Chapter 14: Memories 1

Dr Ricci was standing at John's bedside, waiting for his patient to calm down a little.

"How can I go outside if I don't know my name?"

"Maybe your friend can tell us, when he wakes up," the doctor replied.

"I don't even know about a friend," the blogger let out.

"Well, I could introduce you two, if you like," Dr Ricci offered.

"Am I allowed out of bed? I mean, there is a lot of equipment here…"

"Don't worry. We will organize a wheelchair for you and most of the equipment here is portable."

John nodded, hoping that this other person could reset his memory. When Dr Ricci returned with the wheelchair, the blogger's heart started to beat faster. He was nervous. He was about to meet a man he couldn't remember and who might also be the only person knowing his identity.

They were driving around the hospital floor, the nursing staff sending him warm smiles when they saw him. Dr Ricci was heading for the elevator and when they were inside, John discovered they were going for the ICU.

"You want to tell me what's happened to the other man?"

"Well, we got him with a high fever caused by a very severe pneumonia. We also discovered some water in his lungs. Did your friend drown or something like that?"

"As I told you before, I don't know. I can't remember anything. I'm as desperate as yours."

Dr Ricci sighed. "Well, I hope your friend can tell us more."

The elevator stopped and when John was wheeled in the sterile corridor, something in his mind started to rattle, but still nothing was popping up. Slowly, the Italian doctor opened the door to one of the rooms and when they entered, John could smell the pus in the room. He felt sick immediately.

"I know it's a bad smell here. He's coughing up a lot of mucus and although we are cleaning the room regularly, it's not working," Dr Ricci excused when he heard the blogger gulping.

John was slowly wheeled next to Sherlock's bedside. The man in the bed was sleeping, his face ashen and an oxygen mask covering his face. For long minutes the blogger was staring at the man in front of him but nothing happened. He couldn't remember this man. For him it was just a stranger. Why had he tried to rescue this man?

"Still nothing," Dr Ricci asked disappointed.

John shook his head. "I'm sorry."

Suddenly, the man in the bed took a deep breath and whispered something. The blogger tried to get closer and when he finally did, a weak voice greeted him with a name: John.

"So, that's my name? My name is John?"

The man in the bed nodded and his hand started to search for comfort. When John didn't grab his hand as usual, the detective in the bed was kind of surprised and looked at him.

"What did I do?" Sherlock asked kind of irritated.

John was irritated, too. "Nothing, I guess. So, my name is John…" a little pause then, "Do we know each other?"

Sherlock's eyes met those of Dr Ricci, searching for an explanation.

"When they brought you two in, he suffered from a severe heat stroke. We were fighting a hard battle to keep him stable, while he developed cerebral edema. We kept him in a coma for three days and when he woke up today for the first time in ten days, it seems like he has lost his memory. I'm sorry."

The detective's face grew even whiter now. He tried to take a deeper breath and looked at the man in the wheelchair. This wasn't the best of time for John losing his memory. "Your name is John Hamish Watson. You live in London in 221B Bakerstreet, together with your little daughter Rosie and a very unnormal-behaving detective named Sherlock Holmes. That's me by the way."

John didn't say a word. He was just sitting there, his eyes staring blankly at the wall.

"We've met five years ago in the laboratory of St. Barth's hospital. You were once a soldier in Afghanistan and you're also a brilliant doctor," Sherlock continued, his voice getting thinner with every word he was saying.

Still no reaction from the man in the wheelchair.

"We are staying in Italy for holidays. Unfortunately, our holidays turned out to be kind of magical. But I guess we don't need to talk about Bruno right now because your brain isn't coping with anything I said. Am I right?"

For the first time since the two were reunited, John looked into Sherlock's eyes. They were tired, sad and desperate. The man in front of him wasn't lying. What he said just didn't make sense for John.

The detective was getting tired. When he had awoken two days after they had been found, he was told that he had nearly died from the pneumonia he had developed. Sherlock wasn't surprised. This was the seventh time since his childhood and somehow, he had the feeling this would not be the last round. He coughed and tried to fight against the pain, which was still very intense.

Dr Ricci didn't say a word while he was listening to the detective.

"So, turns out we have a doctor as a patient, who is also a soldier. You can be proud of yourself," he finally tried to break the silence.

Suddenly, John rose from his wheelchair, his veins on the forehead starting to swell.

"I am NOT a doctor and I never have been a soldier! That's a lie! A very brilliant lie," he screamed.

"As I told you before. I am speaking the truth," the detective tried to soothe him.

"No! You must mistake me for another person."

With little strength left, Sherlock asked his friend, "Who are you then?"

And the blogger stood, looking at Sherlock and started to whisper, "I don't know."

The situation was serious and Sherlock knew there was nothing he could do about it. Dr Ricci had told him that his friend's brain needed time. When the detective wanted to know, when the memories would return, he looked at him with a grim expression and said, "Could be days, sometimes weeks. Worst case I had was once when the patient never recovered and stayed without any memory."

This conversation had been four hours before. Since then, Sherlock was lying in his bed, thinking about his best friend and the aftermath of the heatstroke. And then there was still another problem, Bruno. One problem would have been enough for a ruined holiday but Sherlock knew one problem never came alone. What bothered him even more was the fact that he couldn't get out of the hospital to face the magician again. This meant, Bruno had the time to set something up for him or, in worst case, for those who were still trapped in his villa.

The detective sighed. He so badly wanted to be out of here, trying to save those innocent lives. But he knew he needed to stay in bed and get better. And without John who told him in the face that he couldn't trust anybody at the moment, he wouldn't succeed. He needed his friend and he would do anything to make sure he would remember.

Suddenly, a mobile phone started to vibrate and when he looked at the display, he sighed. He had one new message. Someone wanted to make sure he stayed updated.

"Still in hospital?"

"You already know the answer, so why asking Mycroft?"

"I am worried as always. Thought you know that."

"It's getting better but not as fast as I was expecting it."

"I saw your files. It's not what I wanted to read on a beautiful rainy day in London."

"I'm worried about John."

"Me, too."

"Any ideas? Specialists? Therapists?"

"Unfortunately, no. Sorry I can't help you this time, brother mine."

"I still hope John recovers fast."

"He will. You will make him remember."

Sherlock sighed. Without his memory, John would be an easy target for Bruno to find. He had to make sure, that the doctor stayed here in the hospital until he was strong enough to leave on his own will.

Meanwhile, John Watson was staring at the mirror of his hospital bathroom. The man in front of him looked awful. His eyes swollen, unshaven for at least a week, his hair a mess.

"Who are you," he asked while staring at the stranger, "John Hamish Watson."

He rubbed his head. Still hurting. How he wished to remember but still everything was a white fog. The man who told him his name looked like a freak and he wasn't sure if he should trust him. Sherlock Holmes. No bell was ringing.

With the wheelchair he rolled out of the bathroom and sighed. He was a stranger. A John Doe. What if he never regained his memory? The freak had told him, that they were living together for five years now. But what if it was a lie? At the moment he couldn't trust anyone. He needed to be careful. A nurse entered his room, a smile playing around her lips.

"It's good to see you out of bed Dr Watson."

Immediately, John gave her a warning look, "Don't you ever call me that again," he threatened.

"Why so angry? Your name is John Hamish Watson. I looked it up on the internet and found your blog. It's so exciting to read about your adventures."

John looked at her in total disbelieve. "This man has to be someone else."

The woman gave him a sorrowful smile, "Maybe I should show you this."

She grabbed her mobile phone, typed something and then showed it to the man in the wheelchair.

John grabbed the device and looked at it. His face lost colour.

"I am… Really…," he whispered.

"Yes, you are. Your name is Dr John Watson and a lot of people know you."

The doctor, still in shock, asked the nurse to leave the room. He needed time to cope with the new information. Why couldn't he remember anything? Just one thing would be enough but there was emptiness in his brain.

Slowly, he drove himself to the bed and lay down. His head was throbbing now and all he wanted to do right now was to sleep …

Meanwhile, Sherlock was also lying in his bed, thinking. How could he make John remember? He needed him to bring down Bruno and his fans. People were dying and he was lying in a hospital bed, fighting pneumonia and amnesia. Ridiculous.

Slowly, he tried to sit up in bed and grabbed the rosary, which was lying right next to him. His grandmother was connected to Bruno, a fact that he was not able to understand nor could he remember seeing this man before.

His family was hiding another secret and he wouldn't stop until he was able to find out the truth behind it.

There was a knock at the door and a nurse entered, smiling at him. "Seems like you're still busy."

"Can't sleep. Too much things to cope right now," Sherlock replied dryly.

"If you need something to sleep, I could arrange that."

"No, I need to stay focused. Without his memory, John can be a danger to himself."

"I showed him his real identity on my phone. He seemed quite impressed."

Sherlock looked at her, kind of shocked. "You did what?!"

"I tried to help him."

The detective pulled away the sheets and started to get out of bed.

"Mr. Holmes, you aren't allowed to get out of bed. You still have a fever running."

Angry eyes now staring at her. "What you did, was very, very stupid! My friend can now develop some psychological problems and, worst case, a mental breakdown. He's already fighting PTSD and there is no need to push him further into the darkness of his soul!"

While Sherlock was still trying to get out of bed, the nurse had already pushed the emergency button for backup. This was not London. This was Italy. And therefore, he had no chance to do what his stubborn mind was telling him to do…

John awoke to someone's screaming outside his door. It sounded quite familiar and before he was able to think about it, the door burst open and a tall figure stood in the room, followed by two doctors, trying to stop him.

"Please Mr. Holmes, you can't be here. You're still very sick and walking around could be fatal," one of the doctors tried.

"I'm not leaving until I spoke to this man," the detective replied.

Both doctors looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders then left.

Now the two friends were alone in the big hospital room. John could see that the man in front of him was struggling with his breathing. He kind of felt sorry for him.

"Why don't you sit down before you collapse on the floor?" the doctor asked kindly.

Slowly, the detective came closer, letting himself sink in one of the soft seats. John could see that the man was still fighting to breathe, but he decided to stay quiet until the man was ready to tell him, what he wanted in his room.

It took the tall man some before he was able to talk to his friend.

"I know that you know," he started.

John looked at him totally confused.

"The nurse. She showed you your blog?"

John nodded. "She did."

"Then you know that what I told you earlier this day is true?"

"Well, I am still not convinced yet. Seems I used to live a very excited life."

"We do. Even in our holidays." Sherlock sighed. Would he ever get his friend back?

"Tell me about our adventures. Maybe something triggers me," the doctor pleaded.

The detective nodded and sighed…

"There's that case we solved. A few years ago. It was the second case after we solved "the lady in pink case". We were sitting in our flat, Mrs. Hudson was serving some good earl grey tea with a piece of lemon. It was winter. The first snow has fallen and Christmas was around the corner. I was playing the violin, bored to the core and you… You were writing about me.

Our cases started the moment we heard a knock at our door and when you opened, a man stumbled inside, falling to the ground. Dead. No weapon. Just a man lying dead on the cold floor before us. You were panicking, because you were sure they would accuse you or me or both for murder and while it was 2 AM, the situation wasn't getting any better.

Lestrade had shown up very fast after our call. Of course, we didn't touch anything. While the police were checking the corpse, I discovered something strange on the dead man's body. Although it seemed that the man was in his mid-twenties, he had a large line of grey hair. I knew that people can get grey hair very early, but the line didn't look like it was of natural causes. You saw it, too and were thinking the same. Later, when the corpse was taken to Molly, you informed me that such a strain could have caused by radiation. Unfortunately, Molly couldn't find any kind of radiation but she discovered that the man had died of too much stress. He must have been in a lot of panic when he came up to our flat in 221B and received a deadly heart attack the moment he entered. It was just bad luck.

As always, I was starting to ask myself questions. It's a normal thing I do most of the time by the way. The big question was: What had the man seen that made him come to us?

You were the one who found a little lint on the carpet and when you took it, it was gloving. I am a brilliant chemist, so I started to analyse the strange fibre and it turns out it was radioactive. Radium, to be precisely.

So, a fibre with Radium in the year 2011? Definitely not normal. It took us some time to figure out that not far away from London a new company was built but only few people were aware of it. Turns out those people were using cancer patients for tests of their new product: a fabric, which was made of different radioactive substances. The fabric was supposed to be for pullovers, shirts, trousers, etc.

In that company, people with stage four cancer were tricked into the building with a lie. They were told that wearing this fabric would fight cancer in a new, modern and better way. A lot of people had died by believing and our guy was one of the researchers, who wanted to warn us. Unfortunately, the company had found out about his plans and therefore had secretly poisoned him with a new radioactive substance, that worked and faded very fast, so there were no traces to be found. That's the reason Molly couldn't find anything on the man's body. If you hadn't found the little lint, we would have never solved that case. You called it "The Unforeseen Death".

When Sherlock had finished, John looked at him, his eyes full of irritation.

"I'm sorry. There's still no bell ringing but I do hope, I will remember. It seems like I used to have a lot of fun with you and I really want to be that person again."

"I will not push you. Your brain will decide when it's time to be the old John Watson again."

Sherlock was disappointed. John could see it in his eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"It's not your fault, John. If it wasn't for me, you would still be the same. If there's someone to be sorry it should be me."

And with these words the detective turned round and left the room.

Outside the room, Sherlock tried to steady his breathing. He was still far away from feeling good, but he needed his friend to remember. Bruno was still out there. Waiting. He had to stop the man and of course, there were still unanswered questions. Sherlock feared that Bruno might already know that they were lying in hospital and there was a high chance that the magician was going after them. Slowly, he made his way back to his hospital room, deeply sighing. How could a vacation lead to such a disaster?