe me with a flat closer to work."

"And you didn't take it?" he tilted his head. "Odd. It's obvious you used to have fond feelings for me, although apparently time and actually living with me have, for lack of a better phrase, killed them off. But you turned down a rather hefty bribe and you're playing along in this charade. How are you benefiting from this arrangement?"

Her large brown eyes have an irritating, almost dull quality as they widen considerably. "You should get knocked on the head more often," are the surprising words that come from her mouth. "You've never thought about anything from anyone else's point of view, unless it's a criminal."

He snorted, then leaned into her space. "It's not an altruistic question, Miss Hooper. Why are you going along with this, when it's obvious you've recently recovered from an illness, brought on by stress, most likely due to the weight of pretending to be someone you're not?"

Her breathing has increased, as has her heartrate. Her eyes have widened to near-impossible proportions, but then, it's possible she isn't even aware of how she's reacting. So, her feelings aren't entirely squashed. Or perhaps that's how she always behaves around a male in close quarters. Some further study might be advisable, to prevent her from always acting this flustered. It's rather ridiculous to have that in a flatmate. "I was waiting for you to be brilliant," she squeaked, underlining his "mousy" assessment in one way, but surprisingly cutting at the same time.

"What do you mean?" he glared at her.

"I mean," and now she looks down at her cat, as if suddenly remembering she has other options in her viewing, "having a fake fiancée is not the best of ideas. I was honestly expecting you to turn your mother down flat constantly, but it seems she's the only woman you actually can't say no to." Her mouth twists into a smile, but it's a jerky one. "I even tried to get her to see reason, but it seems everyone in your family has, well, interesting ways of thinking. She managed to wind me up before I left, and that wasn't fun."

"Nobody can really say no to Mummy," Sherlock said glumly, then put his hands on her shoulders. "So what made you think you could?"

Her shoulders rose, her posture defensive. "I was hoping she'd come to her senses if it was just me being peaceful, rather than you being antagonistic. Silly me."

"Yes, rather," he said, his frown deepening.