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               ❝ Bollocks. ❞

Sherlock was not an average person. He gave his trust sparingly, and once it was broken that was it, there were no more second chances. He intentionally isolated himself, so when ‘Irene’ appeared in his life it turned his whole routine upside down. He hadn’t expected to let his guard down and yet that’s exactly  what he did. That made his feelings toward her now understandably biased and more often than not he just assumed she was lying. 

                 ❝ I will, thank you. ❞

“Jamie Moriarty.”

It was hard not to see the woman whom Ian had spoken of all those years ago, the woman who had seemed intent upon tarnishing Jim’s name.  But then she thought about how Sherlock had recounted it – how Moriarty had essentially dismantled her entire criminal organization.  To Eirene, it had sounded like a declaration of love for a certain consulting detective, but she supposed that, in a sense, it was because of Jamie that she had her son back, even if much of the Irish Republican Army – the branch that had not been under Ian’s control – still answered to an entirely different source. She almost said thank you, but then she thought better of it.

“Congratulations.  ‘M happy for you an’ Sherlock.”

It wasn’t strictly speaking a rejection, but it stung all the same.

I don’t know you. Sherlock was struck again by the idea that he’d never been a stranger to her, that Jamie Moriarty had known him years longer than he’d known her – which meant the shift in perspective and power her amnesia caused should be as dizzying to her as it was to him. The bullet to her brain was not unlike the ground falling out from beneath her feet. She was in free fall, and he was standing at the clifftop, watching. He could still see the whole picture, she could only feel the wind whipping past. She didn’t know him. He meant nothing to her, apart from maybe a welcome break from routine. Of course she wouldn’t consent to living with him, his offer had been rash and poorly staged. He’d been rash.

                    But then, he was always rash when it came to her, wasn’t he ?

Sherlock sat back in his chair, hands in his lap clasping together a little tighter, one thumb brushing anxiously over the other. He stared intently at his shoes.  ❝  No. No, I don’t expect an answer now. Your– your release is still days or weeks away, it was wrong of me to burden you with talk of, um, what happens next …  ❞  He forced himself to look back up at her, though when he did he found it difficult to look her in the eye. His focus drifted to her scar, then flitted around the room. He offered a smile in recompense.  ❝  Funny your doctor warned me against asking questions but not against making grand gestures, when the latter seems far more destructive than the former.  ❞

Fifteen minutes nearly exhausted, Sherlock was of the mind to depart without answering her questions, but that wouldn’t be fair.  ❝  You, um …  ❞  Not that giving her the whole story right then would be any more fair; he’d have to find a middle ground, parting words. He heard footsteps down the corridor and knew it was someone coming to escort him from the building. Sherlock leaned in again. These, again, were words for her alone.  ❝  You and I are …  We’re– We are not– not average. That’s what drew you – past you – to me in the first place. We share a way of– a way of seeing the world, and, more importantly, of understanding what we see. And it’s not– it’s not a way anyone here can help you reclaim. But I …  I can.  ❞

❝  No, this particular routine is certainly not you.  ❞

Again, something said without thought, without a chance to remind his tongue to hold. It’d been reflexive; she was right in her assumption, he was confirming with a touch of sardonicism, in true form. Because he… well, he knew. He knew, beyond a doubt, this predicament, this routine, was not Jamie Moriarty. Sherlock shifted and abruptly leaned forward. When he spoke again his voice was soft and low, head cocked slightly, body turned so the guard at the door and the nurse across the hall and the doctors hovering nearby wouldn’t overhear.

❝  Would you stay with me ?  ❞  The words sounded far closer to a plea than he’d intended and he cringed inwardly. This wasn’t for his sake, this was for hers. He wasn’t desperately trying to reforge a connection long lost or rekindle something long extinguished, that wasn’t his angle, that would not be his angle. She’d always been the one with the angles, never him, he wouldn’t have an angle with her, not ever. She needed him, that was it, that was clear. She needed him, and she needed him to tell her she needed him.  ❝  After– after your carers see it fit to release you, would you– I’ve got a brownstone in the city. Not the most extravagant of places, and to your past standards it’s– well, it’s shabby, but it’s– I call it my sanctum sanctorum, it’s a– a place fit for a mind like–  ❞

Sherlock realized his eyes had wandered as far as his words and he was now focused on her hand, prone as it was atop her blankets. He swallowed and, resisting the urge to reach for her, folded his own hands in his lap, eyes flicking back to hers, a little more force in his voice as he continued with,  ❝  I know you.  ❞  Because he did. There was nothing to any of his doubts; he knew her. Their letters hadn’t meant nothing, they weren’t just another play, they meant a great deal to her, they were genuine articles from the mind of Jamie Moriarty and they were meant exclusively for him. He knew her. He knew her with a certain intimacy of which no one stumbling over the pins and needles strewn around them could even dream.  ❝  Though some may say I have reason to, I don’t feel bold claiming to know you better than anyone. The agents keeping watch on you, the doctors, they– I can give you more than they can.  ❞

At her jibe, Sherlock’s lips lifted at the corners almost imperceptibly. He’d never heard her joke without feeling anger bubble in his chest. There’d been times in her letters where she’d speak briefly on the incompetence of whoever had stolen the focus of their correspondence, and though more often than not he’d agree with her, her sneers had always brought a scowl. Jamie Moriarty’s words were always double edged. Even her jokes felt sinister, as meticulously planned as anything she did. Threats, they were. You look a bit tired. But now, this …  Sherlock looked over his shoulder. A nurse across the hall gave a small start and immediately averted her gaze. It was him they were scared of, not her. Her jokes were only jokes, they’d lost their edge. She’d lost her edge. She hadn’t had a weight removed from her shoulders, she’d been sanded down. Blunted. The weapon Jamie Moriarty had spent years sharpening had been damaged, reportedly beyond repair, and Sherlock felt his guard begin to relax.

❝  Had I known you were in such poor company …  ❞  He let the sentiment hang, unwilling to bring full attention to his neglect of her but incapable of leaving the matter entirely untouched. It was no mystery what her carers had said to her: absolutely nothing of substance. The hospital staff was under strict orders to focus only on the medicine and the federal agents were under stricter orders to extract from her anything they could. Neither interaction offered anything in return for what it took. Questions gone unanswered, fears gone unassuaged, empty mind left emptier still and primed to devour itself …  He wondered vaguely at her pining for intelligent conversation – it wasn’t as if she could remember ever having had an intelligent conversation. Or perhaps she could, just not specifically. She understood she was above average in intelligence, she understood the behavior of those around her was off, she understood the concept of amnesia – where did her understanding go dim? Sherlock made a mental note to spend ample time familiarizing himself with the nuances of retrograde amnesia. He’d neglected so far to devote himself to the subject as he had neglected to visit her – but now his doubts were stymied, he ached to fully grasp the situation, to fully grasp her.

       ❝  No, I won’t be interrogating you,  ❞  he promised, more to himself than to her. ❝  But I am willing to supply conversation and–  ❞  Sherlock wanted to tell her he’d answer any questions she may have. He wanted to tell her his mind was hers to pick and probe, that she was permitted, encouraged, to interrogate him rather than the other way around, but when it came down to it he couldn’t consent to that. He couldn’t sit there and explain who Jamie Moriarty was. Not just he wouldn’t, but he couldn’t. Painful memories aside, he was as empty headed as her if he thought for a second he knew enough about Jamie Moriarty to offer himself as some expert. He’d spent weeks trying to convince the FBI of that. Did he know her better than most? Yes. Did he know her? A large part of him screamed not at all.

Sherlock glanced at his watch.  ❝  Even if I wished to interrogate you, I haven’t got the time. I’m– they’ve only allowed us fifteen minutes. They’ll be in after me soon.  ❞

At first he doesn’t respond, merely purses his lips as he watches her. In his more honest moments he’d admit that he still felt a certain degree of pain at the nature of their courtship. She’d turned his life upside down and it’d taken the better part of two years to regain some sense of stability afterwards.                        ❝ Of course not. ❞

❝  You have a brilliant mind.  ❞

The words slipped without thought. They rolled off his tongue like rote fact in response to her musing and floated in the air between them as he fell silent once more. His eyes darted to his lap; his fingers began their self-stimulating routine, twisting against each other, knuckles rhythmically grazing the fabric of his trousers. He’d always been willing to admit how much of a genius Jamie Moriarty was, but the level of sheer admiration he’d just so readily spouted at her, at this stranger floundering in the shadowed expanse of a great mind, supplied his discomfort.

     Sherlock cleared his throat and elaborated:  ❝  Your ability to– to find connections is largely unmatch–  ❞  only to catch himself quite suddenly, the implications of what she’d said settling in his stomach. His eyes lifted back to her. She truly was floundering. To see but not connect, to be lost in the muddiness of superficial sense …  Sherlock couldn’t imagine. The real miracle wasn’t her surviving the gun shot wound, it was her maintaining her sanity having woken up without sensational restraint.

❝  The people caring for you are wary of me,  ❞  Sherlock said, a response to her initial question as he wrestled with how best to handle his revelation. His own mind had already begun connecting, developing plans to rehabilitate her deductive abilities, considering what this meant for potentially unlocking her memories, pondering what barring the one characteristic that had made Moriarty fundamentally Moriarty meant for the absolute character of the woman sitting before him. Realizing the phrasing surrounding wary would likely usher a why he was not prepared to fully answer, he hastened to add simplistic justification:  ❝  I’m a detective by trade. I think they fear I’ll attempt to interrogate you, and interrogation can be rather hard on the mind. Wouldn’t want me hindering your …  your recovery.  ❞

The guilt he felt at the question she’d let hang wasn’t so much a stab as it was a flare up of the dull ache his lower back had entertained since Jamie Moriarty had been shot. The notion that he’d feel anything in guilt’s echelon was, to any outside party, ridiculous. But he would not be deterred. Where Watson and Gregson and Bell were all adamant he had nothing to do with Jamie Moriarty’s attack, that she’d brought it entirely on herself with her activities, Sherlock saw all he had done. He’d put her in prison. He’d written her letters. He’d, according to her captors, instigated the change of heart that had lead to her agreeing to help the government and presumably prompted the attempt on her life. Sherlock had early on attributed as much of the blame for the attack to himself as the authorities had to the as-of-yet unidentified gunman. Had he not still been clutching his doubts with regard to her condition or her prior intent, he’d likely already be neck deep in exposing her attacker.

She gestured. He hesitated. It wasn’t until he noticed he’d missed something akin to a joke he realized he’d been staring rather intently. As if the absence of recognition wasn’t enough to stunt him, there was an aimless quality about her that nothing short of disturbed him. She was visibly frustrated, but not frustrated as he’d ever seen her. No one’s life was hanging in the balance, no plot or plan. She had no agenda, none at all. It looked odd on her. Her shoulders seemed lighter… and he realized that such a thing disturbed him was in itself disturbing.

Sherlock moved stiffly to the chair and sat, hands flat on his thighs and eyes never having left her. He wondered how he looked to her. The phrase you look a bit tired echoed in his ears. He wondered if he looked at all guilt-ridden or skeptical or any of the other adjectives he’d earned while she’d been recovering.

                                                     He wondered if she’d even recognize it if he did.

The mirror jumped out then, propped up on the hospital bed’s roll away table, encouraging anything from a glance to a prolonged staring match with herself. Sherlock had never much liked mirrors. Watson had even called him out for said aversion once. As it was, he pointed.

    ❝  Does that help ?  ❞  he asked. Then, once reprimanded by the ache in his back, added,  ❝  Forgive me.                                                       I was warned against asking questions.  ❞

                ❝ Why do politicians bother to act like people                       instead of the sniveling scrotums they are?                      The mind boggles. ❞ Perhaps his answer was a slight cop-out. He told himself he was here to make sure she wasn’t up to anything shady, but would he even be able to suss out if she was? Around her, his mind was BLANK and it was  unusually difficult to deduce what time it was, let alone her behaviour.              ❝ Have you any vindictive schemes on the horizon?❞

Sherlock, unbeknownst to him, hadn’t known what to expect.

He thought going to visit her might be reminiscent of when he’d sat with Irene fresh from the clutches of Moriarty and Mr Stapleton. It was the same hospital, after all. Same somber edginess in the air, same pins and needles all around him and her. The hospital staff, the feds, the officers, his colleagues, Gregson and Bell in particular, all moved around him so delicately, handled him with such care. Early on he’d expressed his skepticism with regard to her amnesia, insisted loudly and repeatedly in the presence of many respected officials that Jamie Moriarty was perfectly capable of faking memory loss, only to be “proven wrong” by brain scan after brain scan, indisputable evidence suggesting complete and total, unfakable amnesia. His doubts had remained. Those new to his unique relationship with the victim blamed his paranoia on his past experiences; those close to him quietly wondered if he might be right to be paranoid. Either way, pins and needles pricked the soles of everyone within spitting distance of Sherlock Holmes, Moriarty’s old flame. And that he’d refused to visit for so long hadn’t helped.

Visiting now, he found he did expect her to look like Irene. He expected she’d seem feeble, scared, disoriented, as she had as Irene – severe post-traumatic stress couldn’t be so far off from severe post-traumatic retrograde amnesia – as she’d faked as Irene. He’d been briefed on her condition when he’d arrived, told not to expect any recognition whatsoever, told to brace himself for any difference in her personality, told not to ask her any questions at all, under any circumstance, and told he’d only be granted fifteen minutes alone with her, just in case. By the brief’s end Sherlock could almost see blood seeping out of puncture wounds in the bottoms of the doctor’s feet – pins and needles – and expected the man was just following protocol.

Sherlock had expected doleful, damaged Irene, familiar, filling him with guilt.

Who he found was anyone but.

His lips pursed, eyes narrowing and jaw stiffening. There was nothing in her eyes when she looked at him and he felt all of a sudden ill as he realized she’d never looked at him with zero recognition. Even when they’d met, in London, in Irene’s flat, Jamie Moriarty had already been targeting him, Sherlock Holmes, for some time. She’d known him long before he’d know her and now… Now he was a stranger. For the very first time, he felt a perfect stranger to her.

     ❝  My name is Sherlock Holmes. I’m      ❞   I’m what?   ❝  … You knew me.  ❞