Forget Me Not Chapter 3, a sherlock fanfic

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And thank you very much emma de los nardos for betaing!

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Forget Me Not – chapter 3

Lestrade picked up after the third ring.

"Hello?" His voice was husky; he must have been sleeping. Not really what one could call a surprise, given that it was only few minutes to seven on a Saturday morning.

John didn't bother to feel embarrassed; he was way too worked up for that after the night he had just had. "Greg? Hi, it's me, John."

There was an immediate change in Lestrade's tone; in a split second he was fully alert. "John? Is everything OK?"

At the other end of the call John closed his eyes for a brief moment. He really couldn't say for he didn't know; after the long night, during which he hadn't slept a wink, his head wasn't exactly in its right place and he didn't really know anymore what he was thinking. The realisation that had come to him the previous night was so implausible, so far-fetched… And yet it had vexed him so that it had kept him up all through the night, considering various scenarios, every single one of them less plausible than the previous one. And that wasn't been the only thing that kept tossing and turning - there was also that wild, almost uncontrollable hope inside of him, a one which he now did his very best to restrain.

He cleared his throat. "Yes, everything's fine. I was just wondering - who did the identification of the teeth found from the site?" John managed to sound very normal; his tone revealed none of the impatience that burnt his insides.

It took Lestrade a few heartbeats to catch up with John and understand what he was talking about. When he did it cast a new shade on the DI's voice. "You mean Sherlock's identification?" He sounded cautious now, as if trying to figure out from what direction the wind was blowing.

John's jaw clenched and his grip on the mobile tightened. "Yes, that's it. Who did it?" Still, his tone revealed nothing.

Lestrade took a pause before replying. "John, why do you ask? What difference does it make?" His voice was firm but had a hint of compassion in it. Between the lines John was able to sense what the other man really meant - he was worried that John was clinging to Sherlock's death, that behind his calm exterior he was, in fact, not moving on but getting more and more stuck into something that could not be changed.

John took a deep breath. "Listen, Greg, I know Sherlock is dead. I'm not obsessing over it. I'm fine. Just tell me who did the identification. Please?"

Apparently he managed to sound reasonable enough; Lestrade's voice relaxed a bit. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean you're losing it or anything, it's just... Well, you know. As for who identified him - it was the coroner in Bart's, what's her name - Hopper?"

John's breath got stuck in his throat. "Hooper? Molly Hooper?" His mouth felt dry.

Lestrade yawned. "Yes, her. It was a bit strange really, she doesn't usually do that kind of stuff at all, but now there was some mix-up or something with the shifts and she basically volunteered for it. Why?"

John's heart was beating so strong he thought Lestrade might be able to hear it through the phone. "Never mind, I just wanted to know, that's all. Thanks, and sorry for waking you up."

"No worries, I.." The silent line revealed that John had already hung up. Sighing Lestrade put his phone to the nightstand and rubbed his temples. It would appear that some of the infamous Holmes weirdness had transferred onto Watson. He would have to keep an eye open for that one - none of his business really, but during the years the duo had helped him out Greg had grown fond of them, and now after the violent and unexpected death of Holmes he couldn't help but worry for John. Lestrade hoped Watson wasn't going to start to chase shadows, for that was a quest that would be the end of him.

The room was silent minus the two even breaths coming from the two sleeping men, both lying strapped into their beds. The one closer to the window was tall, with dark curly hair and gaunt features, whereas the other, whose bed was placed next to the wall, was shorter, equally dark but perhaps with a slightly softer face, especially now as there was no stress or tension on it. They looked peaceful, but that peace was a mask created by the drug circulating in their veins; when it would wear off, both of them would wake up to yet another day of not knowing, unable to help themselves in any way.

There was one door in the room, and the sound it made when it suddenly opened was intrusive in the otherwise quiet space. Into the room stepped a woman, not the nurse who had been medicating the two men but another one. The woman closed the door behind her and leaned on it, her hand crossed behind her back, and observed the still, unconscious figures. A small, manic giggle escaped her lips and she quickly slapped her right hand on her mouth to silence it.

She walked to the bed of the shorter man and stopped next to it, her hands now hanging on her sides. The expression on her face as she studied his still body was difficult to describe; a mixture of glee and pure, unrestrained hate, finished with a touch of nervousness.

Slowly she lifted her right hand and placed it on the man's face. It was not a caressing touch; her hand was not soft and gentle but there was pressure on it, and the man's head tilted slightly by the strength of her hand.

Her lips, covered with dark red lipstick, parted as she smiled a vicious smile. She moved her hand to his jaw line and then suddenly grabbed his jaw, her fingertips drilling into his cheek.

"Jim, Jim, Jimmy..." Her whisper was so silent it was just barely audible. "Who's the pathetic loser now? You?" Her hand, grabbing his face, shook his head so that it appeared he was nodding. "Yes? You?" She hissed as she frantically made his head bob.

She straightened herself and in a quick, shift movement released his jaw and slapped him straight in the face with an open palm. His head swung to one side from the power of the blow and remained there, the area where her hand had struck quickly turning red.

"Asshole." Her voice was more audible now as she spat the word out from her blood-red lips, glaring at him with hatred in her eyes.

She then turned around to face the other bed, the one next to the window, where the taller man lay. As she looked at him her expression softened and her lips curled into a faint smile. She tiptoed her way to the bed, silently, with the eagerness and cautiousness of a child on a Christmas morning who can't get to the tree fast enough but is also careful of waking anybody else up. She put both hands on his sharp face, one on each side, and leaned down to kiss his forehead. The lipstick left a stain on his pale skin and she giggled as she wiped it away with her sleeve.

She placed her hands on his chest and marveled at the feel of his cool skin through the thin fabric of the gown that clad him. She imagined she was able to feel his heartbeat through her palms, even though it was probably her own; her pulse was elevated and she breathed a bit more shallowly than normal. Had an outsider observed her, the word they would have used to describe her would have been happy, or excited.

She sure as hell was both.

Unable to resist the temptation to explore the man she had so yearned for, her hands started to travel on his unconscious body, gentle and caressing, almost soothing. She was smiling a distant smile and her eyes were cloudy, like her mind was completely elsewhere than there in that white, silent room witnessing that odd scene being played out by the three characters.

Suddenly the man under her touch moved, making her quickly pull her hands away like his skin would have suddenly burnt her. She took a short step back and remained standing there, quietly, staring at the now slightly moving figure.

The man grunted and opened his pale eyes, but they didn't focus on anything; she wasn't entirely sure if he even realized she was there. She held her breath and observed as he slowly came to his senses, opening and closing his eyes, trying to move his hands and legs but with a lack of determination that conveyed that he knew it to be futile.

He looked so vulnerable it made her heart ache. He was there, for her to save, and save him he would; and he would love her for that.

The dark man stopped moving then and kept his eyes closed, but she was able to tell from the rhythm of his breath that he was now awake. When he spoke the words came with a tone that revealed he had asked the same question so many times he was no longer able to keep count, and that his expectations for getting a satisfying answer were close to a zero. "Where am I?"

She pursed her lips. She had been waiting for this moment, and now that it had arrived she was a little bit nervous. Maybe she couldn't pull this off?

But this was her chance. Their chance. She couldn't - wouldn't - allow herself to fuck this up.

She opened her mouth to speak but suddenly didn't know what to say, which resulted in an odd little sound escaping from her lips. It was enough to make the man open his eyes; obviously he had sensed a difference in the behaviour between the person standing next to him and nurse Rachel.

He turned his eyes to her. The look in them was piercing, even if he was still under the influence of the drugs that had been pumped into him. She couldn't help but shivering a bit under his intense stare that felt like it had stripped her insides bare, and she had to remind herself that the drug that made it impossible for him to remember anything was still affecting him for at least an hour - before which she would have to give him another dose.

She gained back her ability to speak. "You are in a place where you are taken care of." She did her best to sound convincing but wasn't quite sure if she had managed to do so. Judging by his demeanour she had, in fact, failed miserably.

The man glared at her with fury he wasn't even trying to conceal painted all over his sharp features. "Really?" He glanced down to his wrists; her eyes followed and she knew what he meant.

She kept her voice steady. "It's for your own good, Tim."

"Why do you people keep calling me Tim?" There could have been a hint of genuine interest in his voice; mostly it was coloured with the same annoyance and frustration that was radiating from his whole presence.

"Because it's your name."

"It's not my name." The answer came so fast and was uttered which such certainty that it made her jump a bit. For a split second she thought the drug had worn off and he did, in fact, remember his real name and everything else as well - but his apparent failure to recognise her was enough to ensure her that he was still under the influence of the drug.

This thought process, running through her head in a fraction of a second, made her choose her next words badly. "How can you be so sure if you don't remember?"

There was a flash in his eyes and she scolded herself for letting that slip out.

"How do you know I don't remember?" His voice was so smooth, like silk touching her skin; but there was a blade hidden in it, sharp enough to startle her.

Small pause, one she hoped didn't reveal her nervousness. This was not going quite like she had planned. "Because... Because that's why you are here."

He lifted his hand, or rather the little that he was able to. "I'm tied to the bed because I have amnesia?" The mockery in his voice was apparent. It was amazing how he managed to turn the situation like that - to make her feel like the underdog when he was the one strapped down. When she was the one who was in control. Who had the power.

He continued before she had time to reply. "And him? Does he have amnesia as well?" He nodded his head towards the unconscious man in the other bed. "Or is this just your idea of a get-together? You must be awfully dull company if you have to tie your guests down and drug them in order for them not to leave."

A wave of anger, so strong it almost blackened her vision, jolted trough the woman. With one, quick step she closed the distance to the bed and hit him in the face, very much in the same manner as she had done to the other man just a few minutes before . "Shut up!" Her voice was distorted.

The sound of her palm hitting his face was obscenely loud and the force of the blow equal to it, yet the man didn't even grunt as his head fell to its side. He merely turned his face back to her, slowly, narrowed his eyes a bit and spat the words out with a voice full of ridicule. "Is that really the bestyou can do?"

She stood there, trembling with anger and shock over what she had just done - this wasn't supposed to go like this, he was supposed to see her as his savior, his helping angel - when the doorbell, ringing from the depths of the house that was behind the closed door of the room, distracted her.

"Shit!" She was angry now, and nervous, and both of the emotions were visible in her voice. She shot a final look to the man, an odd mixture of desperation and anger, turned on her heels and stormed out of the room.

John was practically leaning on the doorbell. Granted, it was only 10 A.M. on a Saturday morning, but it still shouldn't be taking this long for Molly to open the door. Maybe she just didn't hear the bell? The house was huge - how she was able to afford such a mansion on a coroner salary was beyond John.

It had taken him some time to find first Molly's address and then the house itself. It was about an hour and a half outside London, located on a quiet area away from the main road; the were no neighbours very close by as the house, besides being huge in itself, also seemed to possess quite a considerable amount of land as well. No wonder she was a bit of an oddball - living by yourself in a place like this would do that to anyone.

Just as he decided to quit ringing the bell and take a tour around the property instead, there were noises behind the door and it creaked open. The safety chain stopped the door from opening more than a few inches; from the narrow crack John was able to see Molly's face. She appeared to be slightly flustered, and the look in her eyes was impatient.

"Yes, what is-" She stopped as she recognized John. The expression on her face didn't change, but something flickered in her eyes. It could have been just plain surprise, but it also could have been nervousness, or perhaps even fear.

"John? What are you doing here?" She sounded suspicious and surprised.

John felt suddenly slightly uneasy. Yes, what was he doing there? Really? On an early Saturday morning when every other normal person was just getting ready to start their day, what was he doing here in the middle of nowhere?

John tried to keep his self-doubt from showing in his voice. "Hi, Molly, I'm sorry to drop by so unexpectedly, but I need to ask you something if that's OK."

But Molly didn't seem to think that this was OK. "What?" Her tone was as sharp and blunt as her vocabulary.

John scratched his neck. This was a bit more awkward than he would have expected it to be. "I- listen, could you open the door properly?"

Molly shook her head, never letting her gaze drop. No.

All right, then.

Oh bloody hell.

John took a deep breath. "Molly, when was the last time you saw Sherlock?" There was no colour in his voice; it was as if he had been inquiring about yesterday's weather when he talked about his late lover.

Molly just stared at her, blankly, like she hadn't comprehended what he was asking.

John cleared his throat. "You know, before he... Before the fire."

Molly shook her head, slowly. "Why are you asking me this, John?" Her voice was a bit quieter than normally and there was a hint of superficial sympathy in it. Her eyes looked very dark and deep, like a well that is too deep for the sun to touch the bottom of it.

John felt uncomfortable. How could he explain his reasons? Yeah, well you know - You said something the other day and it made me think maybe you have something to hide, something concerning Sherlock - maybe Sherlock is not dead but you somehow faked the whole thing, or stole his body, or whatever -

He suddenly realized how absolutely stupid it sounded, and how stupid he felt. He rubbed his eyes with his right hand - was he starting to lose it? Seeing things that were not there?

John raised his eyes back to Molly and did his very best to look and sound reassuring. "No reason. I'm just trying to track back his steps during the last few days."

Molly looked doubtful, then shrugged her shoulders. "I don't remember. Must have been a day or two before."

"In Bart's?"

"Yes, in Bart's, where else? It's not like we hung around, now did we?" There was visible annoyance in her voice now and John saw her glancing at her watch. "Look, John, I am in the middle of something and I really don't have time to stand here and answer your questions. So if there's nothing else-"

John felt a wave of resignation washing over him. What was he doing here, bothering her? Was it really that difficult for him to let Sherlock go? He felt tired, and slightly embarrassed.

"No, there's nothing else. Thank you, Molly." Without waiting for her to reply he turned on his heels and left.

Molly remained standing in the doorway for a while, looking after him. In her eyes John could have seen a variety of emotions - anger, annoyance, and just a hint of panic.

She opened the door of the small room quietly, almost hesitantly. She didn't know what to expect - because of the interruption caused by that stupid John Watson she had missed the time frame in which she would have had to put her nurse costume on and inject Sherlock and Jim with a new dosage. How could she be so stupid? How could she let herself slip like this? When she was so close to getting what she wanted? Granted, Jim she didn't really have to worry about - he would be out of it for some time more thanks to heavier meds, but Sherlock - he might remember.

She slid in from door and closed it behind her with a small click. Sherlock seemed to be sleeping - maybe he had passed out because of the excess amounts of medication she had been pumping into him for the past three weeks? A small ray of hope shone in her mind as she tiptoed her way to his bed, giving Moriarty just a brief glance to make sure he was still unconscious.

Sherlock's eyes were closed and breathing was even. Thank heavens. She might have enough time.

She worked quickly and with steady hands, keeping an other eye on Sherlock as she prepared the syringe. Just as she was about to wipe his arm with the disinfectant he spoke, and his voice made her heart stop.

"Don't even think about injecting me with that..." He opened his eyes, they were pale and bright and horribly clear, and from the look in them she knew that he knew. That he remembered.

The sound that the syringe made when it dropped from her hand and hit the floor was like an explosion.

"...Molly." There wasn't even a hint of surprise in his voice.