As he crossed Westminster Bridge toward St. Thomas', John pondered his options. Hands tucked in his pockets against the chill night, breath condensing against his skin, he wove his way between the other pedestrians instinctively.
He supposed he could talk about Patrick Connolly, see if the name rang any bells – or about Dublin, Connolly's birthplace. Or perhaps art, and galleries in Mayfair.
He didn't think that was fair, though. The police would already be pushing, wanting answers they couldn't have. The doctors wouldn't be making it easy, either, for their own reasons. John wanted to help, and he didn't think it would help to badger a recovering patient about information he didn't remember and most likely never knew in the first place. But he wanted to do something that might help them figure out who the man was.
John stopped in the gift shop and bought a National Geographic and a novel that was apparently on some best-seller list. He had no idea if Doe would like them. But then, he reasoned, neither did Doe, so it didn't much matter.
He thought about the problem of how to proceed as hit the call button for the lift, watching the button light up under his thumb, catching the faint gleam of his wedding band as he drew his hand away.
You're looking at him like a doctor, John thought, but it was Sherlock's voice in his mind. You looked at his ring yesterday. Why did you stop?
What? he asked himself with a frown as the lift arrived. John stepped inside and tried to chase down the thought. Something was nudging at him mind about Connolly and about the way Doe had zoomed in on John's phone the night before.
His hands! John realized with a jolt. He hadn't looked at the other man's hands. He thought about his own hands – and Tricia's. Surgeon's hands, steady under pressure. He thought about Sherlock's hands, expressive, mobile, trained after a lifetime of playing the violin. Connolly had been a construction worker, that would have left its marks – calluses, strong muscles, rough skin, strong grip.
He didn't think he'd be able to pin down exactly what Doe did for a living, but at least it could provide some differentiation. If he worked with his hands on a regular basis, it would show.
John was checked outside the room again before being admitted. Doe was already awake and greeted him with a genuine if tired smile. The telly was playing a repeat of Coast.
"I used to watch this," John commented as a helicopter provided a panoramic view of a rocky coastline somewhere.
"I guess the good thing about having no memory is that it's all new to me," Doe said and John didn't miss the resignation in his voice.
"How are you feeling today?" he asked, taking off his jacket.
"I don't know. The same. Headache. Itchy."
John smiled sympathetically.
"Itchy is good – means the wounds are healing."
Doe's lips twitched into the ghost of a wry smile.
"I brought you a magazine and a book in case you get bored with the telly," he said, passing them over. He watched the movement carefully – Doe reached out instinctively with his left hand; there was no hesitation there. He'd noted that yesterday but it had been lost in the shock of realising Doe knew how to use a smartphone touch screen.
"Thanks," he said, settling the purchases on the small wheeling table beside his bed.
"You're left handed," John commented.
"What?"
"You're left handed," he repeated. "Most people are right handed. I'm not, though."
"Is that important?"
John shrugged.
"Probably not for finding you, but it's one more thing you know about yourself. Actually, can I see your hands?"
Bemused, Doe held up both hands and John took them carefully, feeling a bit like a fortune teller. He could almost hear Sherlock snickering in his head.
Are you going to be watching over my shoulder the entire time? he demanded of the mental image. It was a bit disconcerting talking to his own imagination, which had decided to resolve itself into the detective. Well, maybe it was keeping him on his toes.
John let Doe's right hand go gently; it was too bandaged to be of real use and he didn't want to hurt him. He turned the left hand over carefully and examined the nails – cut, probably by the nurses judging by the quick job of it, but nothing underneath that would suggest he was the type to take care. Uneven cuticles, dry skin around the nail beds. No manicures then – and John knew what those looked like, because Sherlock got them.
He turned the hand over again, checking the skin, feeling roughened calluses under his fingertips. Doe was giving him a quizzical look when he glanced up.
"You work with your hands for a living or you have a hobby that involves a lot of physical work. I'm going with the job being physical, given how even your calluses are and how many you have. You do something with your hands on a very regular basis, probably all day long, every day."
Doe raised his eyebrows in mild surprise and the Sherlock of John's imagination beamed at him.
"Oh."
"Seem familiar?"
Doe replied with a slight scowl and a shake of his head.
"Well that might help the police track you down," John said. "I'll let them know."
He saw a flicker of something unexpected on Doe's face and it took a moment for him to place it. Hope. John smiled slightly; he had something to talk about now – he'd known a number of people in the army whose jobs entailed physical labour. And if Doe had been in the military, either topic might spark something. At the very least, it was worth a try.
He sat down in his chair and pulled a small notepad and pen from his pocket. Doe looked at them questioningly.
"I thought we could play twenty questions– sorry, it's a question and answer game. If I write down what you say, you'll have a record of your answers. Might help spark a memory."
"I don't know anything," Doe said.
"You don't remember anything," John corrected. "There's a difference. And actually, you do remember some things. This might help trigger something."
Doe frowned, looking doubtful, but nodded – much to John's relief. He didn't want this to seem like he was forcing anything but he also wanted to give the other man an opportunity to remember.
"Okay, we can try," Doe agreed.
"I used to have a friend – we served together in Afghanistan – who was a mechanic. His hands were pretty rough, too. He complained about it sometimes, especially when the weather was cold."
"What happened to him?"
"He died," John said levelly.
"Oh. I'm sorry."
"It was seven years ago, but thanks," John replied. "It happens in war sometimes. Too often."
"Yeah," Doe agreed and John raised his eyebrows.
"Yeah?" he asked. The other man frowned, then looked somewhat flustered. John made a mental note about that was well as a written one. Doe's expression was pinched and he pursed his lips then hissed at the pain caused by the action.
"Dammit," he muttered, then met John's gaze again. "That – seems almost familiar. You said maybe you thought I was in the military?"
"Maybe," John agreed. "What seems familiar about it?"
Doe shook his head slightly but said: "People dying." He sighed. "What a bloody stupid thing to remember."
"I don't know," John said. "It stays with you."
"But I don't remember who," the other man said and John heard the sharp hint of frustration. "I don't remember bloody any of it."
"Okay," the doctor said, stopping the panic before it started. "Let's switch the subject."
"Sorry," Doe muttered.
"Don't be. We've all lost people – soldiers generally more so than most. But you're in a hospital and I don't want you to worry about that. Let me– well let me tell you about my name, since we might share one. I was named after my dad; his name was John, too. His father's name was Harold, so my parents named my sister Harriet after him, but my great grandfather's name was also John. He was a doctor, too, back when treatments I use daily without thinking about them were new or not discovered yet."
Doe nodded.
"Does 'John' mean anything to you?"
The other man hesitated, then shook his head.
"Everyone keeps calling me that but it's almost like someone just decided it was my name." He raised his right hand slightly and John glanced at the medical bracelet on his wrist. "The police, they said that 'John Doe' is what they call people who don't have names."
"That's true," John agreed.
"What do they do for women?"
John grinned despite himself.
"Jane Doe."
"Oh." Doe was silent for a minute before asking for some water, which John got for him before settling back into his chair. "What about– your husband?"
John noted the lack of hesitancy at the designation again – he'd been trying to remember Sherlock's relationship to John, not stumbling on the less common use of the word.
"Sherlock's an unusual name. But he comes from an unusual family." He grinned again, shaking his head. "It's his grandfather's name on his mother's side. They're keen on odd names."
"And your kids? Oh– wait– do you have kids?"
"Nope," John replied.
"'Course, you can't, sorry," Doe said and John made a note of that as well. He still seemed to have a basic grasp of fundamental biological concepts, which was good. That was not a conversation John wanted to have with anyone, let alone an amnesiac stranger in a hospital.
"Well we could have adopted –" He managed to stop himself from including surrogacy because he would almost certainly have to explain that one. "But Sherlock's not at all what anyone would consider parent material."
"Doesn't that bother you?"
"Does it bother you?" John asked by way of reply.
"I – think so. I don't know. I –" he looked down at his left hand, frowning and flexing his fingers slightly. "There's something about that – like I can feel it in my hand. That doesn't make any sense."
"It might," John said. "Holding another hand, holding a baby. Something like that."
Doe was silent for a long moment.
"Maybe," he agreed. He frowned, then started coughing and John poured him some more water, listening to the congested sound with a sharp ear. The other man managed to get his breathing back under control and sip some water, slumping back into the pillows wearily.
He sighed, pushing the cup away slightly.
"Are you from London?" he asked.
"Sort of," John replied with a smile. "I grew up on the outskirts – the edges of the city – in an area called Buckhurst Hill. I moved into the city to go to university. Trained at a teaching hospital called St. Bart's. When I enlisted, after I finished school, I served at the veteran's hospital in Birmingham." John paused, waiting to see if he got a reaction to that, but there was none. If Doe had been in the army and injured overseas, it was possible he hadn't been shipped back. Unlikely in John's opinion, due to the nature of his old wound, but still possible.
"Then after I came back from my last tour overseas, I was a patient up there until I was well enough to move back here. Wouldn't want to live anywhere else in the world, not for any amount of money."
"I'd like to see it," Doe murmured, turning his face toward the window, over which a heavy blind had been drawn. "What's Manchester like?"
John shrugged lightly.
"Smaller, bit more industrial, but not too different."
"Wouldn't bigger be better?" Doe murmured.
"Why do you say that?"
"I don't know. More people– wouldn't that be better? It seems like it would be better."
"Why?"
"I don't know," Doe sighed. John nodded, then shrugged his right shoulder.
"Some people like smaller places, fewer people, no crowds."
Doe looked back at him and nodded, but John thought it wasn't really agreement, just something to do. He winced and started coughing again, reaching instinctively for his water. John waited until the fit had passed then refilled the glass. By the time he was done that short task, it was clear his visit was over. Doe was struggling to stay awake so John gave him a smile and shook his head.
"Get some rest," he said. Doe nodded and was almost immediately asleep. John waited a few minutes as he had the night before to make sure the other man's breathing didn't falter again. The situation felt uncomfortably familiar – it had been almost six years but he could still remember too clearly how often Sherlock had fallen asleep without warning – sometimes in the middle of a sentence – following The Crash.
He remembered, too, how enraged and terrified he'd been that Jim Moriarty had orchestrated the whole thing – just to see what would happen. John felt the same sort of anger now. Someone had done this deliberately, had made a point of battering this man so badly he didn't even know his own name.
With a sigh, John gathered up his notebook and jacket and went to see if he could charm one of the nurses into making some photocopies for him.
Crossing the bridge in the other direction, John checked his phone again and was suddenly concerned that he hadn't heard from Sherlock. He had texted to say he was going to the hospital again and hadn't thought much of it when there had been no reply, but that had been a couple of hours ago. He chewed on his lip, picking up his pace, feeling a subtle guilt settle into his stomach. Maybe he shouldn't have done that – after last night, maybe he should have gone straight home to spend some time with Sherlock.
John fought a mounting sense of anxiety on the tube ride home and hurried up the stairs to their flat. He fully expected Sherlock to be sulking on the couch – his two recent texts had been completely ignored – but instead, the detective was sitting at the kitchen table, engrossed in some experiment. His phone, John noted, had been abandoned on his chair, the tiny message indicator light blinking forlornly.
"Pass the nitric acid," Sherlock said without looking up.
"Please tell me you're not serious."
"Of course I am. Hurry up, John, I don't want this to be ruined."
John sighed and headed into the kitchen, fetching the requested acid carefully from Sherlock's supply cabinet.
"You're home sooner than I expected," the detective commented, accepting the liquid and never once looking up. John watched him, wondering how features that were often pinched into a frown of concentration never actually wrinkled. He wondered if that was an old wives' tail and chuckled to himself as he heard his mother's voice in his head admonishing him – if you aren't careful, your face will get stuck like that.
"It's almost eight," John said. The tube ride had eaten up some time with its standard delays.
"Mm," Sherlock said, clearly not listening to him. John rolled his eyes and checked the fridge for some leftovers, glad he'd had the foresight to make up a few meals over the weekend. Sherlock probably hadn't eaten since breakfast and probably wouldn't even notice.
He settled into his chair and flipped on the telly, finding something fairly mindless to watch while he ate, keeping an ear on Sherlock's work. After a while, Sherlock came into the living room with some stains on his fingers but no obvious burns, and picked up his phone before sitting down.
"Done?" John asked.
"It needs to sit overnight," Sherlock replied and the doctor groaned.
"It's not going to explode in the middle of the night, is it?" he asked in response to the detective's raised eyebrow.
"Of course not," Sherlock sniffed. "At least, it shouldn't." John rolled his eyes and didn't miss when Sherlock deliberately changed the subject. "How is your new friend? Still not himself?"
John sighed, setting his plate aside, and shot Sherlock a look that was completely ignored.
"He's regaining some memory," the doctor snapped and Sherlock just raised both eyebrows in response.
"His name? Where he's from? Whether or not he murdered a man in an art gallery twelve years ago?"
"No," John said sharply then subsided when Sherlock did. He pushed himself to his feet and fetched his notebook from his coat pocket. He'd made some additional notes in it on the way home about the things Doe had remembered the day before and some of his own musings as well. Sherlock took the proffered book and flipped it open, skimming the information John had jotted down.
"Left handed, works with his hands, no inscription on the ring; very good," he murmured.
"What about the feeling he had in his hand when we were talking about children?"
Sherlock shrugged lightly.
"Most people have children, John, it isn't indicative of anything. A man his age – your age – could have adult children by now or very young children. It's not information that will help us locate him. You have no way of knowing what his relationship with his children is, either. If they even exist."
John sighed.
"Is there anything you see there that I don't?" he asked. Sherlock arched his eyebrows at him again, but John held his ground. The detective pinned his gaze for a long moment, then read through the notes again before shaking his head. John felt a stab of disappointment.
"As I said, John, a man with no memory. Oh yes, there are bits and pieces here, but nothing concrete. I could formulate all sorts of hypotheses based on this – or, rather, I could write you several stories. I'd be more accurate than anyone else, but it would still be largely a work of fiction."
"Could you just–"
Sherlock met his eyes squarely.
"No." It wasn't angry or unkind but it was firm. John pursed his lips, catching himself on the verge of insisting.
"Are you never going to let me ask you to take a case again?" he asked.
"Of course not," Sherlock said, looking surprised. "I can hardly imagine each case you find interesting that I don't will turn out like our nursery rhyme killer. Most murderers aren't professional assassins with highly specialized military training, after all. But this? No. There isn't anything here, John."
John waited a moment, then sighed in resignation and took the notebook that Sherlock passed back to him.
"All right," he agreed reluctantly.
At least, Sherlock thought, not anything you're liable to like.