Chapter Text
No one expected the crime scene to be anything but bleak. The sun hadn't quite risen yet, adding on to the already solemn air around the suicide investigation, and it sunk the hearts of every policeman and woman. Greg Lestrade, the Detective Inspector, glanced away from the tragic scene to examine the countenance of the infamously insensitive Sherlock Holmes. The consulting detective was trying so furiously not to smirk.
"Oh, what is it?" Lestrade sighed.
"Not a suicide."
"Not a suicide?"
"Don't make me repeat myself."
Holmes's deductions had recently become a bit of a show, what with the bobbing left and right, dancing like a madman. How could a murder make a man so content? Still, if anyone could shed light onto a dark situation, it was him. Lestrade crossed his arms, having no choice but to encourage his behavior.
A skinny young blonde had just been shot through her skull in a red-bricked flat not far from Baker Street. Several neighboring residents phoned the police seconds after, but not before her falling out of the middle window on the third floor to the sidewalk, right in front of the street. Her body was now covered with a white sheet and blocked off by yellow tape and metal barriers.
Holmes appeared to be coming to a conclusion, so Lestrade tuned back in. He knew better than to zone out but had never been one for theatrics, and several rookies taking notes reassured him that he could recap later. Sherlock had already hopped several feet to the left of the body. Still standing far to the right, Lestrade focused on Holmes's final sentence.
"...And so, if my deductions are correct," he concluded, leaning towards his doctor friend John Watson, "which they usually are, the serial killer, prideful of the chaos resulting from his murders, will return to admire--"
"SHERRRLOCK!" A sharp, wailing woman's voice stopped him mid-sentence. His long tweed coat whipped behind him as he spun in her direction. She stood on the opposite side of the street. There was no time to pick her apart. All he saw was a fair brunette in a tan trenchcoat and tall black heels, one hand on her forehead and the other pointing frantically to the right. So he looked. And there he was. A big, burly man dressed in black with a cliche ski mask covering his face. Typical. The gunman faced Sherlock point-blank. The trigger was pulled, but Sherlock kept his wild blue eyes firmly fixed straight ahead, unafraid. It was in this second that the killer heard the woman's shriek, and he turned for just an instant to see who shouted. He let go, and the bullet soared in her direction. Then Sherlock pounced, taking the man down with him. John began towards the woman across the street. The bullet hit her square in her left shoulder, and from the beggining of the street a car was approaching. Lestrade had caught up to Sherlock and was cuffing the masked killer when he heard the sound of a car screeching to a halt. Sherlock looked up to see John hovering over a bloody body suffering from one bullet wound and one very direct hit from a man coming out of his Mercedes in shock after what he had just witnessed, all within seconds.
Not a typical day on the force.
He had been at her side all night. Normally his thoughts would not be centered around a bystander, but he had to know. Who was she? How had she known the killer would reappear? Was she working with that man? And how did she know his own name? His eyes searched her scratched face for answers, but none came. Sherlock was left staring at this fragile, sleeping woman, her hair stained and disarrayed around her face. He sat in the wooden chair beside her hospital bed, impatiently tap-tap-tapping his pointed oxfords, waiting for her eyes to open.
After the police took the balaclava'd man away, the paramedics came for the nameless woman. No identification of hers was found at the scene. She was without a wallet or a purse, not even a phone. Regardless, she would have still been partially unrecognizeable due to the cuts and bruises that scratched about her thin but swelling face and body. The shot had gone straight through her shoulder, not doing too much damage, but the jolting car hit dealt the worst of it. Now she lay sleeping in a pale blue hospital room with a stranger at her side.
Normally Lestrade would have told Sherlock to give up and go home so that a professional interrogater could question her when she awoke, but something had stopped him. He watched Sherlock through the window. "Has he ever given this much attention towards someone he didn't know?" he'd half-asked John, half-muttered to himself.
"Eh, not really, no." John shrugged. "But she does have to do with the case."
"Still, it's strange. Especially since she's a woman."
"I don't think it makes a difference, so."
But Lestrade still found it odd. So he pulled some strings and allowed Sherlock to stay the night.
Finally, after his sleepless night of waiting, the woman cringed. She opened her mouth to speak, eyes closed, but Sherlock grabbed her wrist. "Don't move," he spoke crisply. "You've suffered several injuries, including to your head. Your body needs time to heal. Listen closely. You will most likely wake several times over the next few hours. Don't. I need you to focus on healing yourself so you can recollect yesterday's events. We will speak again later." He let go of her arm once it fell limp again, then leaned back in his chair, watching her drift in and out of consciousness.
It was not until the next day that she could sit up on her own. When she did, she found four men eyeing her suspiciously.
From the day she arrived she had still not spoken a word. The man with the stethoscope around his neck--her doctor, she assumed--started first. He described to her the nature of her injuries and how she would need to stay for another week to make sure she was alright; she seemed only to suffer a minor blow when it came to her head, but he needed to run a few more tests to hopefully rule out any brain damage. Then the older, silver-haired man next to him cleared his throat and introduced himself as Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. He began to describe the scene from two days ago, but a third man standing in the far right corner cut him off, insisting she knew the details and could go on to tell them what she knew. This tall, glowering man peered at her with cold eyes shadowed by the dark curls on his head. His rumbly words seemed familiar as if she had heard his voice in a dream, but before she could call upon a memory, a fourth man in between the inspector and the one in the corner hushed him. She noticed the curly-haired man was the only one out of the four wearing a suit, whereas the doctor wore his uniform and the two older men wore jeans and button ups. She shook her head to focus (she'd been staring in silence for a few seconds). "I'm sorry," she shouted, then cut herself off. She looked to be suprised by her own sound. She tried again. "I'm sorry to disappoint, but I can't help you."
Sherlock mumbled "American" under his breath, followed by "interesting". "Why?" he questioned her, awaying from the wall. "Did someone pay you off? Are you working with the masked man? Who are you?"
She rubbed a healing cut above her eyes. "I'm afraid I can't remember."
"Can't remember what?" he glared.
"Can't... remember anything. It's blank. I can't remember anything." She looked down at her hands, trembling, as her head throbbed and the room blurred. "I can't remember anything."
The doctor hurriedly pushed the three men out and checked her monitors as a nurse came in to calm her down. Outside the room, the man with the curls spoke quickly and affirmatively to the detective inspector, but the woman couldn't hear.
"She's not lying," Sherlock reported. "I can't deduce anything atypical of her, not yet. She could be anyone. Check for any missing persons reports detailing a woman in her mid-twenties with long, brown hair and dark green eyes. Fair skin. American."
Lestrade nodded and left. John whispered to Sherlock, "You know, next time you try to interrogate a woman with head injuries, you should probably wait until she's cognizant."
"Oh, shut up. She seemed fine."
"You're not the doctor," John retorted, smiling. They followed Lestrade out the building to pay another visit to Scotland Yard.
The funny thing about amnesia is that one does not know what might be remembered and what might be forgotten forever. For instance, lying in a cold, flat hospital bed for a week was this Jane Doe, completely free of memories but a fully functional human being with speech and motor capabilities. This is what baffled Sherlock Holmes more than anything. What was it about being struck over the head that left you unaware of crucial information such as your name and number, but totally understanding of the English language, the social hierarchy, modern technology, and other common knowledges as such? It was as if the woman had replaced the files on her hard drive with her trash bin, only recalling the pages and pages of useless documents. It left him so nonplussed that in his own computer of a mind, a hypothesis formed. "John," he called from his perch on the living room chair. "We're going back to the hospital."
From the kitchen came John with a cup of coffee. He tromped in sipping, briefly paused to ask why, then turned right and sat in his usual chair next to the mantle which proudly bore Sherlock's skull friend.
"I have an idea, that's all." Sherlock jumped up and strode to his room without warning. He removed his silky blue house robe and put on his signature coat over a white collared shirt and black trousers, and he beckoned for John to get ready. With a flick of his coattail Sherlock was already out the door, hailing a cab.
Walking down the dreary halls of the hospital, Sherlock and John made their way to the woman's room. Sherlock of course had charmed one of the nurses into letting him see his "poor, sick sister" on the second floor, thus learning she had been moved to a different section. The pair found her in a bigger blue room with a view of the street below. She lay with her back facing them, watching the cars go by on a foggy afternoon. Sherlock startled her with a monotone hello. She sat up in her bed, revealing her tacky white hospital gown. They stepped up to the foot of her bed, Sherlock in the lead. "The name's Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr. John Watson. We're consulting detectives for Scotland Yard. You know what that is, don't you?"
She blinked. "I've been informed."
John stood there eyeing Sherlock, then the girl, back and forth as Sherlock went on about what they did. She didn't seem to be eating up Sherlock's detective jargon at all. Sherlock noticed this as well, and John heard the distinct change in tone as he spoke with her, trying to enchant her into doing something for him. But what?
"The point is, Jane--can I call you Jane? Until we uncover your identity, of course--you don't know who you are."
"That's correct," she replied, still unmoved.
"Which means you cannot access funds that would be tied to your name. So tell me, Jane, how do you plan on paying for medical expenses?"
Ah, John thought. Got her there.
"I suppose I--Well, I didn't--"
Sherlock pressed forward. "You don't know, is that it? Right. And if given a temporary solution, how would you react to that event?"
"What are you offering, Mr. Holmes?" she asked, not so much as an inquiry but more of a gesture to continue.
"You're getting well enough to be checked out soon, but you have no money to pay for the tests they've been running. I'm sure normally there'd be insurance for these things, but since you don't have an identity, you don't get that, right Dr. Watson?"
"I--"
"As you've learned," Sherlock pressed forward, "we hold a very important role in the police force. John and I are professionals, and what we are asking of you is a... trade, of sorts. I will see over your expenses. I will also guarantee you living space without charge for an extended amount of time. Until we find out who you are, and from then as long as you'd like."
She stared and stared with her wide, green eyes. She began to shake her head once, slowly, and cocked it to one side before asking, "Why are you doing this?"
Sherlock, putting on a concerned face, said, "We at Scotland Yard--"
"No, really. Why are you doing this?" she asked again, flagrant cynicism in her bold voice.
John crossed his arms. "Yes, 'Mr. Holmes', why? Why don't you tell her what's really going on?" Which roughly translated into: "Why don't you fill me in, you big git?"
Sherlock let in a deep sniff. "Psychological experimentation. Your brain, Jane, is like a canvas that begs to be painted on. And all of the tools are already there, you just have to relearn to use them properly. Given the right environment, you could be cured."
She frowned. "There's no cure for amnesia. Will you drug me? Is that it?"
"No! No. I want to see how your brain reacts to information. See if you can't match it back up with what you already know--knew, rather. What you have is called retrograde amnesia, of which there is no cure. However, cognitive therapy produces results more often than not. Imagine getting your life back, Jane. Or," he turned as if to leave, "you can let the police handle this. It could take years alone for them to find anything. And even then, you'd have to find a way to pay off those countless MRI, CT, EEG scans... All while locked up in this room."
"You really work with the police?" she gulped with a furrowed brow.
Sherlock walked back to her side. "Obviously. So you oblige, then?"
"I... Yes. Okay."
"Excellent. We'll have you out of this disgusting place by tomorrow. Come on, John."
Right as Sherlock's long legs were out the door, John leaned towards the woman, whispering, "You don't trust him one bit, do you?"
"Not in the slightest."
"Right. Okay. See you tomorrow, then."
"Goodbye," she said, eyes glued to the ceiling as she shrunk in her bed.
Nope, she thought. Definitely not in the slightest.
The car parked perpendicularly in front of 221B Baker Street. John tossed a few notes at the cabbie, then opened his door and shut it in sync with Sherlock. He sighed marvelously. "So you're just not going to address it, then?"
"In regards to...?" Sherlock asked dryly, twisting the knob to their flat.
"Sod it, Sherlock! Did you really just invite a mental patient to live with us?"
"You were there."
"Yes, I was! And I'm still in shock! How could you promise such a thing?"
Sherlock unfastened his scarf and threw it over a hanger along with his jacket. "I don't know what you mean, John. I didn't promise her anything," he insisted, plopping onto the living room sofa. He swung his feet over the armrest and crossed his ankles, not unlike the position John found him on the occasion of his nicotine patches use.
He followed close behind, throwing in his beige bomber and trailing Sherlock to the right of the sitting area. "You said she could live with us! Where, exactly? And did you ever plan on asking Mrs. Hudson, or--or--"
"Or what? Or you? And no, I didn't tell Mrs. Hudson, but I hardly think she'll mind."
"She's our landlady! Of course she'll mind!"
"Honestly, John, I don't know why you're getting all worked up about this."
His angry stammering ceased there. "I'm calling Mrs. Hudson to tell her what you've done."
"Go on, tattletale." Sherlock mumbled under his breath while John made a scene out of dramatically reaching into his jeans pocket for his phone and marching up the stairs to his bedroom.
"Yes, hello, Mrs. Hudson. It's about Sherlock. No, he didn't make a mess in the kitchen again. I know you wouldn't have cleaned it up anyway. Yes, I know, Mrs. Hudson, I know..."
After half an hour on the phone, John hesitantly tip toed back down. Sherlock was still sprawled out on the couch. He squinted at John, waiting for an update.
"Just got off the phone with Mrs. Hudson," he said, his body tense and straight.
"Obviously. What did she say?"
"The basement flat's a bit too drudgy to live in now, but 221A is on the market for thr--"
"She's staying with us."
"Yeah, no."
"Think about it, John!" He sprung up to sit with perfect posture, his hands placed excitedly on his thighs. "I hardly sleep as it is; she will take my room. That way I can keep an eye on her progress without tedious social formalities. Besides, where would I get the money to pay two rents when she can just stay here?" He looked up at John with a madly joyous stare.
"Christ! Are you purposely failing to hear how mentally deranged you sound? You can't experiment on humans!"
The joy faded. "Have you not studied the history of the medical field at all?"
"That's different."
"How so?"
"I dunno, Sherlock. Figure it out with that massive brain of yours." John rubbed his face and hoped his sarcasm would end this ridiculous conversation. It didn't.
"I don't see how this affects you, anyway," Sherlock groaned, flopping back down on the couch.
"I live here too, you know. And I'm a human being, like her, with rights. You're taking advantage of the poor girl's condition."
"But she agreed, John. She has all her wits about her."
"And you don't have a whit of sanity left, I think. I need a drink." He stomped to the kitchen.
"You don't drink, not since your sister became an alcoh--"
"TEA, SHERLOCK. I'M MAKING TEA."
"Oh, lovely. I'll have one, too."
With his words at a whisper, John cursed Sherlock, cursed the case, and cursed the tea.
Jane, as the nameless woman took to calling herself, slept--a lot. Mostly there was nothing else to do but rest. It was either that or glare continuously up at that boring, speckled hospital ceiling. Everyone around her, all the doctors and nurses passing her door and all the pedestrians out the window, bustled about in a giant hurry. Even the wispy morning clouds seemed to be moving faster. It made her antsy, watching all the fuss while she lay in her depressingly blue room without anamnesis or recollection whatsoever from before the accident. Her first memory was of waking up to a similar setting as she lay helplessly in now.
She dared to look through the doorway. The traffic of countless white jackets moving in both directions propelled her doubt of the curly haired man's proposal. She already considered herself brainless, and his lack of arrival was icing on the cake. How could she have trusted him? His proposition was grandiloquent to say the least, and the temptation to take risk stemmed from those ridiculously inviting clear eyes, no less.
Then, breaking her thoughts, down the hallway she spotted a dark figure, a distinctive soul in the sea of white jackets. He advanced slowly, and the black umbrella at his side hit the tile in time with his gait. As he neared her door, she could tell he was of high importance not only from his posh brown suit but also from his unnaturally straight stance, not unlike the posture of Sherlock Holmes. This tall stranger, however, appeared quite older, and his brunet buzz receded in contrast to the ever-bouncing locks of Mr. Holmes.The man peered at her through the window as if she was a specimen of sorts. Finally, to end the long contact, he turned and waved over one of the white jackets. They spoke for a moment, and then the tony man disappeared.
Moments later a certain Jane Doe was released from Saint Bartholomew's Hospital.
There was a knock at the flat. John heard it all the way from his room, but he was blogging and figured Mrs. Hudson would get the door. He then expected the familiar resonance of his flatmate's low voice, but it occurred to him that Sherlock would have a key and therefore wouldn't be knocking. He shut his laptop and spied down the stairs. He heard cheerful greetings--Mrs. Hudson--but couldn't quite make out the sound of the second. He was practically sticking his head down the main stairs when Mrs. Hudson called Sherlock and his name, almost sending John tumbling down the stairs in fright. Taking a breath and collecting his cool he descended. Mrs. Hudson was the first to speak. "Good morning, John! She says she's here to see you boys. Is Sherlock not around?"
"No, he's--oh." From behind his landlady peeked the girl from yesterday. "Right. I forgot about, um, you. Sherlock's out right now doing... something." Probably finalizing the girl's departure from Saint Bart's, John thought. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Come on up, uh--"
"Jane," she whispered.
"Jane, right." In his thoughts he grumbled up a storm. Of course Sherlock would leave him with the amnesiac. Of course he would go through with his little experiment. Of course, of course, of course. John let her in and shut the door behind her.
She walked in front of the two large windows and stopped without a word. Her sandy brown hair was pulled up in an unkempt bun, but her trenchcoat and clothes were cleaned and blood-free. Mycroft, John thought. That's how Sherlock got her out.
"Mycroft Holmes," she said, startling John after her long silence. At first he thought she had read his mind, but she turned to face him and continued. "He sent me to this address. Then he offered me money to spy on you."
Ah, the familiar test. "And?"
"I said no."
"Good. Here, let me take your coat." The loss of it revealed a rather complimenting cobalt dress that blossomed down to her knees. After unwittingly checking her out, John pointed to Sherlock's chair and then offered her tea. She politely declined, so he sat in his seat preceding hers. The cuts were healing nicely; the swelling had subsided, revealing her thin features. Her face was pointed but without the chiseled masculinity of Sherlock's bony face. Everything about the girl seemed thin and frail; even her melodic voice sounded as delicate as she looked. She struggled to sit in the chair without straining her left shoulder. His eyes met hers and didn't leave. Her eye contact would have made John squeamish if not for the warm, foresty green within. "How's your head?"
"Vacant." The honesty she spoke with canceled out the sarcasm. "Like a dream."
He meant the wounds, but he didn't correct her. "That's normal. I was a doctor," he said, feeling the need to remind her in case she forgot from the day before.
"Was?"
"Long story." The conversation ceased but not the neverending eye contact. John tried to look away and finally patted his pockets for his phone to call Sherlock.
"I didn't know where else to go."
He stopped and looked up. "Sorry?"
"Mycroft Holmes had a car waiting for me outside the hospital. I know you don't want me here, and I'm sure the police will find something soon enough, but I will let Sherlock Holmes study me however he likes until that time. It's the least I can do since he's taking care of my medical bills, and it is a strange condition. Must be fascinating."
"Jane..." John searched for the right words, leaning forward and running a hand over his face. "You don't know what you're getting into. Whether it's a week or a month or however long, I don't mind you being here specifically. But you don't know Sherlock. He's my--and don't tell him I said this--he's my best friend, and he's unlike anyone I've ever met, but I can't begin to describe to you how he works. He's a madman. A sane madman. Like I said, I really can't explain. But he tends to pull stunts along the lines of these all the time. He... experiments... With our line of work, it's hard not to be in danger. Life-threatening danger. I don't think I can sit here and let him put you in the crosshairs, too."
"Why not? Dr. Watson, if it's as dangerous as you say, what's keeping you here?"
He met her gaze once again, at a loss for words. He stays because he loves every minute of it, but he couldn't tell her that. Not when he was trying so furiously to dissuade. Suddenly the door swung wide open from behind him.
"Jane!" Sherlock proclaimed, proudly waltzing in. "How do you like the flat?"
"It's lovely," she said, setting her sights on him.
"John thinks it's a mess."
"It is a mess." John motioned towards the desk filled with case files and the wall above the sofa bearing pasted pictures and documents.
Sherlock harumphed and made his way to his room. "Aren't you coming?" he yelled from the kitchen.
"He means you." John gave her one last furrowed-brow look of concern.
Jane stood. "I have to; I'm sorry." She meant more than she said, and he knew this. He watched her follow the sound of Sherlock calling her to see her new accommodations. John couldn't help but feel responsible for this girl, since Sherlock refused to see the wrong. All John could see was a vision of a guileless girl on a metal table with Sherlock hovering over her like Frankenstein, laughing maniacally over her shivering body. No way was he letting him pick her brain. No. Way.
Timid steps took Jane past the fleur de lis wallpaper of the living room, down from the palmtree wallpaper in the hallway, and into Sherlock's space of mismatched green and burgundy patterns. If she had known him, she'd have been shocked by the simplicity and the cleanliness of the open space. She scanned the room for any experiments as John mentioned and found none, only a wooden bed with white sheets, a wooden wardrobe, a wooden dresser, a wooden nightstand with a boxed lamp and a matching floor lamp in the far corner, across from a wooden bookshelf with several items (among them a phrenology bust), and two windows lighting the majority of the long room. "It's very nice," she finally muttered.
Sherlock didn't say anything; he motioned for her to walk inside. Once she did, he closed the door, and she listened to the floor creak under his purposeful strides away. She felt like she needed to be doing something, like he expected her to figure something out, so in her analyzation of the room she got closer to the shelf and studied its contents. "A head with its brain drawn on... a psychology textbook--several textbooks... notebooks... neuropsychology pamphlets... a few medical diagrams..." she whispered, running her fingers over each item. "A folder of... papers? Ah." Legal documents and a pen. She took the packet to the bed, and she scribbled a few 'Jane Doe' signatures signaling the 'okay!' for the forthcoming trials. She examined her writings and surprisingly recognized them as her own. Hurriedly she slid off the bed, back to the shelf, grabbed the manilla folder, and began doodling and writing nonsense, starting with her anonymous name over and over. She practiced the swirls of the o and the curves of the j. Jane didn't know what she had expected--chicken scratch maybe? She didn't expect to have retained her knowledge of writing, reading, the works. The letters morphed into doodles of little people and buildings, things she had seen after the accident but nothing before. After a while she set the assortment down and moved on to the dresser. The first few drawers were obviously male pants and socks (arranged by dominant colour, and Jane was surprised to see only neutral wear, nothing vivid), but the bottom two had been emptied out and filled with neutral lacey things, two black trousers, two dark blue blouses matching the dress she wore now, and one very long white tunic for sleeping. "Mycroft Holmes." But how had he known her measurements? "Sherlock Holmes. Of course." Next was the nightstand: empty. Then the wardrobe: Sherlock's many hanging suits. She reached out to touch one but stopped herself in fear of wrinkling an expensive sleeve. As she closed the wardrobe door, a disgruntled yell from John echoed through the flat, then a gap of silence, and then purposeful stomps to her door. The knock was hesitant but loud.
"Come in," she breathed.
But Sherlock never simply entered a room. In this instance he announced his presence by means of swinging the door fully open before entering even an inch into the room. He walked to the bed and picked up the papers. "You found the documents. Good," he grunted, the last word spilling awkwardly from his fleshy pink lips as if compliments were out of practice. Then, noticing her drawings, he squinted at her quizzically, holding up the folder.
"I was analyzing my handwriting. An experiment," she replied, smiling. She could see the beginnings of a curve at the end of his pursed mouth.
He stood up straight then exited, calling back to her, "We're going out."
"Why?"
"To see London. Tour landmarks. Grab a notebook and coat on your way out."
Blindly Jane obeyed and followed him to 221B's door. She passed grumpy John, shielding his eyes from Sherlock's wild gaze, but as she descended down the stairs she heard him tailing close behind.
They plodded down to the end of the block, where Jane could clearly see the noon sun and an approaching blood orange, two-decked bus.
Sherlock, with parental patience, put a hand on her shoulder and asked, "Do you know what that is?"
"It's a bus... 'Tour Bus'."
"You read the banner."
"Yes."
He hopped through the bus's open doors and made his way towards a set of empty seats in the back, leaving John to pay for tickets. "Would you have known it was a tour bus if you had not seen the sign?"
"I don't know." She sat next to him, and John next to her, but Sherlock's entire body faced the window.
"Write it down."
"Write what down?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
John politely took the book, wrote the date along with "red bus takes you around London", placed it back on her lap, and put the pen in her hand.
They rode in almost silence if not for the host in the front with his exaggerated gestures, pointing all around.
Finally, Sherlock moved. "Jane, look," he said, pointing at blurred benches and trees as they passed. "Regents Park."
She watched as they went by, then jotted notes down, along with facts from the excited tour guide filling tourists in with the history of London. Both John and Sherlock focused on other things whereas Jane soaked in every detail, writing in the notebook every now and then. The bus took them away from Baker Street, past Soho, The Green Park, Buckingham Palace, Westminster Abbey, along the River Thames, and all the way to the Tower of London and the Bridge. The crowd thinned and thicked with every stop. It took a turn to reverse the route.
"We'll get off at the Eye--" Sherlock's voice broke at the end when he happened to glance down at the notebook.
John choked. "Oh my god. Did you recall all of that?"
"No. It's the route we took."
"Yes, but it's spot on."
Sherlock scoffed. "It's not entirely accurate."
"It's incredible. I think your subconscious recognizes London; that's why this sketch is so detailed after seeing it for only a half hour." He kept his eyes glued on Jane's drawing of London. It was a map, alright. Not something someone who hadn't seen the city before could draw. "Must mean you're familiar with it. Or were, once. Right, Sherlock?"
"Possibly."
"Okay. That's amazing," he beamed, trailing off. The study didn't seem so bad after all. But he looked up at her, and her dark eyes were glazed over again. She was trying to remember.
Round and very large. Wheel. Ferris Wheel.
"EDF Energy's London Eye," said Sherlock.
Jane, standing small under its towering shadow, added it to the map. What seemed like hundreds of people pushed past them from all directions. A few noteworthy faces walked past Sherlock's gaze. As each passed he added and deleted mental notes: he's late for a meeting, she's got a prosthetic leg, he hasn't slept for two nights straight, she's got a collie and a border terrier. Suddenly remembering Jane's predicament, he ordered, "Try not to look at anyone. No need to store information you don't need; there's no one important here."
Immediately her chin hit her chest obediently, but John put a hand up. "Ah--no, you don't have to do that. Anyway. The Eye?" He lifted her head up at the magnificent landmark. "It's 135 meters tall. That's... about 400 feet."
Sherlock looked at him, and John shrugged in a way that said, "I dunno; she's American!"
"Are we going on it?"
Sherlock let out an unamused gush of air, and Jane scrunched her nose like a poopy baby in response--
"Why not?"
--and John protested as well. "Sherlock, we're here anyway. And doesn't EDF owe you a favour after that one case? The one with the, uh,"
"Allegations."
"Yeah, those. We'd get in for free; you know that."
"Sitting in a glass egg for thirty minutes? Waste of time."
With the persistent march of a soldier Jane made a break for the ticket line. "No it's not. Come on, Sherlock Holmes."
Before either man moved they watched her way to the counter where she cut the line, leaned over the desk, and walked back to Sherlock and John's gaping mouths. "The manager will be down to speak with you shortly."
He clamped his jaw shut as if she had never surprised him and then embarrassed John by shutting his for him.
The manager met them shortly after and showered Sherlock with the utmost praise. She shook hands with both him and John, continuously thanking for their help. She then kissed Jane's hand and offered the trio a private capsule of no charge. After smiles were exchanged, they made their way to the boarding deck.
Sherlock swooped inside and leered over the Thames as John helped Jane into the capsule. The sun was well up in the sky by this time and left little sparkles of light all over the river, matching the irises of Sherlock's squinted eyes.
"Are you going to stand like that the whole time, or are you going to sit down and enjoy this like the rest of us?" John teased, reclining on the read seats as the doors closed. He looked over at Jane. Her face lit up with childlike wonder at the sight of London getting smaller beneath them. She scribbled some descriptions in her notebook, and Sherlock descended down next to her to read the notes. When she looked at him, though, he turned towards the river again.
"Am I doing this right?" she asked.
"I only gave one order."
"And I'm doing it. Writing it down. In case I don't retain it?"
"Correct."
John stifled an, "Ohhh, okay," and instead nodded to himself.
Sherlock explained further. "You're going to keep writing. Every place we go, you're going to take notes. Then I'll review them, collect data of my own, then make conclusions based off of those together."
"That's it?"
"For now."
They did not speak for a while after. They need not anyhow; the view from the Eye was awesome enough, and no conversation could top it. All London's architecture could be seen, and Jane mentally pointed out checkpoints in her mind. Bridges, street names, buildings, things she so desperately clung to in hopes she could still remember it tomorrow. Not a second went by with closed eyes; Sherlock, John, and Jane marveled from their seats at everything below. And for the first time in a long time, Sherlock's mind slowed as he listened to the little sounds of breath and heartbeats, calming him in a way he hadn't felt in ages. Yes, his work gave him a terrible thrill, but this... This was a new experience. He could adjust to this.
And then a blip broke the bliss. Jane turned up from her gaze towards the sound. Another blip from Sherlock's pocket. Telephone. "Aren't you going to get that?"
"What? No. Irrelevant."
"Could be Lestrade," John offered.
"Lestrade would call."
The blipping escalated.
"Yes, yes, fine," Sherlock rolled his eyes, answering. "Sherlock Holmes. … No. … I'm sure. … I'm busy!" The last phrase came out a bit too feely, so he glanced down at Jane. She did something with her face, something he hadn't seen before, so he bookmarked the emotion in her eyes for later analyzation and hung up the phone with a snap.
"What did he say?" John asked. "Another case?"
"No, this one."
"Alright, and what of it?"
"He wanted me to interrogate the murderer."
Jane looked confused. "And under normal circumstances you would? But not now? Why?"
"I'm enjoying the view." End of conversation.
But John knew it meant something for Sherlock to focus on anything other than crimes, and it was increasingly more odd that he liked the ride. For a mind as fast as his, John didn't think he'd tolerate getting on the Eye for any more than an instant unless there was a body in one of the carriages. He imagined this is what Sherlock's mind palace might be like: the lone detective, flying over his beloved city in a fleetingly silent moment. What's he thinking about? Was it possible for Sherlock not to think, and just enjoy the view like he said?
"Close your mouth, John. I do enjoy some things, you know."
John muttered an apology as the carriage neared the beginning of its loop, ending the rare opportunity of seeing Sherlock still.
They took a taxi back to 221B. John explained to Jane why they were entering a stranger's car.
***
Back at the pitch-black flat, Sherlock fidgeted in the midnight darkness. What did he hate most about the dreadfully human necessity of sleep? The imponderable waiting.
"Bored," he whispered. He thought of starting another experiment; maybe one with those chemicals earlier stored in John's bathroom? "No no, too late for that. Can't risk waking him." A sleepy John did not equivocate a happy John. "Starting another experiment in the middle of this one would be bad news anyway." His eyes darted about the empty living room. His neck ached from the couch's armrest. The agitated tapping of his fingertips evolving into aggressive clawing on the couch material until he could no longer control the roaring voice in his head screaming, "Bored, bored, BORED!"
This experiment was not going fast enough.
Off from the couch he sprung, throwing the union jack pillow far from arm's reach. "Time to study," he mumbled dramatically to the hallway he headed towards.
Images of possible scenarios flashed in his mind as he creeped to the door at the end of the hall, but he brushed each one aside, going with all but his instincts. "How very unlike you," a brotherly voice whispered in his mind's ear. Again he pushed it away, turning the brass knob. There it was--she was, rather, asleep, back turned to him. Her hair was up, and not for heat control; Jane liked how it looked pulled up, which meant she had a habit of preening before bed. That in turn meant that she sub-retained a habit from her long term memory. Sherlock took a step closer, calculating her heart rate via breath intake. In, out. Forty beats per minute. She shifted, curling up before stretching out again, and there he was watching her, entranced by it all up until the cracked door let a faint light reaching her open, panicked eyes. Sherlock stiffed up, firmly put his hands at his side and turned his nose up. "Forty beats per minute. Just as I predicted. Goodnight!" Like a toy soldier he swung a leg to swiftly turn before she softly yelped, "Wait."
He turned his ear. "Something I missed?"
"What were you doing?"
"I was calculating the m--"
"What were you doing?" she groaned, sleep apparent in her voice.
"Watching."
"Want a closer look?"
"I'm... sorry?!"
"Hush, not so loud. Just come here." She flipped sides and raised the comforter, beckoning for him to join her.
Social taboos escaped him as he crawled in. She moved her pillow over for Sherlock and grabbed the neighboring pillow for herself. For a second she looked at his blank, shadowed face in the dark and smiled knowing he couldn't see her expression either, so she planted a kiss on the tip of his upturned nose and closed her eyes.
"Never do that again," he whispered.
"Goodnight to you, too." She tossed her body over so that he was staring at her bare neck.
"Do you often bed strangers?" Sherlock muttered, mouth still agape and eyebrows furrowed.
"How would I know?" And then she added, "I feel drawn to you. Close. It just feels right."
"We've never met. Why would you say that?"
Jane shushed him. "I'm asleep."
"You are not."
"I am now."
That was the last word exchanged before the darkness of sleep took over both their senses.
And oh how Sherlock slept! Though he hated to admit it, even to himself, sleeping next to another warm body was an unprecedented and surprisingly okay experience. Thank God she didn't try to pop a feel or he would have shut down altogether, but she didn't seem the type. Instead he awoke with a leg innocently overlapping his and an arm lovingly octopussing his stomach. Squirming at such intimate contact, he gently pushed her sleeping body away from his.
What was customary for him to do now? Leave her to awake partnerless? Lie motionless until she stirs? Conventions...
Sherlock rolled out of the bed and bolted to the kitchen, all but slamming the bedroom door, just to get out of the situation. As a celebration for surviving the night he heaved a heavy 'phew' and continued down the hall.
If only John didn't make his morning tea so early. And by God, did Sherlock have bedhead.
John froze as he connected the dots in his head, the only reason in his mind why Sherlock was coming out of the same room as a sleeping woman. "Oh my God," he whispered, still in his own pajamas, almost dropping the tea and spoon. "You didn't."
"You're right, I didn't."
"But you did."
"No."
"Sherlock, oh my God! To a trauma victim? Frankly I'm surprised to see you bed anyone, but this? This I did not see coming."
"Nothing came!"
John scoffed.
"Shut up!" Sherlock roared. Reflexively both boys checked the hallway and yes, a drowsy Jane was waltzing into the kitchen with Sherlock's blue dressing down on, not exactly helping his case.
"Good morning, what's for breakfast?"
John murmured, "How do you like your eggs?"
"Enough! I did not sleep with this woman!" Sherlock fumed, rolling his eyes in exasperation.
Jane smiled. "But you did."
"But I did. I didn't! We didn't..."
John grinned wickedly. "Didn't what?"
"Oh shut up!" he wove his hands away and headed for the sitting room while John laughed and laughed.
"So you didn't then?"
"No," she said. "We didn't."
"It's the girl, isn't it." Sherlock never visited Mycroft, especially not at Diogenes.
"What have you found on her?"
"Nothing yet, not even a missing persons listing."
"Did you look in America?"
"Ah, yes, let me phone the President right away," Mycroft sneered. "We checked already. There's no reports matching her. How's the experiment?"
"...Not well. She's become attached and I... It's been a month and I'm no further than when I started. There's nothing abnormal about her brain. She just doesn't remember."
"Do you love her, little brother?"
Sherlock choked and sputtered, "D--don't be ridiculous!"
"John Watson says you sleep with her."
"john lies." probably revenge for last week's fingers in the sink.
dee dee dee tbc