Thank y'all so much for the sweet reviews and encouragement! This story is getting a lot of hits, and I'm so happy!
Keep your prayer requests coming! Something for y'all to pray for me about (if you want to) would be that I'd learn to have a quieter spirit! :/ I tend to talk too much and stuff comes out all wrong.
"Sherlock?" Lissie dizzily tried to sit up.
A strange man with a kind face helped her lie back down. "Can't have you messing up those stitches in your back, now can we?"
"Stitches?" Lissie asked.
The man looked a little worried. "Yes. Your back got infected...Can you remember? You remembered Sherlock' s name..."
"Sherlock' s my father," she said slowly. "We just met, it's a odd circumstance-"
"I know," the man said quickly, "You don't have to explain that part. I'm Dr. John Watson, by the way. I'm a friend of your father's. You met me at church...?"
"Ohhh," she drew the word out. "Why is everything after meeting Sherlock so hard to remember?"
He asked a question instead of answering. "Do you know how you got hurt?"
She thought, screwing up her face. "A man named something with an M," she recalled. What had the man done? Was it good or bad?
Her head ached so badly. Perhaps if her eyes closed, just for a second, she would remember...
"It's no use," John told the blue-scrubbed young doctor outside. "She doesn't remember, and she's out again."
"Thanks for trying." The young doctor's voice lowered curiously. "Say, are you sure everything's classified-"
"Absolutely," interjected Mycroft, who'd been sitting outside the room. He had pulled strings and managed to get a large, private suite for Lissie. "That's why Dr. Watson asked the questions and not you."
"Alright," the young man said good-naturedly. He hurried off.
Mycroft passed a hand over his face and looked at John.
"My poor brother," Mycroft said slowly. "I knew he'd met Elsie, but I never dreamed ... imagine! My little brother, married."
"Everyone has secrets, even Sherlock, I suppose," John replied thoughtfully. "Lestrade texted. He says Sherlock's asking to see Lissie."
"It was very kind of Inspector Lestrade to stay with my brother. I'll go see to him now that I have details on the girl."
It was Sherlock who arrived then, stumbling along with his bandaged shoulder while Lestrade hurried after him.
"I want to see my daughter," he all but roared. At John's reproachful look he stopped and raked a hand through his hair.
"Sorry, it's just..." for once he was at a loss for words. He was not used to this, having people look after him. He was not accustomed to feeling so helpless and vulnerable.
"May I go in?" he asked meekly.
Mycroft explained, "She doesn't remember anything after she met you."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You lot wouldn't be so worried... I mean, from a security standpoint, you'd be glad she forgot her capture. You'd be glad...unless you thought she might..."
Lestrade nodded. "They're afraid she might have constant memory loss," he said gently. "We won't know until she wakes up for good."
John scanned Sherlock' s face, noting the resemblance to Lissie. He could read the fear and worry in his friend's eyes. It was so strange to see this side of the confident, calculating Sherlock Holmes.
"Sherlock!" A girl's frightened voice cut through the medical noises and muted laughter from the nurse's station.
Lestrade had never seen Sherlock move so fast, not even at a crime scene. The consulting detective flew down the hall and into the suite, contorting his bandaged shoulder at odd angles. That's got to hurt.
Lissie was lying in bed, hair streaming up the pillow. She had obviously tried to sit up and been hindered by her back. She waved her pink-casted arm in an expressive manner.
"It was awful," she was nearly crying. "I know it wasn't happening but it seemed so real," she quavered.
Sherlock perched on the edge of the bed. He seemed not to see Mycroft, Lestrade, or John.
With one long finger he traced the angry red scar on Lissie's arm. "It's alright," he said comfortingly, surprising himself with how sympathetic his voice sounded.
"No, I...I remember now. Moriarty and...everything..." She struggled to explain.
"You don't have to explain. Just that you know is enough, right, John?"
"Oh? Right, yes, sorry..." John had been watching the reunion with a little shock.
He and the other two men slipped away then, at Lestrade's bidding.
"I've been terribly silly, getting worried," Lissie told Sherlock, sniffling.
"No, not at all. You've been very- strong." He hated false praise and participation ribbons - compliments from him were so rare. She had been strong, gritty. He didn't know much about teenagers but he doubted any other - boy or girl - could have withstood something like that so bravely. He felt a little twinge of pride.
"Thank you."
He seemed to have run out of things to say. While she wished he would say more, it did not hurt her that he didn't. It was enough for her that he was there. Comforted, Lissie lay still, breathing hard.
He looked out the window at a grey lake and gray sky. At last her breathing regulated and quieted, and he knew she was asleep.
Her turned back to study her. Thank God, she had regained her memory. What was he to do now? When she was able to return home, should he bring her to 221B Baker Street for good? No, no. He'd have to really clean up his act then, and Ms Hudson would hang lace curtians. What about a nice girl's boarding school, then? She could come home weekends. She might like that, he reflected. Being tutored in that stuffy mansion had probably been pretty boring.
He rose and went out, peeling off a new patch as he walked. Mycroft was still sitting outside, but John and Lestrade had left.
"Mycroft, is Moriarty still at large?"
Mycroft winced. "Well-"
Sherlock cursed bitterly, then apologized. "Sorry. It's not your fault."
He felt like screaming. Moriarty was still out there, waiting.