Author's Note:
Things only get worse before they get better. Don't think there is any Johnlock interaction until chapter 26. Thanks to everyone who is reviewing!
"Are you alright?" A young man dropped next to the man slumped on the sidewalk with a worried gaze, keeping his distance as a precaution. "I'm a doctor," he stated calmly. His bright blue eyes scanned the other man's face before he craned his neck to try and see the wound on the head. "I can... take you back to my flat? If you'd like, I mean. Take care of you there?" He flashed a smile at the man before him.
"I'm fine…" Sherlock muttered and regretted it immediately when he tried to stand up. Nausea and vertigo hit him and he slumped back down against the pole. Maybe a quick nap would help. No, that wouldn't help. Going to sleep with a possible concussion wasn't a good idea. He was tired and groggy though. Without meaning to, his body leaned over onto the stranger and he passed out.
"Whoa!" The man supported the unconscious form easily and glanced around. He was alone with a man who clearly needed medical care. Right. He was a doctor so the best thing to do would be to get the fainted man to the hospital. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and called ahead to his hospital to reserve a private room. With a little difficulty he managed to get the lanky man a block away to his car.
It didn't take long to get the stranger a bed and hooked up to the necessary equipment. The young doctor relaxed in the chair besides the still unconscious man's bed with a worried sigh. Now all he had to do was wait.
A painful groan escaped his lips as he came back to consciousness. Where was he? Better yet, who was he? His head was pounding and his chest hurt? Why? What had happened to him? He fought furiously to remember but couldn't. His gaze finally focused on the man next to him. Did he know this person? He frowned in thought, eyes furrowed together but no name came to mind.
The young man turned eagerly toward his patient at the groan. "Hello," his voice was low but a hopeful smile played across his lips. "I was worried you weren't going to wake up." He stood slowly and gently picked up Sherlock's wrist, choosing to manually take his pulse. "How are you?"
"I'd be better if I could remember something," he admitted. "I'm in a hospital, I'm guessing? Are you my doctor?" He eyed the man a bit suspiciously, because he wasn't dressed like one. "Or do I know you? Are we friends?" He couldn't help all the questions. Not knowing anything was making him feel anxious.
Oh. Well, that explained a lot. "Ummm. Yes, I am a doctor. I'm Jackson, we don't really know each other. I... I found you on the... you don't remember anything?" He asked nervously. This wasn't good. The man before him had no identification. Not even a cell phone. "Are you sure?"
Was he sure? Why would someone lie about memory loss? Why was he so angry over this guy asking stupid questions? He sighed and then nodded. "Where did you find me? Do you know what happened?" He managed to only ask a couple questions this time around.
"I found you out on the street. You knocked your head against a lamp post and passed out," Jackson nodded and moved to the end of the bed to read the clipboard. "No identification whatsoever. No mobile or anything. By yourself." He bit his bottom lip. This wasn't good at all. "Concussion, small cut to the back of the head... and memory loss, apparently."
"Obviously." He muttered, feeling agitated by this man but not really sure why. This Jackson fellow was being nice; there was really no reason to be rude to the doctor. He glanced down at himself and eyed his clothes. Nice enough suit he supposed. Strange. Didn't hospitals usually outfit you in gowns? He frowned as the necklace around his neck caught his gaze. He picked it up curiously and analyzed it. There was a name inscribe inside, 'John H. Watson.' Was that his name? Someone else's? It looked like a wedding band. Why was it around his neck and not on his finger? It looked like it would fit? Wait, John was a man's name. Did that make him gay? Not that there was anything wrong with it. Christ, so many questions and absolutely no answers. No ID the doctor had said, was that normal? No cell phone either? Everyone had cell phones these days didn't they?
"Right, sorry," Jackson glanced back down at the sheets before he noticed the other man studying the ring. "Right. The ring. My staff is fairly sure that it's a wedding ring... Only we can't seem to find a John Watson anywhere in London. No cell phone number listed or an address," his eyes settled on his patient a little longer than necessary. "So now, obviously, we're at a bit of a loss."
A thin smirk etched on his lips and he met Jackson's gaze. "Your staff? Oh right, you are a doctor. Private practice, I'm guessing then? Given this private room." He dropped the ring, having lost interest in it and suddenly more interested in the man in front of him. He shifted a bit, grunting in pain. The doctor had said he had hit his head. Why did his chest hurt then? He ignored it, and kept his attention on the other man.
For a moment Jackson was speechless before dumbly nodding his head. He smiled softly and rubbed the back of his neck. "But yeah, private practice. Worried about you and all after you passed out." He shrugged his shoulders. "Wasn't a big deal, really. D'you want to tell me where you are hurting right now?"
He wasn't really sure how he knew that, but he just had. Strange, he couldn't remember a thing about himself and in just one glance he was certain he knew Jackson's whole life store. "Chest hurts a bit, no big deal." He muttered and he shifted once more, to alleviate the pressure.
Jackson lifted the clipboard and wrote something down with a small nod. "Would you mind if I had a look at that, then? It's just a bit odd since you're here for a head injury, y'know." He inched closer to the side of the bed and studied the man before him. "Want to make anymore amazingly correct assumptions?" He asked with a small laugh. His hands moved gently to the top buttons of the other man's shirt.
He smiled and laughed too. "I don't know how I did that. I just did. It was weird. I feel like I know you better than I know myself." He gave a small shrug and hissed in pain. "Christ that hurts…" He trailed off, not having meant to complain so much. He relaxed as Jackson started to do undo his shirt. He was curious himself, head tilted down so he could examine his torso as well. What the hell had happened to him? A purple bruise, faded scars...from surgery…?, a splotchy red area on his stomach, another faded scar. With a frown he brought his hand up to run through his curly hair in thought. He noticed a similar mark on his hand that was on his stomach, his frown deepening. He voiced his confusion and dismay, "At this rate, I'm not sure I want to remember..."
Jackson glanced up at his patient's face for a moment before inspecting the other man's torso. "Obviously two surgery marks." He traced them quickly with his fingers. "Don't know what from. This bruise," he tilted his head slightly and nodded. "Shoe. Kicked. And that's very much a burn. Second degree, not too bad." As he lifted his head he noticed Sherlock inspecting his hand. "That one is a burn, too. Cigarette from what I could tell when I got you into my car. Bit beat up but you're doing alright." The doctor stood up completely and let his gaze fall on the wedding ring hanging around Sherlock's neck. "So, you don't remember this John Watson?"
"I can see why you are private practice. You are very thorough and astute." He smiled for a moment and then frowned as he looked down at the ring in thought. "You say there was no address listed for him? I'm not wearing it. Hmmm...he must be deceased then. No other reason to hold onto it otherwise. If divorced I can't imagine wearing it around my neck as a constant reminder. I think he was important to me...special..." He glanced back up to the doctor, shrugging lightly so as to avoid pain this time around.
"Not that we could find. We found... one cell phone number but it just rang out." Jackson's eyes darted to the ring one last time before he motioned toward the coat hanging on the back of the door. "W-We found...a picture, well, four. All of a soldier clearly in Afghanistan." It was too early to start showing the man in front of him everything. Too much wouldn't be a good idea. "I think our first goal right now is to figure out who you are, exactly. That might take a while. If you remember anything I need you to press that red button above your bed. I'll come in here and we'll figure some things out."
Pictures? He struggled to sit up, which caused the room to spin. He blinked several times, hoping that would make the double vision go away. "Do you think the memory loss is due to the concussion? Or is it possible something traumatic happened and triggered the amnesia? Maybe a combination of both?" He trailed off with each word, talking to himself more so than Jackson at this point, as he tried to deduce what had happened to him.
"Easy." Jackson gently placed a hand on the man's shoulder to make him lay back down. "Don't sit up too fast, alright? You really need to rest. We are fairly sure that the amnesia is because of your concussion. That means a lot of rest on your part." The doctor managed to steal a quick glance around the room. There wasn't anything in here that he was willing to show this man too soon. "Maybe later we can try to figure that all out. Does that sound good?"
"Not really." He said with a sigh, sliding back down onto the bed. The thought of just sitting around and hoping his memory would return irked him for some reason. He wanted answers now. "Does this mean I won't be leaving anytime soon?" Not that he had anywhere to go to. He had no ID, which probably meant no wallet and no money. Effectively, he was stuck at this hospital until whenever his memory returned.
It was obvious that some part of this man was still there, a part that didn't particularly like waiting around. "Looks like it. I can't exactly let you run out into the world without even knowing your name, can I?" Jackson laughed as he moved back to the chair in the room, relaxing into it with a content sigh. "I've got things I can show you to see if, maybe, things will jump-start your memory but I think it would be best for you to rest right now."
"I'm fine. I would rather keep busy than rest." He couldn't help but worry his memory would never return. What then? Where would he go? What would he do? Once he was physically capable of leaving, the hospital wouldn't be able to hold him any longer. He really didn't want to stay here any longer than he had to. Hopefully, his memory would return soon but Jackson seemed to think that would take some time. He sighed at his thoughts, feeling frustrated by the whole situation.
"I-I guess I can show them to you," Jackson stated softly as he stood up, moved to the coat and dug into one of the inside pockets. He glanced through the four pictures of a soldier in Afghanistan once himself before moving across the room and holding them out to the man in the bed. "I have no idea who it is... but you've pictures of him."
He took the pictures and studied them intently. Who was this man in the photograph? Shouldn't he know? He frowned, eyes furrowed deep in thought. Why couldn't he remember? After a few minutes of staring at the photos in intense silence, he growled loudly and threw the pictures onto the floor in anger. "Damn it!" His fingers curled tightly into small fists, his nails digging into his flesh but he ignored the distant pain it caused. Shit, he needed a cigarette. Was he smoker? He wasn't sure, but he really needed a nicotine fix right now that much was sure. His body finally relaxed a little, "Don't suppose I'm allowed to smoke in here am I?"
Jackson jumped slightly as the man in front of him shouted, patiently picking up the pictures and placing them on the small table beside his hospital bed. "Um... No. We found a few nicotine patches in your jacket, though. I suppose we could give you one of those if you really want." He licked his lips and glanced at Sherlock again. "I could tell you more from what we found during our examination while you were out? Maybe that will help?"
A loud groan of frustration escaped his lips. He was getting more agitated with each passing moment. For a moment he pouted about not being able to smoke. He doubted nicotine patches would help calm his frayed nerves. His eyebrows went up in interest at the last thing Jackson said. "Yes, please." He hesitated a moment and then added, "Sorry if I'm being a bit childish. I'm just…frustrated…" he trailed off with a mutter.
"No, it's fine," the doctor cleared his throat and took a deep breath. "Right. You had several... er, love marks... on your neck. Recent, suggesting a lover. There were some scratch marks on your back. Same thing there. A bite mark on your neck," his cheeks flushed and he dropped his gaze to the ground. "So... we don't know if it's the John Watson man or not... but you have recently been intimately involved with somebody." After a hesitant breath he lifted his gaze to study the man in the hospital bed.
With genuine surprise, his eyebrows shot up once more. "Really? I see…" He trailed off, trying to think of something. Anything. Yet, his mind remained stubbornly blank. As if some invisible door kept him out of his own mind and he lacked the proper key to unlock it and see what was inside. This was getting him nowhere. Nothing seemed to be helping to jog his memory. He was getting restless just laying in the bed. He sighed, closing his eyes as he tried not think at all. Not that it was difficult, since he couldn't remember anything. For a moment he just laid there silently. Finally, his eyes opened again and he stared up at Jackson. "Even if I don't get my memory back, I'd like to be able to leave once I am back to a hundred percent physically."
"I'm afraid we can't do that until somebody comes forward and says that they know you. We can't just let you out on to the streets without even knowing your name." Jackson glanced out the window of the room to watch a few nurses going by. "I know it's unfortunate but... that's the rule, I'm afraid. We could let you walk around the hospital, with an escort of course, so you won't be so restless."
What the hell kind of rule was that? "What? Why?" He frowned and let out another growl to vent the frustration he was feeling. He probably wasn't helping his cause by acting so unruly but damn it he wanted out of here. He couldn't quite explain it, but he detested being in the hospital bed. In a hospital period. Somewhere there was a deep seated hatred that he didn't understand. He supposed walking around would have to do for now. "Yes, please. Can I?" He felt like a small child, begging for something so simple but maybe it would help ease his troubled mind.
It wasn't difficult to tell the other man 'no' when he was doing quite the job of annoying Jackson. "Not now, no. You're still recovering. Maybe in a few hours. Why don't you try getting a little more rest?"
"I've annoyed you…" He muttered to himself and then sighed. His attention shifted away from Jackson to find something more interesting to look at, like the wall. He wasn't really pouting, more upset at himself for being so stupidly childish. He wondered if that's how he always acted and the thought made him frown. What if he got his memory back and it turned out he didn't like the person he was? Was he different now? Would it change him later? Of course, it would be impossible to answer those questions until his memory returned.
Meanwhile…
Mycroft had already started his search. After several hours of Sherlock not responding to texts and the calls going straight to voicemail, he left their mother's house to see what he could find. Guilt was attacking his mind, he felt horrible for making Sherlock run off like he had.
It didn't take long for Mycroft to figure out which way Sherlock had run off to. What bothered him was what he found. A crushed cell phone and blood by a lamppost made his blood run cold. He was rooted to the spot. Kidnapped. His little brother had run off, in the middle of wedding preparations, because of something he had said. And now he was gone. His first instinct was to call John but he managed to stop himself from doing so. He couldn't worry the army doctor anymore. His second thought was to try and do some research of his own.
Mycroft had checked any known sources, worried that all of the men from Afghanistan hadn't been captured. It wasn't until he finally got surveillance tapes from surrounding buildings, an infuriating fifteen minute wait, that he saw a man plop a very unconscious Sherlock into his car and drive off after his younger brother had been stupid enough to try and rescue his dropped mobile. Wonderful. Now he was on the hunt to find a man who would take some random stranger off the street and, hopefully, see that he got proper medical care.
The leg work was infuriating but Mycroft managed to find the private hospital that he was fairly sure his brother has been taken to. Leave it to Sherlock to do something so incredibly stupid and selfish. Now it was only a matter of finding his younger brother.
The moment Mycroft found out what room Sherlock was in he rushed to it, pushing the door open with a sly ease. It was clear he was containing his anger. "What the Hell do you think you're doing?" He glanced at the other man in the room threateningly. "And you, just yanking him off the street instead of calling an ambulance?" Jackson tensed and tried to speak up before Mycroft started up again, his eyes trained on Sherlock. "Care to explain?"
Startled, he turned sharply to look at the door that had just been rudely shoved open. He blinked rapidly at the man speaking with confusion. His eyes finally narrowed in anger. What was this guy's deal? "Hey! Leave him alone. I don't know who you think you are but that man saved my life!" He stumbled out of the bed and managed to put himself between Jackson and this mad man. It took effort and he breathed a little heavily, ignoring the spinning room and double vision, but he stood his full height in hopes intimidating the man threatening his doctor.
It took a moment for Mycroft to try and decipher what was going on. "What're you talking about? Of course I know he saved your life, why else would I be here?" He moved forward slightly when he realized Sherlock was having trouble standing.
"He's recovering from a concussion," Jackson stated from behind his patient. "He has suffered some memory loss. And…who are you exactly?"
Mycroft frowned slightly and let his eyes run across Sherlock's face with a sigh. "I'm his brother."
Brother? He turned to face this man claiming to be related to him more clearly. He didn't make it though. His knees buckled and he stumbled back into Jackson. He hadn't realized just how weak he was until he had gotten out of the bed. No wonder the doctor had told him he no to walking around. "Tired…" He muttered, a hand clinging tightly to Jackson's shirt as he closed his eyes and passed out once more.