"I'm sorry it's so late," John said, clicking the door shut softly behind him. Doe looked up, puzzled. "But I have some information for you."
"Oh," the other man said, nodding slightly, still looking confused. John gave him a reassuring smile as he pulled out his phone and notebook and shuffled one of the chairs next to the bed. He called up the photos from inside the pub and of the surrounding area, then passed his phone to Doe. The injured man looked through them slowly, a faint frown of concentration on his features.
"Look familiar at all?" John asked. Doe looked back down at the photos, scanning back to the beginning.
"It feels familiar," he said. "I can't – I don't know where this is, but I think I've been there before."
John grinned.
"That's because you have."
Doe looked back up quickly, surprise flashing across his still bruised and cut features.
"Where is this?"
"The Yellow Rose in Southwark. Not too far from here, really. Maybe ten minutes by car. Inspector Donovan told you they were putting you on Crimewatch, right?"
"Yeah, she had a sketch artist in here to draw me. Makes sense, I guess." He gestured vaguely to his face with his right hand. "Don't look like much right now. But – she said they had some tips but nothing concrete yet. Said it takes time."
John nodded, still grinning.
"They might not have found anything, but I did," he said. Doe stared at him, good eye widening somewhat.
"This pub, you used to go there on a fairly regular basis. I was just there this afternoon talking to one of the waitresses who remembers you."
"Someone remembers me?" Doe asked quickly, voice thin with shock.
"Yeah. She doesn't know you well, but she gave me a name. Liam."
Doe stared at him. John saw his lips move, repeating the name silently as if to taste it, then he winced, licked his lips, and coughed lightly.
"Liam," he said out loud and John nodded. "That's my name?"
"That's what you told her, yeah," John said, his wide grin relaxing into a more comfortable smile. "No last name, sorry, and she said you always paid in cash, so they don't have any credit card slips for. But it's a name. Your name."
"Liam," Doe said again as if trying it out. His gaze drifted away a moment, turning to nothing, then he looked back at John. "They said I said the name John when I came in. If I'm Liam, who's John?"
"I don't know," John admitted. "Someone you know? A family member, a friend?" He hesitated, shaking his head, but plunged on. "The person who did this to you?"
"I don't know, I–" He cut himself off, giving his head a gentle shake, and John stayed silent, letting him process the information. "I guess I got used to the idea that I was John. It's what everyone calls me now. It never felt quite right but – neither does Liam."
John nodded.
"That isn't really surprising," he said. "It's hard to feel a connection with a name when you have no memories associated with it. It will come back with time."
"Liam," Doe murmured again, voice low and pensive. "What– does it mean something?"
"I don't know the meaning, but it's usually short for 'William'. Not always though." He saw a sudden spark in the other man's good eye and Doe met his gaze again.
"Yes," he said nodding. "Yes. That's – that's right, there's something right about that. It's– dammit, it's right there, but I can't get it."
"It's all right," John said and Doe sucked in a deep breath, then let it out slowly before giving a faint nod. John poured him some water and the injured man accepted it with a look of thanks. John gave him a few minutes to refocus, to get used to the idea that he had a known name, that there were people out there who recognized him.
"I was right about your hands," he said, and Doe looked at him curiously. "The waitress I talked to, she said sometimes you'd come in after work with equipment like a hard hat and work boots. You did something physical. Could be construction, could be road work – any kind of civic maintenance work, I suppose. I'm not sure why your employer hasn't reported you missing, though. Unless you were on holiday or aren't working at the moment."
"Well I came from somewhere else, right?"
"Oh, yeah. At some point you did, yeah. But she said you started coming into the pub in September, so you've been here a few months – and you were working here, because you had your gear with you sometimes."
"Oh."
"I know, it's confusing. Let me start at the beginning. I've got some notes and sketches of the pub, too."
John walked Doe through it all slowly, step-by-step. The injured man listened, nodding along, looking at the map of the city John had called up for him. He knew it probably didn't do much, but having some frame of reference might be helpful.
"Wait, if I live here wouldn't someone have noticed I wasn't home?"
"Depends," John said. "You were admitted on the first of December, so if you rent, you'd already have paid. If you own your own place, the bank would automatically deduct any payments you owed."
"Oh. Right." Doe sighed again, shaking his head slightly. John felt a moment of stronger sympathy for him – whoever he was, he seemed to have led a quiet, almost lonely life. But something about that didn't sit well with John. There had to be someone out there – other than a waitress in a pub – who knew him.
"Can I see this?" Doe asked and John let him have the phone, watching as he instinctively zoomed out on the map and moved the focal point north and west a bit.
"Inspector Donovan asked me about this tea shop, too," he murmured. "Seems a long way to go just for tea, doesn't it?"
"Unless you were working up in that area," John replied with a shrug.
"I guess so," Doe agreed. He frowned slightly and handed the phone back to John.
"What?" the doctor asked.
"She was – I don't know, jumpy about it. Like she really wanted me to remember that bit – more than my name or anything."
John sighed and leaned back in his chair a bit.
"What? What is it?" Doe asked.
"Did she ask you about art or art galleries?"
"Uh – yeah. She asked if I could remember going anywhere else, other shops, galleries, that sort of thing. Why?"
John worried his lower lip between his teeth, trying to decide what to do. He knew he shouldn't talk about an open investigation – but he also wasn't a police officer. Lestrade had come to Sherlock about it, Sherlock had dragged him along, and now here John was, in possession of potential information about a man with no memory. Somehow, it didn't seem fair to him that the police were treating him as a possible suspect but not making him aware of that fact.
He set his jaw and decided.
"Twelve years ago, a man named Patrick Connolly was found murdered at the Gossard Gallery in Mayfair."
Doe looked startled and John held up a hand but the other man spoke before he could.
"Did I know him? Did – what, they think I did it? They think I killed someone?"
John shook his head.
"No, they don't know who killed him," he said. "They don't know if you know him – at least as far as I'm aware."
"But there's something, right? Otherwise why would Inspector Donovan be on about it?"
"Your fingerprints were a partial match for one they found at the scene. No, wait. That means you might have been in the building – but odds are it wasn't even you. A partial match means some of the points they use to determine fingerprints are the same but not all of them. Fingerprints are unique to each person but they're also very complex."
As if to confirm this, Doe held up his left hand and studied his fingertips, a deep frown creasing his features.
"That means when they find a fingerprint they have to run it to see if there's a match to any known ones they have in their system. There's always going to be some overlap – that's a partial match."
"So either twelve years ago I killed a man I don't remember in an art gallery for – some reason or someone else did and their fingerprints are just close enough to mine that it looks like me?"
"They took your fingerprints when you were admitted, because you're a John Doe. They ran them through the system to see if anything had come up, and that did. It doesn't actually mean anything."
"The inspector must think it does."
"She has to try and find out. It's her job. Even if it was your fingerprint, it only means you were there. It doesn't mean you killed anyone – or even that you knew the person who was killed. You could have been there hours before he was, or even days. They're just trying to find out what happened. To both of you."
Doe let out a long sigh and John frowned.
"Sorry, I shouldn't have–"
"No, it's okay. I'd rather know. It was making me nervous, trying to figure out why she kept asking about Mayfair. I thought maybe – I don't know what I thought." He gave a wry, humourless chuckle. "Not that, though."
John leaned forward again, resting his elbows on his knees.
"The name doesn't mean anything to you, does it? Patrick Connolly, I mean?"
Doe thought for a moment, then shook his head.
"Is there a way to see this gallery – the one he died in?"
John opened his browser and searched for the gallery, then handed the phone back to Doe, who studied the gallery's website.
"No," he said finally and sighed.
"John, look–" the doctor began, then cut himself off, and gave Doe a wry smile.
"'S'okay," the other man said. "Either name works for me. Like you said, no emotional attachment."
John gave a slight smile.
"Well, let's get you used to your actual name again, shall we? Liam, look, you're the victim here. Connolly is, too, poor bastard, but not because of you. Forget about him and focus on what you remember."
Doe gave another wry laugh, this one with a slightly more genuine smile behind it.
"Can't forget about him twice," he commented. "But yeah, okay. Sorry, none of this rings any bells."
"Don't be sorry about that," John replied. "Better you not remember that because you never knew it."
"Good point," Doe agreed.
"Here," John said. "I got the nurses to make more photocopies – this is what the waitress told me and a sketch map of the pub. I'm not an artist, so it's a bit rough. I didn't think to print off copies of the pictures, but I can bring them in next time I come visit."
"Sure," Doe agreed. John smiled slightly; the other man looked more hopeful than John had ever seen him do so far, even with the news about Connolly's murder and his possible link to the scene via a single fingerprint. He disliked the tenuousness of the connection – he knew Donovan was only doing her job, but it still sat poorly with him.
The buzzing of his phone distracted him and he took a moment to read the text.
Done early. On my way home. Want sex. SH.
John rolled his eyes and slipped the phone back into his pocket.
"I need to go," he said. "Get some rest."
"You're the doctor," Doe said.
John flashed him a smile as he pulled on his jacket.
"I'll come by tomorrow, not sure when."
"I'll be here," Doe replied dryly. "Good night, John. And thanks."
"Good night, Liam. Sleep well."
On his way down in the lift, John pulled out his phone and sent a message in reply to Sherlock.
You're rubbish at this stexting business. You do know that, right?
He grinned, slid the phone back into his pocket, and ignored the answering text when it came in.
Donovan rung off from her constable at the hospital and raked her hands through her curly hair, repressing a snarl.
Goddamn bloody hell! she thought, sucking in a deep breath and forcing herself to hold it. Sherlock bloody Holmes and John bloody Watson – I swear to God, I'll see them hanged myself.
Rationally she knew Holmes had nothing to do with this, but he was an annoying, arrogant, self-satisfied bastard and if it wasn't for him, John Watson wouldn't be getting in the way now. Holmes had never learned any boundaries and now the doctor thought the rules didn't apply to him, either.
She checked the time, hesitated, then decided it didn't matter. Let John Watson know what it was like for the job to wake him up in the middle of the night. She couldn't have bloody citizens running around, acting as though police procedure meant nothing to them and giving out information about cases whenever they felt like it.
And where had he even got the bloody tips from? She'd have to look into that, too. If someone on her team had a soft spot for Holmes, she'd have to root them out and give them a stern talking to. And maybe a transfer. She couldn't maintain any control if her people weren't doing their jobs.
Donovan pushed herself to her feet, pulling open a desk drawer to grab her purse at the same moment a knock came on her office door. She sighed, snapping the drawer shut.
"Come in!"
"Ma'am? Superintendent Broward wants to see you."
Donovan repressed another sigh and nodded.
"Thank you, constable," she replied. He left and she took a minute to refocus herself before heading up to see her boss, already planning how she would explain this whole bloody mess to him.
Donovan stepped back into her office and locked the door behind her, resisting the urge to lean against the Venetian blinds and bang her head against the glass.
Goddamn bloody hell! she thought again, wondering if maybe she could make that her personal voicemail greeting.
No need for explanations – Broward had barely given her a chance to talk. Orders from higher up, he'd told her. Much higher up. She didn't even know where and he'd refused to say.
And John Watson was being given access to the Connolly investigation. Whatever information he wanted.
If Sherlock bloody Holmes is behind this, I will find out and– Donovan cut herself off and admitted she didn't know what she'd do. Nothing she could do would affect the man anyway – he flaunted his disregard for her and the entire Met blatantly. Insulting him was useless and she had to watch her tongue now that she was a DI, be diplomatic and all that.
She sighed and sat down behind her desk again, leaning back in her chair and closing her eyes. It was going to be another long night.
They were all long nights.
All right, she told herself. Okay, Sally, you can still do this. Focus on the job, just get that done. John Watson can worry about John Watson.
Her phone rang, startling her, and Donovan took a steadying breath before reaching for the receiver.
"Donovan," she said in a level voice.
"Detective Inspector Sally Donovan?" said an Irish accented voice from the other end of the line.
"Yes," Donovan replied, frowning slightly. "Who's this?"
"Inspector Charlotte Morgan, Garda Síochána in Dublin. You have one of our people."
Donovan's frowned deepened.
"Sorry?" she asked.
"Your John Doe, the one you had on Crimewatch two days ago. He's mine."