I awoke slowly and gradually realized that was in what seemed to be a hospital. This was my first coherent thought. My second was that I did not know why I was in a hospital bed. My third was that I did not know where I was – not which hospital, not which city, not even which country I was in.
My fourth was that I could remember nothing at all.
It is difficult to describe the absolute terror of reaching backwards in one's mind for a memory, any memory, and finding only an endless blank space. I felt as though I were grabbing desperately at air in a terrible void. My name… I didn't even know my own name.
I didn't know if I was a man or a woman. I didn't know what I looked like. I had no idea who I was.
An unspeakable panic gripped me, and I tried to sit up. As I did, a throb of pain shot through my skull like a bolt of iron, and I fell back against the pillows with a moan.
A nurse turned towards me, seemingly realizing that I was awake. "Careful there, sir," she said. She reached over to apply a damp cloth against my forehead. "You mustn't move too quickly. You've got quite a concussion there."
A concussion? "What happened?" I asked, and the voice that exited my lips was dry and hoarse. It was also entirely foreign to me. I suppose it sounded male – was I a man?
"You were in an accident. Just a few streets away, over by the church. You were crossing the street when a carriage came 'round the bend, horse whipped into a mad frenzy. Damn near ran you over." She tut-tut-ed. "It's a wonder you weren't crushed to death, sir, if I may say so. But the cab did a number on you still. Way I heard it, you were thrown backwards against a stone wall. Nearly fractured your skull."
"I…" My eyes fell shut as I tried to recall the incident. Nothing. "I don't remember…"
"That was three days ago," the nurse continued. "You've been out since then. The doctor wasn't sure you'd even wake up! So glad to see you pulled through."
My head ached and spun. I felt nauseous, which the nurse seemed to anticipate, as she placed a bowl under my chin. I took it from her, staring at the hands I saw holding it. They were large, strong hands, with calloused fingers. Not young, but not old – middle-aged, then.
"Where…" I croaked. "Where am I?"
The nurse turned away and returned with a glass of water. I accepted it gratefully. "You're at St. Bart's, sir." I nodded, although the name meant nothing to me. "Drink up, then. You should be awfully thirsty by now. Your head won't hurt quite so much once you've got some fluids in you. I'll send for some bread and broth from the kitchens." She paused on her way out the door. "I can bring you some tea, if you like. How do you take it?"
I opened my mouth to answer and found that I did not know. The taste of tea… the vague memory of it seemed to remain, but as to my preferences, I found nothing.
"Black," I said. "Thank you."
The nurse nodded and left. I finished off the glass of water and shoved the blankets down until only my hospital gown covered me. I needed to see this body more closely.
I was indeed a man, and my earlier deduction on my age also seemed likely. I was sturdy and muscular, although a plump layer of fat covered most of my stomach. There was a gruesome scar on my left thigh. I ran my hands over my face and head – I had a moustache, a fair number of wrinkles, and short hair. All of it, entirely unfamiliar to me.
The nurse returned with food and tea. Over the next few hours, I ate and drank slowly until the blinding pain in my skull faded to a dull ache. When the nurse finally decided I was ready to be discharged, she left to fetch the doctor. "Your clothes are on the table over there," she said. "You may leave the gown on the bed. I will collect it."
Slowly, I stood, feeling nearly every one of my stiffened joints pop. I stumbled over to the table and examined the pile of clothing. A pair of tweed trousers and a matching jacket; an undershirt, vest, cravat, and an assortment of undergarments; a pair of worn leather shoes. Once dressed, I began to search the pockets of my clothing.
In one pocket I found a crumpled receipt for ink and paper. In another, a wallet with a modest sum inside, and a set of keys. In my jacket, I found a golden pocket watch. It had several soft scratches on its cover, suggesting age, but shone brilliantly, indicating great attention given to its upkeep. I flipped open the lid.
On the inside of the lid I found a small photo of a man. He had dark hair, a widow's peak, a hooked nose, piercing eyes. He seemed far younger than me, but the picture itself was yellowed with age. On the back of the watch I found the following inscription:
To J. W.
From S. H.
I stared at it for some time. Was I J. W.? Was the man in the photo S. H.? What was his relation to me?
The door to the room opened and a man in a doctor's uniform stepped inside, interrupting my thoughts. "Ah, Dr. Watson!" he said, stepping over quickly and reaching out to shake my hand. "So good to see you awake!"
I nodded, speechless. Dr. Watson. I was a doctor? A doctor of what? And if my surname was Watson, then what of my Christian name?
The doctor ushered me towards the door. "Your nurse says you seem fit to go home, which I'm sure you will appreciate. Your concussion does not seem to have done any lasting damage, but if the pain persists for too long, you are welcome to return. Although, I'm sure you could diagnose yourself just as well as I."
"Yes," I said absently. The hallways of the building were utterly unfamiliar, but several members of the medical staff gave me a friendly smile and a nod as we passed. It occured to me that I did not have nearly enough in my wallet to pay for any medical expenses, and I hadn't even an idea of where the hospital might send a bill.
"How much do I owe you?" I asked. The doctor waved dismissively.
"Nothing at all, my good man! You are one of St. Bartholomew's proudest alumni. It was our pleasure to care for you." He opened the door and ushered me out into the street. "And please do give Mr. Holmes my regards."
Mr. Holmes. The man in the photograph, perhaps? S. Holmes? Before I could ask, the doctor was gone. I stood in a busy thoroughfare that I did not at all recognize, but which couldn't have been anywhere but London. Somehow, I had a vague concept of the city of London, but I could not recall any great detail of the city. A river – it had a river, I believe. The Thames. And a clocktower… a rather famous one…
I likely lived somewhere in the city. It was possible that I had been visiting, but even so, I would have had a place to stay. I resolved to find my home first, if I had one, although I didn't know quite how I would do it.
I gave my pockets a second search but found nothing new. The wallet, however, had several pockets inside, which I had not searched through. Upon opening it, I realized that I had missed something: an inscription in the leather.
If found, please return to Dr. John H. Watson of 221 B Baker Street, London
An address. My address, it seemed. And a Christian name as well. I stepped towards the street and hailed a hansom quickly, and we set off for Baker Street.
Dr. John H. Watson.
I rolled the name about in my mind throughout much of the cab ride. There was no familiarity in it. A cold panic once again gripped my heart. My name… how could my own name be so foreign to me?
At last, the cab pulled up to a pleasant row of buildings and announced our arrival. I paid him and stepped out onto the cobblestones, gazing up at the door that I assumed must be my home.
I tried each of the keys in the lock. The third one fit, and I stepped quietly inside.