Love Me When I'm Gone - Part 2!

[skylockee]

I got a friend of mine to re-beta it again, since it's been sitting on my computer for over a month and I did some tweaks to it yesterday. :D Amnesia!Holmes is going to turn into my "Project to work on when I'm sick" I think, since that's the only time I get to work on it.

Maybe I've fallen ill from the realization that there will be no more DWIM on sundays. It was like church for me, I swear!
elina_kivimaki, you and your sister need to make a book out of these, I would treat it like the bible.

....anyway, here is the fic! Now I'm going fishing.

Title : Love me When I'm Gone - Chapter 2
Rating : G
Word Count : 4355
Additional Notes : Mmm, Amnesia!Holmes....

The better part of the night was spent in my room. I had found myself drawn away from the sanctuary of my bed momentarily to go scout out the other areas of the home I had found myself in. I had sneaked about the house in a furtive manner, desperate to learn the layout of the house just in case I would need such knowledge in the future. Without a light on, I had examined the stairs in the hallway, noticing that they inevitably led up to Watson's room, and that downstairs was a kitchen, another sitting room, and another bedroom with the door closed. I quickly concluded there was another in the house with us, and by the appearance of the shoes at the front of the door, I was prepared to say it was an older woman. It had only taken a few minutes to learn this new bit of knowledge and quickly return back up the stairs. Now that I was back within my room, I was free to examine the objects to try to get a better idea of what type of person I had been before my amnesia.

There was a multitude of smoking pipes lined along my dresser, some of which didn't seem to have been used in a while; this led me to ponder on the idea that perhaps there was a certain pipe that I fancied above others.

At the foot of my bed was a large oak desk.. From where I sat, the papers were unreadable. I turned to my dresser to examine a few other items, but my eyes darted back to the desk; there was a small rectangle shape upon the surface that quickly took my attention.

An image flared to my mind, and I rapidly got up from bed, rushing to my desk weakly, noting how just from running around the flat had drained quite a bit of energy already.

From what I remembered about amnesia was that it took quite a fearsome power to instill, and next to nothing to cure. I had waited patiently for most of the night for something to present itself to me and help me cure my ailments. Now this object on my desk brought a rush of joy just at the thought that maybe whatever this item was would be the thing to bring me back to my good old self.

Once I picked up the item, I examined it on my palm. It was a clear solid, rich with the colour of amber. It had no real scent, but as I moved my finger to the edge of it, and my thumb to the opposite edge I felt a familiar feeling, as if I were acting out some part of a dream that I remembered having months ago.

As I held the item in my hand, I finally laughed as I weakly hit a hand down upon the desk. Of course, I knew all too well what this was for, I had begun to suspect such a thing after examining my entire body earlier, and noting how the calluses upon the tips of my left hand did not continue onto the tips of the fingers on my right.

I found myself resting by the desk for a moment, closing my eyes and waiting for the strength to be able to move. I was finally beginning to believe and take heed of Watson's advice to rest; it was becoming all too evident that my lack of vital fluids, as well as the damage to the back of my head was effecting my levels of stamina and strength.

It was no matter now, I knew well enough that I could not rest until I found the object in question. I opened the door to the main room of our flat, deliberately searching for something that I was sure would be there within the room since I was certain the item in question was not in my room.

I grinned brightly as I found the item, sealed within it's case for protection. As I opened the case, I was welcomed by the sight of my own face within the shining exterior of the fine coloured wood. Looking at the violin was like rediscovering a small piece of myself again, and for that I was more than thankful.

Besides the feeling deep within myself that the violin was mine, I had no real evidence to prove it. It could have been Watson's and it could have been my mind playing horrible tricks on me to make me believe the violin was mine. Other than the weak evidence of the rosin I had found in my room, and the slight calluses on the tips of my left hand, there was no way to truly connect the violin to myself.

There was but one other way to prove to myself that this violin was mine.

I took the bow from the case first, tightened it, and with great ease drew the rosin across the fine hairs. Oddly enough, it was more familiar than breathing. In that moment I could feel my old self rejoicing far in the distance of my mind, cheering me on to continue and to play the violin to prove to myself that my mind wasn't too far from gone.

I picked the violin up easily, and found the weight to also be familiar between my fingers. I settled the violin upon my shoulder, grabbing the cloth from the case and setting it over the base for my chin to rest on. Finally, after it had been situated, I drew up the bow and gave a gentle pull across the strings.

It wasn't until after I had played a few long notes that I realized the time. It was still an hour before the sun would think of rising, and here I sat like a cat on a fence, making noises in the night. I only hoped my sounds were more pleasant than a cat's caterwauling.

The flow of music within me was like a dam. As soon as the gates were opened, it was quite an effort to close them once more. Music poured out of me, and I had no clue as to where the notes came from. My hands moved on their own accord and I was a lone man in the audience to my own performance.

“Holmes!” A voice hissed quietly from the doorway. I had not even heard footsteps leading up to the room.

I turned around, my bow lowering to my side but my violin keeping it's place on my shoulder. I stared as I found Watson, dressed in his nightwear, staring back at me, his eyes alight with joy.

“You are yourself again? How wonderful!” he said as he made his way towards me, his arms outstretched as if to embrace me.

“I am sorry to disappoint you,” I started, pulling the violin away from my shoulder, “but I am as you have left me earlier this evening. It is not that my talents upon a violin have reappeared, but I believe that they never were missing.”

Watson's arms dropped back to his side as his look of pure happiness was erased from his face once more. “I say, then, Holmes... What are you doing playing so early in the day?” he asked. “You'll wake Mrs. Hudson.”

“Mrs. Hudson? So she is the one who lives downstairs?” I asked casually as I set the violin back into the case, slightly miffed that Watson would turn his attention on the negative aspects of my music, rather than to sit back and listen to it. I wondered if he had always been this way towards my music.

“Our landlady.” Watson sighed in exhaustion as he walked over to the blinds and shut them. “You should stay in your room, Holmes. With that blackguard still on the loose he might very well try the same trick he did earlier this evening.”

I collapsed into a chair and sighed, rubbing my forehead gently. “It does me no good when you talk of things that I cannot remember,” I muttered. “All I know of this man is that he has tried to kill me, but I have no recollection leading up to why this man would want to murder me, or why I would suspect such a thing of him, or how I would have known where and how to apprehend him! There is the act of the crime, but no motive in my mind!”

I watched Watson as he finished closing the curtains, then moved to stroke the fire again. I found the room rather chilly, but with Watson's lack of slippers it must have been all the more cold for him.

“Yes, as I said before, it is a long story.”

“One that I think I have the right to be told of.”

“Holmes, you should be in bed rest-”

“If you do not tell me, then I shall go to Lestrade and ask him for his story. I'm sure he knows just as well as you do.”

Watson scoffed and sat down on the settee at my side. “And give away your cover? Lestrade would not let this whole matter slip so easily, Holmes. It could be a rather bad blow to your dignity if Scotland Yard finds out that the world's greatest detective has lost his mind.”

“You speak of me as if I'm insane,” I spoke softly, as I glanced around the room quietly. In this moment I took advantage of observing the scenery now that a new, brighter, light was shining from the fireplace.

Watson's brow furrowed as he shook his head. “I did not mean that, Holmes,” he corrected himself. “I only meant that without memories, Lestrade might think you're more incompetent than what he initially believes - even if he is wrong in that sense. He does not recognize your abilities as much as he should, and with your condition now, it would only give him more of an edge over you. You would not be taken seriously.”

I nodded my head thoughtfully. “I see your point, but you say that I have never been outdone in a case from Scotland Yard and that I am famous. But then, why am I not the head inspector? Obviously the man is an imbecile, I could easily have his job.”

Watson laughed. “Yes, no doubt you could,” he smiled. “But that is not your way, Holmes. You solve problems for the thrill of it, for justice to be served, not for the light of recognition. You even seemed distasteful of my writings with you and your cases as my subject.”

My ears perked up as I smiled at my dear friend. “You write about me?”

“Yes, mostly of you, some of my own journals, but it is writing of you which has brought fame to my pen, and fame to your name,” he smiled proudly. “I have all of your cases that I've written about in a file, perhaps you would like to read them over again later on? You'll see what you were once like, and how you do enjoy the thrill of the case.”

I smiled, looking down at my own hands. “I already understand that thrill,” I grinned. “The idea of this situation I'm in, it's very singular. How many men lose themselves and have the mental ability to even have a chance at recovering themselves again? In fact, I would go as far to say that if anyone should have ever had amnesia, that I am the very man for it.”

Watson stared at me for the most uncomfortable of moments. “You are delighted that you have amnesia!”

“Not delighted, but,” I trailed off a moment before continuing. “I find when my mind is idle for far too long that it puts me on edge, to the point where I cannot sit still,” I said quietly, glancing up at Watson to see if he understood at all what I meant. “With this puzzle, it will not be solved until I remember myself once again, and at that point, I'm sure that I'll be able to handle cases, or whatever it was I did before to busy my mind with work.”

“You are the same you as you ever were,” Watson laughed aloud. “You would claim that you needed problems and work for your mind to function properly, it seems now it is still the case.”

I smiled back at Watson and sat back in my seat, delighted with the early morning conversation that had sprung up between us. After a moment of thought, I decided to dig deeper in Watson's well of memories. “What else would I say, Watson?”

Watson sat back upon the settee as he dove into his memories for me, sharing his thoughts. “Tell me first,” he whispered, “your thoughts upon women. I want to test you.”

I did not try to hide the surprise on my face; the question was a very odd one. Why would Watson care of my thoughts about women? “A test, is it? Well, what sort of thoughts?”

“What do you think of them?”

“I have not been in contact with any women at this point, Watson. I do not have any woman I remember to think about.”

“Generalize, Holmes,” Watson said in a hushed voice. “Just, tell me the first thing that comes to your mind when you think of the fairer sex.”

I felt my face begin to turn warm. Was I embarrassed? Truth be told, along with all my memories went with them the memories of any emotional interaction I may have had with a woman. Was there ever a woman that I loved dearly, beyond all reason? The more I thought on this topic, the more unlikely it seemed.

“I do not think I am a one for women,” I stated quietly, picking my words in a careful manner. “From what I do recall, generally speaking, women cannot be trusted. Why I think such a thing cannot be justified with any sort of evidence that I possess. When I asked you, before I went to sleep, if I was married, I rejoiced quietly when you told me I wasn't,” I bit my lip. “I doubt I am an emotional fool as most men are.”

With a quick slap to his knee, Watson gave a brief chuckle. “You're becoming more and more like yourself as the minutes pass! This whole amnesia problem is nothing to worry about now, I'm sure. The only thing we need to worry of is that wound, and to make sure it does not get infected.” He stood up from the settee and situated himself at my side where he began to peel the bandages from my head.

“W-Watson!” I hissed. “It is still quite tender, do be care-”

“I am a doctor, Holmes.” I couldn't see his eyes, but I felt them roll in sarcasm.”The bandages are all matted down and need to be changed. At least the bleeding has stopped.”

I drew my legs up under myself, sitting upon them in a comfortable position as Watson carefully removed the used bandages from my head, clucking his tongue.

“It's a wonder you're awake and wandering around as you are,” he whispered. “It is quite a deep cut.”

“I thought as much.” I said idly, trying to reach a hand to the wound only to have my hand slapped away by Watson's.

“Keep your hands off it, Holmes. I know of the things you get into during the day, and if you track half of those chemicals onto the back of your head you'll only serve to make it more infected than what it already is.”

I smiled. “I did my best earlier to cleans my hands of such stains. You see?” I lifted my hands up above my head, to show him. “They smell of lemons.”

Watson raised an eyebrow, then leaned his nose in closer to smell. “They do smell clean.”

I grinned; to have hands called clean by none other than a doctor was a feat indeed. “To tell the truth, I saw the stains long before I saw the beakers. I only know of certain chemicals that leave such vivd greenish blue stains upon the skin like this. But...I've no idea why I know of such a chemical. I have no recollection of my school days, but I seem to retain everything I've learned in my childhood.”

“If it wasn't this wound you have, I'd go as far to say that Korsakoff's syndrome has touched you. Actually, it might have even put you at risk for this type of amnesia,” Watson explained.

“Korsakoff?” I echoed. “A Russian doctor?”

Watson nodded his head, and then continued his explanation. “It hasn't been too long ago, less than a decade, in fact, that Korsakoff found a connection between alcoholism and amnesia when he studied three of his patients who seemed to have mental confusion had all had one thing in common, and that they--”

“Watson, I hope that you are not calling me an alcoholic.”

Watson laughed and gave a reassuring pat to my shoulder. “Not at all, but it's your other vice that--”

A dead silence fell upon Watson, and I felt his hand tense slightly on my shoulder.

My mind scrambled to the point that I was sure the pounding of my headache was from overworking my thoughts and not from my head wound. Of course my 'vice' was one thing that Watson most likely did not wish to speak about. It was only natural that a doctor would try to keep such drugs as cocaine, or whatever it was that I had been injecting myself with, away from me for my own good. I had quickly deduced that Watson believed that I did not know a thing about my cocaine habits - and wished to keep it that way.

I sighed, closing my eyes. “You think too highly of your abilities to hide information if you were going to try to lie me into believing that I do not require the cocaine bottle,” I explained to him. “The evidence of this vice of mine is as clear as the puncture marks upon my arm. Earlier I took it upon myself to proceed with a thorough examination of my body and found them almost immediately.”

Watson stared at me, an odd look in his eyes before he let out a long, huffed breath. “I thought that fate had placed a chance in my hands.”

“And I commend you for trying,” I smiled briefly. “I haven't felt any effect from the lack of this drug, so I doubt that it is a true vice. Perhaps just a hobby.”

“Holmes! Such drugs are not a hobby!” he cried, turning around to face me. “Cocaine does just as much damage, if not more, than any alcohol. That cocaine of yours might have been the thing that has made you weak enough mentally to be receptacle to amnesia to begin with! You were teetering on the edge and the butt of Moran's air gun was the thing to send you over the edge.”

“Doctor, it does you no good to make assumptions without proof, especially in your profession,” I said in a warning tone. “You pick the worst of times to bring my faults to light when I am without the memories to defend myself.”

“On the contrary,” he continued, “it is the best of times. Any other time I bring such a thing up, you turn cold and do not care to listen. Now you have to listen to me. You need my mind to help you. You are lost without me.”

I winced slightly and sank back deeper in my chair. It was all too true what the good doctor had said, I was lost without his words and though I might fair well enough on my own, I would much rather have him by my side to help me through the troubles that were likely to come forward in the near future.

The doctor released my shoulders, standing to his normal height. He crossed his arms across his chest before regarding me. “I see I've finally gotten through to you,” he said in an accomplished tone. “Now will you please throw that damn syringe and that blasted morocco case out?”

I stayed quiet and looked away from Watson, my attentions focused on the floor. “I cannot throw out something that belongs to another man,” I began. “The syringe does not belong to me, since I am not actually Sherlock Holmes. Holmes is a man, I perceive, who is a strong independent with a very kind and loyal friend, and I am, at this moment,far from being such a person in the mental sense. I am sorry to say that throwing that syringe out would feel like throwing out someone else's possession.”

Watson gave a slight, disapproving frown. “But it is you. You are you, there is no two ways about it, Holmes!”

“I have told you now, I cannot throw it out. At this very moment, it does not belong to me and thus I shall not throw it out, nor use it.” I looked back up at Watson from my seat, idly raising a hand to my head to itch around the wound. “Is that fair enough? Once I am in my right mind, I promise I will listen to whatever you have to say about the matter of my cocaine.”

“Do you promise?” he asked.

I nodded my head, then winced visibly as my fingers trailed closer than intended to the open wound.

Watson stepped closer and again finished with my bandages, but something was off from his once gentle and kind doctor-ly touches.

I am well able to read the emotions and feelings of people I see, and I could easily deduce that it was this very trait that helped me with these cases that Watson has told me of from before I lost my memory. After applying these very skills to Watson, he seemed far more distant from me than he was when he had just entered the room. Was it from our small little discussion just moments earlier? Was it because I had told Watson that I wasn't the true Sherlock Holmes, at least, for the moment being?

Of course it was clear, the absence of myself, the absence of Sherlock Holmes was a great pain that tore at this man's mind and heart. If I had any intention of repaying this man for an inch of his kindness, the best thing I could do is to remember who I use to be.

“I suppose we could always talk to Mycroft about all of this,” Watson quickly spoke up after clearing his throat. “He may have an idea as to what could be done, or perhaps he has something that might jar your memory.”

I winced again as Watson tied the bandages around my head with all the care he could summon to his hands. “Mycroft?” I echoed. “Another doctor?”

“Oh, no,” Watson laughed. “Mycroft Holmes. He is your brother.”

I stared down to the ground again, then carefully shook my head. “A brother? I can't possibly have a brother.” I turned my head to Watson, knitting my eyebrows together thoughtfully. “I searched the entire flat last night during my inability to sleep, and I found no records, pictures, or anything of the sort that could suggest that I have family, let alone a brother.”

Watson's face brightened into a smile. “I'm happy to see you're just as surprised as I was when I found out you had a brother,” he chuckled. “Perhaps we could go see him sometime soon.”

“Yes, I think I might learn a thing or two from this Mycroft fellow. Perhaps he can tell me more about myself,” I mused.

Watson's lower lip curled up, nearly so that it was invisible under his moustache. “One other thing, Holmes, about yourself. You were very cold and aloof to your family, of which, as far as I know, only includes your brother. I did not know of your brother for a good long time,” he mumbled as he fastened the bandages to my head, making sure they would not slip. “Mycroft is a lot like you in that sense; he keeps to himself and hardly does much else, and he possess your ability for deduction and observation, only to a much more powerful extent than you do.”

This new information was greatly appreciated. The idea of talking to another person with the same type of deduction and observational skills was a delightful thought. “When shall we go see my brother?” I asked.

“As soon as you get better, Holmes, and preferably at a time when most of London might be awake.” He laughed, glancing outside to see that the sun still hadn't risen. With a pin, Watson easily fastened the bandages firmly around my' head, then stepped back to examine his work.

“Much better,” I smiled. “Those old bandages were beginning to bother me a bit,” I admitted as I scratched the side of my head.

“I will see if Mrs. Hudson is awake, no doubt she is now that she has heard us both talking.” Watson explained as he made his way to the door that led to the hallway. “Are you quite alright by yourself? Can you dress yourself?”

I merely waved my hand, nodding my head. “It is only amnesia, my dear doctor, I am certain none of my limbs have been affected, only my mind,” I smiled. “Does our dear Mrs. Hudson procure breakfast for us in the mornings? I am rather famished.”

The smile that rose across Watson's face lit my heart. The idea that such a smile was brought upon him by simply my asking for breakfast was odd, but not unappreciated. “I will see what she can do,” he said just as he left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.