Chapter 1: Strangers
I wake to dim surroundings. The curtains are drawn, and I can barely make out the silhouettes of the furniture around me. The sheets under me are soft and clean, freshly laundered. I stumble a few times as I struggle to get to my feet, crossing over to the windows to yank open the curtains.
An unfamiliar street.
I turn around, scanning the room for any semblance of familiarity. Something blooms within the deep recesses of my brain. I focus on it, pulling the thread towards me. It disappears before I can get a hold on it, like it wasn't even there to begin with.
There's a throbbing pain in my head. I walk over to the mirror to inspect my reflection. Thick white bandages wrapped tight around my forehead, extending to the back of my skull. There are bruises on the bridge of my nose, molted green and purple spilling onto the side of my cheek.
The cold truth hits me like a bucket of ice water over the head. I've been kidnapped.
Wait, no. That's not possible. I'm in my pajamas. My gun is in my bedside drawer. No kidnapper worth his salt would leave his hostage with a weapon.
This is my home. But I don't know what lies beyond this door. A surge of panic blossoms within me. I can go out to have a look. I don't have any reason to panic.
I close my eyes, trying to recall the events leading up to my current situation. But my mind's a blank. What did I do yesterday? Where was I? I don't remember.
I remember my name. John Hamish Watson. I'm thirty-eight this year. I was an army doctor involved in the Afghanistan war. I came back to London because I couldn't imagine living anywhere else. My limp was killing me. The therapist I was seeing couldn't find a cure for it. She had me taking pills. Xanax, mostly. It knocked me out every night before ten. I was living in a tiny bedsit in Addiscombe on a pension. It wasn't half bad; it offered a quick commute to central London. I had plans to start working at St. Bart's again.
A simple life. That was what I wanted.
But it was so dull. I was filled to the brim with the sort of boredom that would make anyone want to scream. The memory of that is still etched into my very core.
My phone is lying on the bedside table. I switch it on. The date flashes before my eyes.
4 October 2016, Monday
My blood turns to ice. I arrived in London in 2011. Five years worth of memories down the drain. I eye the wooden door. I get a strange inkling that the source to my answers lie just a few feet away.
There is a knock on the door. Two soft, polite raps. A killer would have just barged in.
"Come in." I call out. I'm curious. Maybe this person can fill in some of the gaps. The door opens, and a tall man steps in. I'm stunned for a moment. He looks almost ethereal, skin so pale that it's almost translucent and a mop of black hair partially obscuring bright blue eyes.
"How are you feeling?" He seems uncertain, eyes downcast like he's guilty of something. The words are on the tip of my tongue, but I've forgotten how to articulate them.
"Fine. Better, I suppose." I clear my throat. Who is this man? Is he a doctor? My flat mate? A lover? No, that's not possible. I'm not gay. I would have remembered if my sexual preferences had evolved to something more fluid than before.
"John, I've spoken with the neurosurgeon at the hospital a couple of times and it appears that there's nothing much they can do for now." He pauses, waiting for my reaction. I nod, assuming that he's referring to my memory loss. "Some damage may have been done to your medial temporal lobe resulting in a lapse of episodic memory."
He stops again, eyes darting across my face in search of some form of response. I keep my expression blank. He's testing me, trying to figure out the extent of the damage. It feels like a challenge somehow.
"I'm sure I'll be fine after a few days of bed rest." I sit down on the edge of my bed, plumping up my pillows and offering him a small smile.
His gaze doesn't waver. I can't fool him. He hasn't dropped any hints on our relationship. He's waiting for me to slip up. I probably won't be able to keep this up for long. Might as well be straightforward.
"I'm sorry. But who are you?"
He takes a step back, steadying himself against the doorframe. His pale skin has taken on a sickly pallor, a sheen of perspiration forming on his brow. Damn. I shouldn't have said that. He's my friend. Was my friend. We're living together, for God's sake.
I know what he's thinking. Years of shared moments lost in oblivion. Every inside joke, every hug. Whispered secrets before dawn. No, I'm making this up. I'm not even sure what we are to each other yet.
He recovers quickly; I've got to give him credit for that. When I look at him again, his mask is back on, stoic and unreadable.
"We're flat mates. We met at St. Bart's about five years back when I was looking for a cohabitant for this apartment." He fiddles with his gloves. I notice that he's wearing a coat, made of some expensive looking corduroy material. "I'm a consulting detective for Scotland Yard and you've been helping me with some of the cases I've taken on."
A detective? I didn't expect that. But it seems to suit him. He's arrogant, speaking with a cool indifference that suggests an innate superiority. It's a stretch to picture myself by his side, running through the streets of London hollering about clues and killers. I can't see it. Murders and mayhem, they belonged to the movies, didn't they? I'm not one for excitement. I've had enough to last a lifetime.
"So we've been living together for five years?" I inquire. Five years is a long time to be living with someone in a completely platonic way without any complications. An abundance of time for memories to build up. For feelings to-
I've got to stop thinking about this. I'm desperate to ask him about the nature of our relationship. But it's too soon. And I'll probably need some time to figure out how to phrase that.
He hesitates. "Yes. That's about right."
This is awkward. There are probably things he doesn't want to talk about. I shouldn't pry any further until I get a read on him. He's still a stranger to me, one that knows all of my secrets. Maybe even ones I keep tucked away from myself.
I'm starving. I can't remember the last time I ate. My stomach's grumbling, it's getting embarrassing. I should really go downstairs to make myself some breakfast.
"I've prepared some light breakfast for you, just toast and eggs. I wasn't sure what you wanted." He seemed relieved to have an excuse to leave. "I'll bring it to you."
With that, he slips out the door, leaving a crack as he lopes downstairs.
He seems almost apologetic, scuttling around and making me food. Did we have some sort of row? That would explain a lot. It was probably some kind of domestic squabble. I don't want to think about the possibility that it might have something to do with his occupation.
He's back again just a few minutes later, balancing a tray of hardboiled eggs, toast and tea in careful hands. I eat slowly, savoring the simplicity of a home cooked meal. Is this a regular affair between us? Bringing the other breakfast in bed?
He watches me intently. "I suppose you shouldn't strain yourself for the next few days. We need you back in perfect health as soon as possible."
"I'll do my best." I don't know what else to say.
"You have an appointment at St. Bart's in the afternoon. I'll be at the morgue if you need me." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a phone. He fiddles with it for a second and there's a chime from the drawer next to me. "I've sent you a list of contacts you might need. Your old phone was damaged beyond repair in the accident."
I scroll through the list of contacts. The names all seem unfamiliar. I scan the list for his name and realize that I haven't asked him about it.
"I'm sorry, but I didn't quite catch your name."
He keeps his eyes fixed on his screen. "Sherlock Holmes. It's a pleasure to have you back, John."
He walks out of my room a little too quickly, slamming the door behind him with a little more force than necessary.
The route to the neurological department took a little longer than expected. It's quite unnerving, really, walking around a hospital alone. I'm already sick of the scent of disinfectant. The receptionist is scribbling away on her notepad, cross checking appointments on her desktop computer. I'm the only one in the waiting room. Brain injuries aren't all that common. Just my luck.
There are several newspapers and magazines splayed on the table in front of me. I spend a few minutes flicking through them. So much has changed. But in other ways, things are still are still pretty much the same. The stock markets are still unpredictable and politicians are still playing dirty. That's the funny thing about time, I suppose. The world keeps turning even if you're not there to see it.
Except I was. Five years of wasted time. I wonder if I'm still the same person.
The receptionist calls my name, jolting me out of my stupor. I make my way to the doctor's office. She introduces herself as Dr. Brelle, the surgeon in charge of my operation. She takes me through the effects of retrograde amnesia and does a few tests. It's hard to admit that I have no recollection of my life before the accident. I remember the heat and bloodshed. The sand in my mouth. After that, it's just a blank wall. A white, immovable force that I need to break through.
I can see the sympathy on her face. I don't want her pity. I want to know what happened.
She tenses up when I ask her about the details of my injury, using complex medical jargon to try and shake me off. She doesn't realize that I was a doctor before all of this. I know exactly what she's talking about.
"Retrograde amnesia is often temporally graded, meaning that remote memories are more easily accessible than events occurring just prior to the trauma."
"So does that mean I can speed up the healing process by recalling the events leading up the accident?"
She regards me silently. It's a long shot, I know. She doesn't want to give me any false hope. "Starting at the beginning would be best. Accessing the brain's narrative function would help with piecing together the flow of events in a way makes the most sense to you."
My heart skips a beat. This may be a lot easier than I thought.
"Exposing yourself to significant events from the past associated to the cause of injury may speed the rate of recall."
I realize what I have to do. In order to move forward, I'm going to have to go back to the start.