None of this made sense.
The Irish inspector, Morgan, had come in and given him a name so that now the hospital ID bracelet on his wrist read 'John A. Riley' instead of 'John Doe'.
He seemed to have a second name, as well. Terrorist.
The word was meaningless to him but it ignited something in everyone who heard it and John wished he could understand. All of the reactions – gazes dropping away from him, too friendly smiles, blank looks, dark glares – seemed to be trying to tell him something but he had no idea what. Morgan hadn't seemed surprised, but of course she'd known. Donovan, the London DI, had looked angry and John Watson–
John Watson had looked so many things that John Riley had no idea what to call them.
The word 'betrayal' had come to mind but he wasn't sure he was right.
The details were lost on him, too. Morgan talked to him about him – about his attack and his safety and other specifics he couldn't follow. She talked to Donovan and John Watson about RIRA and the IRA and informants and identities being compromised. He'd tried to understand but he didn't even have the basics – RIRA seemed to be something none of them liked, but John had no idea what it meant.
Until a nurse had been kind enough to loan him her phone for a few hours and John had read and read and read.
It was all so… confusing.
He had a name, he had a birthday – eight meaningless digits printed on his hospital ID bracelet – he had a past, he had a home. London was not his home, nor was Manchester, where the police thought he might have been from. He'd been living there until several months ago, Morgan had said. He'd lived there for nearly four years. But his real home was Dublin.
It meant nothing to him.
He'd read about it, trying to find something, some hint, but the facts were nothing more than facts. Some more interesting than others, but he might as well have been reading about a place he'd never heard of before. It was almost true.
He read about Ireland and looked at photos and still felt nothing, which made him uneasy. Maybe they were wrong? Maybe he wasn't John Riley? How could he possibly feel so little about the place he'd come from, the place they said he fought for?
That made no sense, either. John read about the IRA and RIRA, trying to understand, but the history was complicated and he had to read more to get background and then more background to the background until his head began to ache and the screen blurred in front of him. The names of the countries involved – England, Ireland, Northern Ireland – he could keep those straight, but the details got messy and started slipping away and it was names and dates and places he couldn't remember or had maybe never known.
But he'd been there. Morgan had said so. She knew him, she had come for him. He'd blown people up, apparently. John set down the phone and looked his left hand. John Watson said he'd worked in construction. Building things. Blowing them up meant destroying them.
And killing people.
He didn't feel like he'd killed anyone.
He couldn't imagine wanting to.
He couldn't imagine feeling anything but tired.
He didn't remember these things; he didn't know these things. Someone with his name and his body had walked around and done all the stuff they accused him of and had left him with the blame but not the memories.
He wanted to throw the stupid phone across the room but it wasn't his so he buzzed for the nurse and returned it to her with a murmured thanks. She smiled at him, but there was pity in her expression. Before – he'd been used to that before, because no one had known who he was, including him. Now if there was pity he didn't understand it. Why did they feel that way? Did they feel angry and then remember what had happened to him? Did they pity his choices? Did they sympathize with him?
Didn't they understand that he didn't remember any of it?
He wanted John Watson to come back. The doctor was so good at explaining things in a way that made sense.
But John had looked up the British army and Afghanistan – where John Watson had been stationed – and he'd seen the look on his friend's face.
He didn't think the doctor was coming back.
The room felt cold and lonely.
He touched his wedding ring – John Watson had asked Morgan about his wife. Apparently he didn't have one anymore. They were divorced. He hadn't seen her in over four years.
John wondered if he'd ever missed her.
He hadn't thought to ask for her name.
He drew the covers up carefully to his shoulders, burrowing himself under the blankets, hoping for some warmth. He didn't want to think about this anymore – his head hurt, his chest hurt, his whole body hurt. John closed his eyes and slept.
Riley was fast asleep when John slipped into the room and neither the quiet click of the door being shut nor the sound of John's footsteps disturbed the injured man. John checked the IV line and the machines with a practiced eye before claiming the chair next to the bed. Other than the slow sound of Riley's breathing and the faint hum from the fluorescent light overhead, there were no sounds in the small room. It was as empty and sterile as it had been the first time John had come to visit. The only small personal touches were the books John had bought. There were no other get well tokens.
Should have brought some flowers, John thought, then shook his head at himself. It wasn't likely Riley even noticed a difference. He had no reason to think anything was missing from his room.
It seemed lonely and sad to John, though. When Sherlock had been in the hospital following the crash, there had been flowers and cards. Upon regaining his sight, the detective had complained about the cacophony of colour but John knew he'd been secretly pleased. There had been visitors, too – Sherlock's family, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, even Harry, although she'd come more for John's sake than anything.
Riley had family, too. In a way. Morgan had told them about his ex-wife. John wondered if she knew what had happened to her former husband, if the Irish inspector had thought to call her and let her know. Would she have come if she knew? Would she care? He hadn't left Sherlock's side in the hospital save for when he'd been forced home by Lestrade or Mycroft to get a few hours uninterrupted rest.
He wondered if someone with no memory could feel lonely.
The sound of the door opening distracted him from his musings and he looked up quickly to see Morgan coming into the room, surprise flickering across her features.
"Didn't think you'd be back, Doctor Watson," she commented quietly as she shut the door behind her.
"Yeah," John said, shrugging. "Well." She raised her eyebrows in return but said nothing. He was ignored for a moment while she made a quick check of the room and examined Riley, a frown creasing her features momentarily.
"You're a doctor – and from what I gather, you've spent more time here than his actual doctors. Can you tell me how he is? Really?"
"I'm not a neurologist," John sighed. "And I don't have anything to do with his treatment."
"But you were a combat surgeon. Surely you've seen people in similar situations." John arched his eyebrows and Morgan shook her head. "As I said, I've read your blog. And Inspector Donovan has filled me in on you."
"I just bet she has," John muttered. Still, it was better than Mycroft having decided to do a little impromptu kidnapping of visiting foreign police officers.
"I'd appreciate anything you could tell me."
John sighed, leaning back in his chair, looking at Riley before meeting Morgan's gaze again.
"He's sick. Someone beat the crap of out of him. In my expert medical opinion – I'm really just guessing – it was more than one person. He's lucky he didn't die, according to the A&E surgeon."
"Yes, I know all of that," Morgan replied but there was no impatience in her voice. "I've spoken with all of his doctors and most of the nurses. But you've spent the most time with him. I want to know what you think, Doctor Watson."
"You can call me John," John said and she smiled briefly. "He remembers a lot more than it seems. No, I'm not saying he's hiding anything," he added, holding up a hand to forestall the protest he saw forming on her lips. "Everyone wants him to remember what happened. Look– it's not likely he ever will, or not completely at least. But yesterday he remembered something about his flat here in London. Nothing big – what the table looked like."
John paused, shrugging lightly.
"It's just not the stuff anyone wants to know."
"No, it's not," Morgan sighed. "I know him. I could tell you almost all about him. But I'm not his biographer. I'm supposed to protect him and I can't do that if I can't find the people who put him here."
She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.
"Donovan said he asked for your husband by name. Any idea why?"
"A lot of people know who he is," John said with a shrug. "A lot of people come to him with cases they don't want to – or can't – take to the police. Or if they don't think the police are doing enough."
"And does he help them?"
"Most of them, no," John replied honestly. "Maybe John wanted to hire Sherlock. I don't know. Probably. But why? Asking isn't going to get you any more answers than asking who did this to him. Well – maybe that's harder. He's a terrorist who turned informant. Could be anyone he knew who wanted him."
"Yes," Morgan sighed. "That's the problem. RIRA, the Gardaì, the British Army, friends or family of people he hurt, friends or family of men he sent to prison… It's like having to do a puzzle with only a single piece."
John huffed and Morgan raised her eyebrows questioningly.
"Well imagine if all you had was the cardboard side of that piece. Now you know what it's like for him. Sure, it's your job to keep him safe. But you're not the one who stands to be targeted again."
"I know," she said, rubbing her hands together slowly. "And we're spoilt for choice, which leaves us nowhere."
"Hay in a haystack," John heard himself saying. Morgan gave him a puzzled look, eyes darkening momentarily with confusion, but she nodded.
"That's one way of putting it," she agreed and John shook away the memory. "Grasping at straws."
"Why did he move?" he asked abruptly.
"He requested it. Didn't like Manchester much," she replied with a shrug. "London's a big city. We did an assessment. Thought it would be safe enough. We were wrong."
"It's not your fault–"
"No, it's not my fault he did all of those things. It's not my fault he blew up buildings and killed people and wreaked havoc in the name of some misplaced ideal. It's not my fault he might be hiding whoever murdered a police officer. But it is my job to keep him safe and I did fail in that. Now I've got to fix it."
She cut herself off, lips pressing into a thin line as if to physically restrain any more words. Morgan took a deep breath and let it out slowly, eyes moving away to gaze out the window. John wondered what she thought about her assignment. What had it been like to be given that job?
He didn't know if he could have done it.
He looked at Riley, who was fast asleep, worn and slightly pale beneath his bandages. It was hard to imagine him setting a bomb and taking a life – several lives. Had he ever looked at himself in a mirror and asked himself what he was doing? Had the doubts been there before his son had died? If that hadn't happened, would he still have come to the same conclusion, made the same choice to turn away from his beliefs?
John sighed, recalling what Sherlock had said; this wasn't the same man. But it had been his hands that had set those explosives. Even if he had no idea who had killed Finn Healy, how many people had he killed himself, walking away and letting a bomb do the damage?
He'd seen the aftermath of that too many times in Afghanistan. Pulled too many ruined bodies from rubble – some of whom had been his friends before the shockwaves or the debris had shred their skin and stolen their lives. He'd fought off death, smeared with blood, knowing the people who'd caused these massacres might be walking free, miles from the destruction.
Somewhere in London, the people who had put John Riley in the hospital were doing the same, going about their lives, unrestrained, unworried. The man in the bed in front of him seemed too reduced to have been able to do anything that horrific. And when he was awake, too trusting, too inquisitive.
"I've got to go," John said abruptly, making a show of checking his watch. Sherlock would probably be at home – John hadn't received any texts summoning him to a crime scene or complaining about Mycroft. It was easy enough to tell himself that he wanted to go home solely for his husband's company but he really wanted nothing more than to get out of that room.
"Good night," Morgan said. John nodded a good bye to her as well and slipped back into the quiet corridor, feeling some of the pressure around his lungs ease. The tension drained away as he left the hospital and merged into the crowds crossing Westminster Bridge, leaving him uncomfortably aware that he was abandoning someone who genuinely needed him. John glowered, bundling his hands into his pockets, wondering what the hell he was doing. Staying at the hospital seemed like no better an idea than going home.
He rode the tube back to Baker Street in silence, oblivious to the conversations around him, and climbed back up to street level wearily, tired of arguing with himself. John Riley could wait until the next day – there was nothing he could for the injured man when he was fast asleep anyway. John was going home, back to his life, back to someone who loved him – even if there was the very real possibility that said person might have accidentally set fire to something in his absence.
He felt a smile tugging on his lips at the thought of Sherlock a moment before a hand closed over his mouth and an unfamiliar voice murmured in his ear.
"It'll go better for you if you don't fight, Doctor Watson. We don't want to hurt you but we will if we have to."