"Ma'am? He's awake."
Donovan snapped her head up to see one of her sergeants, Morris, standing the door to her office.
"St. Tom's just called," Morris clarified at the same instant the connection clicked in Donovan's mind. She nodded and reached for her phone.
"Greg? He's finally awake. Meet you downstairs." Ringing off, she looked back up at her sergeant. "Let's go."
Nine days had made him look slightly more human, although Donovan had found his slow return to consciousness unnerving. He'd looked awake; good eye open, roaming the room without ever focusing on anything, murmuring incoherent nonsense as though he were carrying on half a conversation with an unseen companion. At other times, his words were indecipherable, little more than moans. She'd wondered if he could feel pain through the haze of semi-consciousness and morphine.
He looked like he could feel it now, she thought. His features were blurred with fatigue where they weren't masked by bandages. His uncovered eye slid toward her as she entered the room, registering her for the first time. Morris stayed back near the door, but Lestrade stepped up to the foot of the bed with Donovan. She saw her former boss' eyes flickering over their victim's features, looking for some hint of familiarity. Lestrade had done this each time he'd been there. Donovan did it too, despite herself.
But there was nothing that clicked in her memory, no hint of him in all of the witness statements from a twelve year old unsolved murder case. Nothing but a partial match to a fingerprint found at the scene.
"Hello," he said weakly.
"Hello," Donovan replied. "I'm Detective Inspector Donovan and this is Detective Inspector Lestrade. We need to ask you a few questions."
He regarded her tiredly, then gave a slight nod.
"Yeah, they said the cops were coming." He had a Mancunian accent, softened by the weakness of his voice. She raised her eyebrows; that might explain why they'd had no missing persons reports for him. It was possible no one in London knew he was missing.
"Can you tell me what happened?" she asked.
He closed his eye and sighed, shaking his head, the movement faint and weak.
"No," he replied, opening his eye again. "I don't– I don't remember."
"Can you tell me what you do remember?"
He sighed again, his attention drifting away. A frown and a wince creased his features and he stiffened before visibly forcing himself to relax.
"Snow," he murmured. "It was snowing. And lights."
Donovan cast a quick glance at Lestrade who raised his eyebrows wearily in return.
"It was snowing the day you came into the hospital," Donovan said. "You told one of the nurses your name was John. Do you remember that?"
He met her eyes again, searching her face.
"No," he whispered.
"Is that your name? Is it familiar? Someone you know – brother, father, a friend?"
He sighed and shook his head again.
"No, Inspector, I'm sorry. I don't remember– I don't remember anything." Sudden panic filled his features and Donovan held up a hand to calm him.
"It's all right," she assured him. "You were seriously injured. Give it time."
"The doctors said I was attacked."
Donovan nodded.
"Yes, we think so, given the nature of your injuries."
"The person who did it – they must know who I am."
Donovan repressed a sigh.
"I'm sorry, but we don't know who they are. You walked to the hospital but we're not sure from where. We're working on it."
He looked mildly surprised and glanced down at himself, at the bandages that were visible under the blankets and hospital-issue pyjamas.
"I walked?" he murmured. "How?"
"People can do amazing things in extreme circumstances," she replied.
"Yeah," he said. "I know."
All three officers and the patient froze at the same time. He locked eyes with Donovan, looking startled and confused.
"How did I know that?" he demanded. She saw how much that sudden hint of strength had cost him; he looked drained, slumping further into his pillow. But his gaze stayed trained on her, his expression bordering on panic again. "I don't know anything – how could I know that? I don't even know my bloody name!"
Donovan took another step toward the bed, holding both hands up this time.
"It's all right," she said. "It's all right. You remembered the name John. Why don't we go with that for now?"
He gave a sharp, barking laugh that failed into a groan. Lestrade circled the bed and filled a cup with water, helping him drink it. Donovan waited, watching him calm. He took a deep breath, winced, closed his eye and turned the good side of his face into his pillow.
"John Doe," he said, flexing his right hand slightly, drawing her attention to the medical bracelet on his wrist. "That's what this says. Easy for you, eh?"
"John's a common name," Lestrade said and Donovan nodded. "Know a number of them myself."
"It could be yours," Donovan agreed. "It's a start. And you remembered the snow and lights. You just need to give it time to come back."
"And until then?" he muttered.
"We'll keep looking. We'll start with Manchester when we get back to the Yard."
He opened his eye again, turning his head to look back at her.
"Why Manchester?"
"Your accent. It's Northern. Mancunian probably."
He sighed softly.
"Oh." He tilted his head back slightly, looking resigned. "What am I doing in London?" Donovan didn't answer; the question had not been for her. She heard the undercurrent of frustration slip into his voice, saw it touch the edges of his features.
He paused, glancing past Donovan to where Morris was standing by the door.
"What happens to me? What if they come back?"
Donovan shook her head.
"We're keeping you under watch and that will continue until we're satisfied that you're safe. We will get to the bottom of this, John. It's our job. In the meantime, you should sleep. If you remember anything, you can tell the nurses or the constable outside and they can get contact me directly."
He looked skeptical but managed a slight nod.
"All right," he agreed, his voice fading.
"We'll come back later," Donovan assured him, but doubted he'd heard her. His good eye had drifted shut and his breathing had slowed. She glanced at Lestrade, who nodded. They followed Morris out the door and Donovan gave instructions to the constable keeping guard and to the nurses on the ward to call her on her mobile should he remember anything.
On the way back to the Yard, her phone rang. Donovan pulled it out, surprised to see the number was from St. Thomas'.
"Donovan," she answered.
"Ma'am," the voice of her constable said on the other end of the line. "John thinks he's remembered a name."
"Thinks?" Donovan asked.
"He's not sure, ma'am. If it is a name, it's an odd one."
"What is it?" she asked impatiently.
"Sherlock Holmes."
She didn't quite manage not to curse out loud.
John woke up to a rhythmic thump… thump… thump and groaned, rubbing a hand over his face.
It was Sunday. He was supposed to be able to sleep in. He was pretty sure he'd established that as a rule years ago. He sighed. Sherlock and rules tended not to mix well.
"Sherlock!" he called. Another wall-shuddering thump was his only reply. "Sherlock!"
"Bored!"
"Sleeping!"
"Clearly not, John!"
John sighed and dragged himself out of bed, muttering under his breath. He fished around for some socks, pulled them on and padded blearily into the living room to find Sherlock slumped on the couch, absently throwing a small rubber ball at the wall. He groaned then reached over and caught it in mid-arc. Sherlock made a disgusted noise and crossed his arms, slouching further down against the cushions.
"Where did you get this?" John demanded. "Is this Jo's?"
Sherlock muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "it might be".
John sighed, raking his free hand through his hair.
"If you're bored, do an experiment. You don't need to steal toys from a four year old girl. You have plenty of your own."
At this, Sherlock's eyes widened and he looked affronted.
"I didn't steal it, John. I borrowed it. I did ask. She said yes. And," he added indignantly, "My equipment does not count as 'toys'. It is expensive and delicate and, in the wrong hands, could cause considerable damage."
"Oh, your hands then?" John asked. Sherlock shot him a dark scowl and slithered down all the way onto his back, pressing his feet against the arm of the couch, wiggling his toes. John ignored him, stowing the ball in his jacket pocket to return to his niece later.
"If you're bored, there's plenty that needs to be done around the flat. Cooking, cleaning, getting out the Christmas decorations." With each item, Sherlock scoffed. He hooked his two big toes together and shot John another glare. John sat down and shifted using a bit more elbow than necessary to stretch out over his recumbent husband; Sherlock hissed and grumbled but wound his arms round the doctor's waist, his fingers interlacing on John's stomach.
"I need a case, John," Sherlock muttered. John tilted his head back and met Sherlock's eyes. The doctor nodded; there hadn't been a case since late November and that had been a fairly simple one tracking down a man trying to steal his soon-to-be-ex-wife's jewellery.
"Well, something will come up," John said. "It always does."
Sherlock groused and shifted a bit against John, tracing absent patterns on his stomach.
"But today we need to go Christmas shopping."
"I've already done all my shopping," Sherlock said primly.
"What? No you haven't!"
"Yes I have. I did it last week."
"Where is it, then?" John asked. Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes.
"In the post. I did it online."
"Of course you did. Well, what did we get for Jo?"
Sherlock glared at him.
"We didn't get her anything, John. I got her something. If you want to ensure she has a present from each of us, then you will have to buy her something yourself."
"We always get her a joint gift."
"Not anymore," Sherlock sniffed. John grinned and rolled his eyes.
"All right, fine," he agreed. "I'll get her something, too. Now, come on," he elbowed Sherlock lightly in the ribs, earning a quiet 'oof' in response. "Breakfast is your job and since you woke me up early, I expect some extra effort."
John tried to get his weekly chores done but was hindered by Sherlock following him around the flat, whining about being bored, latching onto John's clothing and tugging lightly as if he were a three year old looking for attention. The doctor did his best to ignore it but it was difficult to move with Sherlock always behind him, getting in his way, making him stumble. Finally, he gave up and dragged his husband to bed, stripped him out of his pyjamas and tied his hands to the headboard. He spent an entertaining half hour torturing Sherlock with touches and kisses and teeth before shagging him senseless. With Sherlock sleeping off the euphoria and the relief, John managed to shower, get the cleaning done and even start their laundry.
He came back upstairs to find Sherlock stirring in their bed, stretching lazily before opening his eyes, his movements languid and sated.
"Better?" John asked.
"Mm," Sherlock replied and burrowed his face into his pillow with a sleepy, satisfied smile. John knew it wouldn't last and he wished a case came would in soon; he did his best, but he couldn't keep Sherlock distracted all the time. He hoped Sherlock could be convinced to go shopping with him or that he'd get a brilliant idea for a new experiment that would both keep him entertained and not cause any fires.
The sound of the buzzer made Sherlock grumble into his pillow. John left him in bed and clattered down the stairs, wondering who it might be. Most of their friends would have called before coming over. He thought it might be for Mrs. Hudson, who almost never heard her doorbell anymore. John was going to have a serious talk with her one of these days. She needed a hearing aid. He was beginning to worry she'd miss something serious, like the smoke detector.
He pulled open the door and was surprised to find Lestrade waiting for him on the stoop. The DI had that familiar reluctant and exasperated look about him that meant he was coming for Sherlock's help. John grinned.
"Just the man I wanted to see."