Chapter 5: Memory

"John, give me my clothes."

"Just give me a minute."

"Give me my clothes."

"I'm trying to figure out why your heart rate was elevated at two in the morning. What were you doing?"

"John, give me my—"

"Sherlock!" John snapped, swinging away from the heart monitor.

Sherlock was still sitting on the bed, his back perfectly straight as he eyed John with a look of irritated boredom. Because of the backless nature of the gown, John's presence had restricted him to the sitting position, and he was beginning to get restless. Hell, he had been restless all night after the strange visits, lying in bed waiting for his friend to come in the morning. Now that he was here, though, he provided little distraction from the boredom and the growing desire for a cigarette.

John studied Sherlock momentarily, trying to figure out what the man had done all night. The dark curls were a mess, hanging over the bandages that were still wrapped over his forehead. Outside of that, there was nothing; no signs of Sherlock having tried to sneak out at all. To be quite honest, the doctor was extremely surprised that he hadn't gone to the lab downstairs; the fact that Sherlock had restrained that desire was a positive. Maybe he had gotten some sleep after all…Sherlock's eyes narrowed with annoyance, almost admonishing John for not hurrying up. So Dr. Watson continued.

"I know you want to get out of here, but we're not in any rush. Besides, your EKG is showing an irregularity and I'm not sure…"

"At two am, Mycroft came for a brief visit," Sherlock flopped back onto the hospital bed. "I feigned sleep, but his very presence irritated me enough to increase my heart rate."

"And how exactly did Mycroft get in after visiting hours?" John mused, pressing buttons on the machine to print the EKG. "Even as a family member, St. Bart's is pretty strict about overnight visits. I was only allowed because I'm your doctor…"

"He's the British government; that's hardly a problem. Now, clothes."

"In the bag over there," John waved vaguely towards the waiting chairs. Sherlock tore the sensors off his chest and leapt towards the bag, snatching his shirt and trousers from it. Quickly, he slipped everything on, almost falling as he lifted a leg to slide into the trousers. John laughed at the scene; Sherlock was usually so graceful that to see him any other way had been inconceivable. Even the deadly glare he shot at him for laughing couldn't stop the doctor.

"Seriously," John said with a chuckle as he shut the monitors off, "what's the rush? It's not like the Queen of England's visiting you."

"No," Sherlock muttered, glancing up at the clock, "but Lestrade will be here in two minutes, and Mycroft will no doubt make an appearance. I will not let them see me in a hospital gown, lest either one try to take a picture for the rest of Scotland Yard…speak of the devil."

Before John could even ask what Sherlock meant, there was a heavy knock at the door, followed by a familiar voice.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade called in from the hall. John could see him through the small window on the door; the grey mass of hair loped on the pale face. It was still strange seeing him in a grey t-shirt; not that there was a need for the usual jacket during the summer, but it was a casual nature that had only ever been implied in their interactions. The detective inspector was bouncing anxiously; the last time he had seen Sherlock, he had been lying comatose with tubes running down his throat and along his arms. Once John heard Sherlock zip up his trousers, he waved him in.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade burst through the door, striding over to him and patting his stiffening shoulder. The detective inspector took one glance at his figure and felt a wave of relief; he looked fine. His body had been relatively unharmed, outside of a few gashes. Compared to what he had been digging up from the remains of the explosion in the Business Square, it was nothing short of a miracle.

"How's your head?"

"They won't let me take this ridiculous bandage off."

"Well, now," Lestrade tried to keep things cheerful. "It's not that bad; could be worse."

"Enough with the small talk," Sherlock cut in, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, "I assume you are here to take a statement?"

John frowned at Lestrade, his pale eyes clenching slightly. "I told you this could wait till later."

"Actually, it can't." The cheerful smile fell from Lestrade's lips, the lines on his face now deepening. "I'm sorry John, but people are afraid, really afraid, that this won't be a one-time occurrence. They want answers on this explosion now. None of the other witnesses are giving me anything solid; I need Sherlock."

"Forget about it."

"John…" Lestrade beseeched patiently.

"He needs rest," John argued.

"My brother never needs rest," a voice broke in.

Mycroft stood in the doorway, his suit impeccably neat. A polite smile sat on his pale lips as he nodded to John and Lestrade. They both responded with a loose murmur of greeting before he diverted his gaze to his brother. Even as they stood on opposite sides of the room, Sherlock's natural tension regarding his elder could be felt. Not that it really mattered that much to Mycroft; he had been able to keep his brother alive. He would rather have that tension any day than know his brother was dead; tension meant Sherlock still cared about what his brother thought of him.

"Glad to see you're awake, Sherlock."

"Mycroft; I see that diet of yours still isn't working."

"So you do remember some things," he stated calmly. "Good. Inspector Lestrade, I suggest you start your questioning soon; before his memory starts to fade." There was something antsy in Mycroft's tone, something that Sherlock caught almost immediately. Why was his memory suddenly so important to his brother...?

"That won't be a problem," Sherlock snapped.

"Wait," John called out again, trying one last time to advocate for Sherlock's health. "Isn't anyone listening to me? I think he needs more time. Can't this wait until we get back to the flat?"

"I am perfectly fine, John," Sherlock countered, making his way back towards the hospital bed and sitting along the edge. "I keep telling you, there is nothing wrong with me. Recollection will hardly damage my health. I must ask you not to doubt me."

John sighed, knowing he would lose this battle; he had lost the moment he had given Sherlock his clothes. He shrugged loosely, which Sherlock took as a gesture of concession.

"Now, shall we commence with this witness statement?"

The room settled with muffled anticipation as the parties prepared themselves. Lestrade sat in a chair opposite Sherlock, pulling out his notebook and pen. John remained by the heart monitor, observing the scene from over Sherlock's shoulder. Mycroft leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed with loose authority. Sherlock closed his eyes, allowing the images of the explosion to flood through his vision; there wasn't a detail he didn't remember. It was all there, nothing missing.

"Right then," Lestrade began. "What do you remember?"

"…I sent a text to Mycroft alerting him of my location, and that was it. I lost consciousness and woke up two days later in St. Bart's Emergency Ward."

Lestrade put down his notepad, running a hand through his greying hair. John shifted uncomfortably in his seat, watching Sherlock with a tense expression. Two days; he and Lestrade had waited two days for Sherlock to wake up, praying that he would live. And now that he was conscious, it all seemed distorted; had Sherlock really been comatose? He certainly didn't act like he had been. It seemed surreal how quickly his friend had returned to him, almost too good to be true. Mycroft pulled a hand to his mouth, studying Sherlock intensely. His cool eyes darted around his brother before narrowing with concern.

Sherlock remained seated on the bed, completely aware of the apprehensiveness in the air. With his hands resting in his lap and his back perfectly straight, his face went blank; why were they so troubled by his account? They were being sentimental, and he had to resist the desire to roll his eyes; how utterly simple-minded these men could be. But rather than assure them of his well-being, he chose his usual taciturnity; he really was in no mood to deal with them.

"It sounds like you're lucky to be alive," Lestrade finally broke through the silence.

"Hardly," Sherlock replied nonchalantly. "I simply positioned myself out of the way of the collapsing building and blacked out."

"Well, that's still a hell of a lot more than most people did," the detective inspector sighed, flipping to the beginning of his notebook. "At least fifty people dead, eighty injured, and thirty missing; the building collapsed on itself. Most people didn't make it out of their cubicles; those who did barely had time to make it out of the stairwells. You really are lucky to be alive."

Sherlock deflected the sentiment. "What leads do you have on the case?"

"Erm, none," he stuttered, to which Sherlock and John gave a harsh glare. Lestrade continued, the desperation starting to show. "Look, we're still trying to find all the bodies. There's so much destruction that it'll take weeks to unearth the floor on which the bomb went off. The corporations in the north building are trying to figure out if anything was taken, but the damage to all the files and computers are too extensive for a quick inventory. Bomb squad is still trying to identify the composition of the explosion, but they're starting to claim it was something they've never seen before. We have no idea who would have done this; at this point, it could have been anybody. No one's claiming responsibility, so I doubt it was a terrorist—"

"It wasn't a terrorist plot," Mycroft interrupted, his curt voice cutting Lestrade off. He rubbed his face, never taking his eyes off Sherlock. "We would have known about it by now."

"By we, you mean you," Sherlock retorted.

"Sherlock," his brother continued somewhat hesitantly, "forgive me, but I find your account of this crime scene…unsatisfactory."

Sherlock's eyes turned aggressive, a scowl forming on his lips. Hostility; Mycroft knew what that meant. It meant there was truth in what was being suggested: something was wrong. Lestrade and John immediately turned to Mycroft's position with equally surprised expressions, still not catching on to what was implied.

"What is that supposed to mean?" John probed incredulously. "He's told us everything that happened."

Lestrade agreed. "You heard his account; it's all there. In fact, it's quite a vivid description; probably the best testimony given to me by any witness so far."

"It was indeed a vivid description," Mycroft uttered, "but it lacked…detail."

"He's just gotten out of a coma, for Christ's sa—"

"What was the composition of the bomb's explosives?" Mycroft asked bluntly, looking past the two companions and down on Sherlock. "You were right in the blast; you should have been able to tell the type of detonation."

Sherlock remained silent, the glare only intensifying.

"What did the dust particles tell you about the bomb's purpose?"

Silence.

"What did the concrete slabs tell you about the building's age and layout?"

Silence.

"What was the girl's occupation? Living quarters? Relations?"

Silence. Sherlock sat on his bed, eyes cold as they searched through the memory again and again. He saw everything with pristine clarity, yet he couldn't answer Mycroft's questions. He saw, yet he did not comprehend; he couldn't deduce. John watched him in horror as he came to the realization Mycroft had seen minutes earlier: there was something wrong.

"Sherlock," John murmured, getting out of his chair and moving towards the bed with a medical torch. Just as he was about to lay a hand on his shoulder, Sherlock growled something under his breath.

"Don't touch me." With that, he closed his eyes, mentally separating himself from the people in the room. He shut out the following conversations, allowing their voices to empty from his mind. Thoughts racing, he darted across his mind, trying to find the mental door to the vast space he kept the memories of his personal experiences. He searched, spanning through everything all at once.

For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes could not access part of his Mind Palace.

He began to cross-reference certain events with certain people and certain facts, testing everything he knew. The experiments, the psychology, the maps; everything before the explosion was intact, just the way it was before. He could run through every sort of medical condition passed genetically through generations. He could open up previous cases, flash through all the evidence and retrace the logic to the solutions. But the explosion…the answers to Mycroft's questions were in his mind, he could feel it. He saw the explosion happening before his very eyes, but there was a wall preventing him from immersing in that vision. As he continued the referencing, one item became more and more prominent.

The remainder of the room watched with deep concern.

"This can't be happening," John declared, turning back to Mycroft with confusion. "Just yesterday he deduced everything about Dr. Frobisher, a man he's never met before, mind you, and got absolutely everything right."

"Then it must be confined to this specific event," Mycroft said with a troubled sigh. "I was afraid something like this would happen…"

"This doesn't make any sense." John reached over for Sherlock's files, tugging out a set of brain scans and moving towards the window for light. His movements were panicky; if there was something wrong with Sherlock's brain…"There's nothing showing in the hippocampus."

"Excuse me," Lestrade cut in loudly, his forehead wrinkled with confusion. "I'm sorry, but I'm not quite understanding what's wrong here."

"It appears that Sherlock is suffering from a minor form of amnesia," Mycroft replied coolly.

"Amnesia?" Lestrade's mouth gaped open. "Amnesia? Are you kidding me? You heard his testimony; he remembers everything perfectly."

"Yes, his memory works perfectly, but it seems that he has lost the ability to analyze from said memory."

"Meaning?"

"Deduction is no longer an option. I don't think Sherlock will be able to assist your investigation, Inspector Lestrade," Mycroft finished.

There was a distressed pause. There was nothing but the sound of the flimsy scans sliding along the files as John studied each one with extreme focus. Mycroft watched as his brother tried to recalibrate his brain, feeling a weight on his chest. Maybe he had been too late after all …

"Well," John sighed, putting the scans back into the folder, "there's a good chance that this is just a temporary problem. I don't see any long-term damage, but it's too early to tell. Otherwise, I think he's going to be alright."

Lestrade coughed. "If that's the case, I'll—"

"Claireborne."

The three men turned to the patient on the bed. Sherlock's eyes were open, staring directly in front of him, talking more to the air than to them. John and Lestrade eyed him curiously, completely unsure how they were supposed to react to that name. Mycroft's eyes widened momentarily before his expression became blank, lips creasing into a severe line.

"The girl who ran into towards the explosion: Alice Claireborne." With that, he jumped up and began pacing back and forth. "She is our lead; she knew this was going to happen. I need to talk to her again. Start searching through the security footage of any surrounding buildings; find out where she went after the building collapsed. Brown hair, brown eyes, birthmark on her upper-neck; teal skirt and white shirt. Canvas shoes. Won't be more than early twenties—"

"Hang on," Lestrade flipped through his notebook, scratching the back of his neck as he scanned through a page. John and Mycroft watched him, already knowing what he was going to say; they knew there was only one reason her description would be in his notebook. But for the first time, Sherlock seemed oblivious to the seemingly obvious.

"What?" Sherlock remarked, aggravated with waiting for the response. "Have you already talked to her? Where is she?"

"No, it's just that, erm," the detective inspector went pale. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, but there's an unidentified body that matches that—"

"Oh," Sherlock inhaled lightly, his eyes going completely cold as he comprehended the next thing Lestrade would say. Interesting; very interesting…

"She's dead."