Chapter Text
Nothing ever happened to John Watson. Nothing ever really had. He was still in the same harbour town that he had always existed in, with the same townsfolk and fishermen and traveling traders who haunted the sad little place. The same things happened day in and day out, and nothing ever seemed to change. John had, a time or two, thought of maybe leaving and heading inland to see if his medical training could be put to better use there than here, where normal everyday illnesses and a few dockside accidents prevailed, but it was never more than a stray thought. Something always felt empty, in John... Felt missing. There was a constant yearning, a gnawing sadness that he couldn't place, and more than once a day, he found himself staring off beyond the docks and out to the open sea as if all of the answers to questions he couldn't begin to ask lay in the cold water. When push came to shove, the thought of ever leaving this place and it's easy access to the sea was detestable, and left him with a vague sense of panic and unease. No. It was best that John stayed here, for now.
The day that John's life changed seemed no different than any other, at the outset. It was a stormy sort of day in August, and the rain came down in sheets, unsympathetic to the way that it soaked through John's threadbare coat and ran in icy rivulets down his neck to dampen his shirt at the back. He had just had his lunch at the tavern, and was hurrying back to the little shop he shared with the town's butcher. There had been a spare room used for storage that they made up for John to see the sick in, and the arrangement worked well for him.
Coming up the back of the shop, through an alley, John paused when he heard his name.
"Oi! I mean Sir! John Watson? Is your name being John Watson, Sir?"
The voice came from a young man... a kid, really. He was slight and dirty, his breeches patched in places with even dirtier fabric. He clutched what looked more like a discarded blanket around his shoulders than a jacket or cloak, and he was accompanied by a larger man who seemed to be about John's age. The older man was cradling his right arm, face pinched in pain. Sighing, John waved them over closer to him, where the slight faded awning that covered the door he had been prepared to go through provided a bit of protection for the three of them from the rain that was still falling mercilessly.
"Been working down at the docks, I take it?" John asked as he beckoned the two over. The boy looked a bit sheepish as they hesitated, the older guy seeming to hang back.
"We ain't got any monies, sir. We ain't got any, but they sends us to you, they does. They says 'find John Watson.' so's I did that, sir. You is John Watson, isn't you?"
John sighed, but nodded, smiling slightly at the boy, and then his companion. "It's fine. No money is fine, I'll help you. Yes, I am John Watson. Why don't you come with me into my rooms, here, and I'll get everything set up to see what's going on, alright?"
The two looked at each other and nodded, then looked at John, who smiled comfortingly at them. As John turned to unlock the door, however, he heard footsteps too quickly to react. There was a dirty rag held to his nose and mouth, and John distantly thought about the headache that he'd be having later, before he blacked out.
---
When John regained consciousness, he stayed very still, eyes closed. Taking stock of everything he could, he went over what he could tell of his situation before confronting his captors. His wrists were tied behind his back, and his feet tied together at the ankle. The bonds were secure, but not painful, not meant to be cruel and cutting. With no gag, and no blindfold, he was lying on his side in what was likely a small row boat with the kid holding the blanket that had been around his shoulders over both his and John's head to try and keep the rain off as much as possible. It seemed as if the storm had strengthened, and John couldn't ever remember a storm being quite this bad before. The small boat already had an inch or so of water in it from the rain, and John was soaked through and freezing. It was that, more than anything else, that made him finally try to sit up, groaning at his head.
"Wiggins, keep an eye on 'im. Won't do for 'im to go and be makin' a fuss and tip us."
The command, shouted over the sound of the wind, came from the larger man, and the kid nodded with an air of self importance, leveling John with a stare as if he could glare John into keeping still. As cold and wet as he was, he knew that landing in the water (for they had started rowing out by then) would be exponentially worse.
"Where are you taking me? Why are you taking me?" John managed to croak out, wincing against his headache, and the rain that seemed to blow sideways into his face.
Wiggins just pointed to a medium sized sloop that was anchored precariously in an out of the way place, not along with the rest of the ships. The sails were down, and, curiously, the flag, as well. John could count holes for ten cannons, though they seemed to be lashed tightly away because of the horrible storm. Even though John didn't have any reason, or a lick of proof, his mind pushed the word Pirates front and center. Freezing, John looked at the daunting vessel, waiting for fear to race through him, and for anxiety to steal away his breath, for surely being captured by pirates who had asked for him by name wasn't at all a good sign. He waited... but all he felt was a vague sense of relief, and a great amount of excitement.
John frowned at himself, and shook his head. Preposterous. His brain must have been addled by being knocked unconscious, earlier. It was the only explanation for his obvious sudden madness.
He squinted at the ship, closer now than it was before, and noticed that it surely seemed as if the storm was getting worse the closer they got to it. It was almost as if the storm were squatting over the poor sloop, punishing it for some secret misdeed. That, too, was preposterous, as storms didn't care to punish one certain thing, and only did as they pleased. The ship must have just been unlucky enough to moor itself right where the worst bit of the storm was.
Unlucky for John and his captors, too, as their tiny row boat was no match for the rain and the waves. By now, Wiggins had forgotten John completely in favor of bailing out water with a small bucket, and the whole operation was listing from side to side nauseatingly. John could do naught to help, as he was still trussed up like a Christmas turkey, but he also didn't offer to help, as they were drawing closer, now, and it didn't seem likely that they'd sink before they arrived at their destination.
The ship loomed ever closer, though not by the virtue of the man who was rowing the tiny boat. Against the angry sea's churning, his oars did as much good as if he had been using feathers for the job. Regardless, they were soon close enough for the man to throw his useless oars into the bottom of the boat and grab onto a rope that was trailing for the side. Wiggins flashed a knife and john held very still as if any movement would either send their tiny boat crashing to splinters against the hull of the ship they were next to, or cause Wiggins to slip with the knife and cut something other than rope. While this was happening, a large bell was pulled from under the only bench seat, and swung wildly. The deep clanging seemed to cause a commotion above their heads, as shouting broke out, and a sturdy rope ladder was lowered down.
Standing was precarious in the boat, but John was made to do it anyway, and he grabbed onto the rope ladder. It all seemed very dangerous and he was again reminded that he should likely be scared, but, in truth, he had to disguise his grin as a grimace as Wiggins lashed his waist to the ladder with the rope that had been binding his wrists.
"You hold onto that, John Watson." His large captor shouted over the increasing wind. "You hold onto that, or God rest all of our souls. Good luck."
He rang the loud bell again and, with a lurch, the ladder started to be pulled up.
John instantly knew that he'd have a good few bruises from this particular leg of his sudden journey. The wind whipped around him, bashing him against the wooden hull time and time again as he was raised slowly. His fingers were icy and numb, and every one of his muscles seemed to want to seize up at that exact moment. John knew that he had to hold on, though, and he grit his teeth as he gripped the rope.
After what seemed like years, there were strong hands gripping his jacket, shoulders, then his arms and chest, then one strong arm around his waist and John gracelessly flopped to the deck like a fish. His fingers couldn't seem to let go of the rope, and he was shaking so hard that he distantly mused that he must actually more closely resemble a dying fish than a human.
As he was stripped of his jacket and wrapped in a rough blanket, he felt sleep taking him under, and he was much too out of his mind with cold and exhaustion to realise that the storm had abruptly stopped as soon as he had touched the deck.
---
"Get him to his quarters. Help me lift him, for God's sake, Donovan."
"He's too cold. Look at him, he's too cold. What's gonna happen if-"
"That won't happen, so I'll thank you to shut up about it."
"He really is very pale, Lestrade. Keep him still and don't jostle him as much as possible, and continue to check his pulse. It's frightfully slow, right now, so if it drops too much more, or he stops breathing, come get me immediately. You and Mike are going to have to strip him when he's below decks. Strip him and put him into his bed... no the bed from before not... not the one he moved to."
"Won't do, will it, Molly? Until we know for sure..."
"Exactly, so put him in his old room. The bed's made up, already. Cover him as much as possible, even his head, but not his face, and I'll get tea going, and bring it down with some warming pans for the foot of the bed."
"So he's just out because of the cold and wet? Nothing else is wrong with him? Not... you know..."
"I don't know, Sally, I can't very well ask him. Sorry. That was mean. Sorry, sorry. It's just stressful."
"If you'll start heating water for a bath... Yes, I know it's difficult and scarce, and this means we'll not have one for a while, but God damn it, Anderson, if something happens to the Captain, and Sherlock finds out that it's because you wanted to wash in warm water, may God have mercy on your soul. Now move."
"Who's going to tell Sherlock? Of course, he likely already knows, you know how he is. How he's been. But... someone's got to tell him that he's on board and... you know, mostly alive."
"I will... I'll do it. Let me get him settled and out of the wet clothes and into bed, and I'll go to the Captain's quarters."
---
When John came to, he was in his bed, safe and dry. He was still shivering, but at that point, the shivering was a blessing, because it meant that his body was trying to regulate it's temperature. Everything was sore, his head was pounding, and he felt more exhausted than he could ever remember being. He felt happy, too, and more at home than he figured he ever had before, and he shifted with a contented sigh, before he froze. A small gasp had revealed that he was not alone, and John kept his eyes closed, even though he knew that the room's other inhabitant was most likely already aware that he was awake. Slowly opening his eyes, John was presented with a pair of wide eyes that had both the depth and the color of the very sea that they were sailing on. John had opened his mouth to protest someone watching him sleep, or ask if he was a doctor, or demand to know why he had been abducted, or any number of other relevant thing in that moment. All John could do, however, was let out a small sound as the words died in his throat. His mouth was left softly open as his eyes searched the face that he was so sure he'd never seen before, and was also so very very sure that he knew better than his own.
"Do I... I feel like I..." John frowned and let out a huff of amused frustration, his face contorting between the two emotions. "I don't know... Just... just, what's your name?"
John saw a few things happen very quickly... almost too quickly for him to catch. It was as if he were trained in reading this man's face, though, because John could translate every nuance and flash of those eyes as if it were his native language. When John's eyes had been roving over that nearly familiar face, the man had been almost smiling, a surprised sort of elation crawling over the porcelain features. It looked like smiling was something that he hadn't practiced for a while, but his entire face transformed with just the barest hint of it. There was fear, there, as well, and hesitation, but the way those eyes lit up made John want to keep them that way.
As John looked lost and started his hesitant speaking, however, every feature on the other man's face slowly morphed, falling and melting and going to desperation to resigned determination to utter fear to hollow sadness to a blank facade... an impenetrable wall. John's own face registered shock for a moment, as he watched the emotions fall over the man's face as if he were watching a building crumble. He felt the need to apologise, but he didn't know why, and he wasn't sure what he had done to cause the sudden shift, but he knew that he would undoubtedly do anything to make those amazing eyes light up again.
"Right. Of course. I'm Sherlock Holmes." The man... Sherlock... said, voice coming out a bit strained. "You've got questions."
John could only frown as he watched Sherlock, wondering, still, what he'd done. Maybe all of these people thought he was someone that he just wasn't. Maybe John was just a disappointment. "Why am I here?" John asked softly, looking at his lap, now, unable to face the impassive mask that the other man had pulled on after the doctor had woken up and instilled such disappointment in him.
Sherlock sighed, and sat back in the chair he'd been occupying since well before John woke up. Instead of answering John's question, he let out a volley of his own. "Have you ever felt as if you belonged where you were, John? Have you ever felt as if your life there held meaning for you? That you were wanted and needed there? Did any bit of that town ever feel like home? Did you have purpose, happiness? Or were you simply existing? Did you crave excitement and not know why? Did you feel as if you were simply waiting for your real life to happen while you spent time going about your business? Were you... were you loved? Did you feel whole?"
John knew that he didn't imagine the way that Sherlock's voice wavered on certain parts of his quiet interrogation, an interrogation where he left no room for John to even begin to answer any of the questions. John kept his eyes to his lap, trying to place the quilt that was covering him (that he seemed to know very, very well), until his eyes snapped up on the word loved, just as Sherlock's voice did something odd. John stared at the man who was no longer looking at him, and took a slow breath. He released it just as slowly, trying to gather his thoughts. No matter how he tried to explain himself, how he tried to defend the perfectly alright and mostly pleasant life that he'd built for himself... No matter what he thought he could say as to the state of his well being and his emotions and the reasons for him staying in such a small town, every excuse died on his lips. After a few false starts, John sagged, feeling exhausted. "No... I just.. I... you're right. No. The answer to every question is no."
For some reason, the dark haired man looked satisfied at John's answer, though why he would take pleasure in the face of John's unhappy life was beyond the realm of John's thoughts. He apparently wasn't done making him think, though, because the next set of questions left John gaping up at him with a horrified look on his face.
"John. Can you tell me about your family? Your childhood? Tell me what your favorite thing was that your mother cooked for you. Tell me if you had siblings, if you'd always lived where you were when we found you. Tell me about your schooling, if you went to school. Where did you learn your trade? How do you know how to fix people when they're ill or broken? Tell me what your father did for work. Can you tell me anything about your life before three years ago?"
Realisation dawned as slow and oppressive as tar, and for a moment, John couldn't breathe. Every time he tried to think back past his current situation, it was as if a fog was blocking him from remembering anything. How had he gone so long without knowing anything about his past? Why hadn't he cared that everything before now was blank? He shook his head, though whether it was to clear the confusion, or to deny that he had no past was uncertain. He had no knowledge of his parents, or if he even had parents. He couldn't remember his childhood, or adolescence. John... couldn't remember anything.
He looked up desperately to the man who was forcing these things on him, and Sherlock had the decency to look slightly pained at the way John's face begged for answers before he had even opened his mouth.
"No... God, no. I don't... I can't. Why are you... What is... Who the fuck am I? What's happened to me?"
Sherlock leaned forward, hesitantly, as if afraid that he'd be thrown off if he so much as got close to John. Putting his hands on the blond's shoulders, he gently pressed him back so that he was lying down again, as John had shot up in bed from his panic. John was really feeling very tired, and Sherlock seemed to recognise this. "You are Captain John Watson, medical man, and a very accomplished sailor. There are many, many things that you should know, but I'm afraid at this point it will hinder your recovery, rather than help it. You just need to trust me when I say that all of us here on this ship are only looking out for your renewed mental and physical health, your happiness, and you as a whole. We are, all of us, very glad to have you aboard, John."
Sherlock smiled again, though it was tinged with a bit of sadness, as he murmured softly, "Sleep, John. Sleep, and we can start to work on this when you are well again..." while stroking the hair off of John's brow. Though John usually wasn't one for people touching him, or being able to rest well when he wasn't alone (and armed), he found himself lulled to sleep unusually quickly, Sherlock's voice and warm hands sending him under effortlessly.
---
The next few weeks were the hardest that John thought that he'd ever faced. At first, he worked primarily with a wonderfully nice girl called Molly, who helped him first through the hypothermia, then through the near crippling sea sickness that she assured him was completely normal. She kept slipping up, though. John caught her saying "Just have to get your sea legs back again, don't we, Capt-... Oh... oh no... oh, here, drink this... that's good, hm?" Each time she would speak about something that she was obviously instructed not to, or didn't mean to, she would turn red, and her hands would flutter around, picking up and putting down insignificant items. It would usually end in her making John drink tea, which he didn't mind in the slightest.
Another frequent visitor was a man named Lestrade. He was kind, a bit older than John, but John also thought that he'd gone grey a bit prematurely, making him seem older than he was. He had kind eyes, and a warm laugh, and it made John feel quite as if he didn't care that he couldn't remember his family. Everyone on board seemed awfully nice, and to genuinely like him. He hadn't felt this cared for or appreciated in what he could remember of his life, and even though he knew that, rationally, he should be trying to escape or hating these people who captured him, he couldn't. There was something that he couldn't place, here. Something that felt right.
At night, most days, Sherlock came to John's room. Sometimes John only knew it because he felt a hand stroking at his face, or he'd hear the haunting sound of a violin being played. John hadn't been sure, at first, why he connected the music from his dreams to the man with the dark curls and beautiful eyes, but one night he swore he awoke to see Sherlock there, standing with a violin, stringing a bow. "Sleep, John." he murmured, and when the music started, John did just that.
---
Many times, John tried to ask Molly or Lestrade about Sherlock, but he was rebuffed at every turn.
"But why won't he even come talk to me? Did I offend him so badly? Is he afraid I'll be angry? I'm not angry, Molly. I'm really not, I just want... I need to speak to him. He knows things about me that even I don't. Hell, so do you. So does everyone on this damned boat, but no one's telling me a thing. I'm not some fragile ornament, you know. I can handle whatever you lot are hiding. He doesn't have to stand like some wraith in the darkness of my room, only coming to see me when I'm either asleep, or too tired to be much of a conversationalist. What's he scared of?"
Molly just held her breath at John's second tirade on the subject that day. To be fair, there wasn't much to talk about, and they'd exhausted their normal avenues of conversation. She let her breath out slowly, as if restraining herself from shaking John by the shoulders and shouting the proper answer at him. Instead, she said what she always seemed to.
"Sherlock knows what he's doing, if he doesn't think that it's good for you to talk to him just now, then he's likely right. Plus, he's running the ship and that takes a lot of time out of the day. He's not... really... avoiding you, John. I can promise you that he wants to be here probably more than you want him here. That was probably too much. Oh, damn. Okay. Would you like some tea?"
---
"Lestrade, I think we're mates, right?"
The man looked up from the compass that he was polishing and stopped whistling, frowning at John's question with his lips still pursed, which made John chuckle, despite his frustration. He looked at John curiously, then, obviously thinking that John's memories started to come back.
"We are, John. Pretty good mates, if I say so myself. And I do, mind you. What... er.. what brought this on, then?"
John's mouth was set into a grim line that made Lestrade's tentative smile fade rather quickly.
"Good, because as your mate, I'd like to tell you that if you don't get that poncy git who captains this ship to come and talk to me like a man, I will defy Molly's orders and march above decks when it's not an approved time. I will search this place high and low until I find the mad bastard myself. Then, I will refuse to leave his side until he talks to me like he damned well knows he should."
Lestrade was obviously not prepared for this outburst, and if John weren't trying to look intimidating, he would chuckle again at the shock written across Lestrade's face. He nodded once, then paused, and nodded again. Putting his cleaning cloth into his pocket, and the half shined compass in the other, he stood up and shifted his weight from foot to foot for a bit, looking down at John.
"You're not just saying that, are you?" Lestrade asked, nodding to himself yet again when he saw John shake his head definitively. "Right. Okay, then. I'll just... It's." he chuckled wryly. "It's good to have you ba-... to have you here, John. It really is. I'll... I'll go and tell him what you said, then, and hopefully he'll listen to me. Just... sit tight."
---
Even though John had been half frozen to death the last time that he had seen the man before him, he somehow remembered that his eyes weren't usually that sunken in and ringed with dark smudge like bruises from lack of sleep. Nor were his cheekbones usually so prominent, and his clothes weren't usually hanging so loosely. Maybe the man he remembered was one from a fever dream, but the one sulking in a corner of John's dim room seemed entirely too frail.
"Sherlock. When was the last time you ate? Slept?" The words were out of John's mouth before he realised he was saying them, and he sat up to throw his legs over the side of the bed. He was done with facing this man whilst lying in a sick bed, and he would like to have a conversation with him in some semblance of a normal situation.
Sherlock's face looked surprised for a split second, before John saw a flash of pain. As quickly as the emotions had crossed the taller man's face, though, they disappeared behind the calm mask that John had come to associate as the "dealing with John" face. John despised it. He wanted to know what Sherlock was feeling, thinking. He wanted to know what was really going on in that brain of his.
"Sit down." John said gently, not waiting for Sherlock to follow the directive before he started on the speech that he'd been going over in his head since Lestrade had left an hour before.
"I know, by now, that I have history here. I know that something has happened to me, and my memories have left me... certain memories, at least. It must be hard for you..." At this, Sherlock tried to scoff, having just sat in the rickety chair near John's bed that he'd sat in the first night to question him. John just sighed and continued. "It must be hard for everyone, because I know that it's hard for me. Some things seem so very familiar, but there's nothing that tells me why. It's frustrating, and all I want is for you to tell me everything." He held up his hands as Sherlock opened his mouth to protest. "I know that you feel like you can't, or you shouldn't, but that doesn't stop me from wanting to know. You seem to be concerned about me getting better, and remembering, but Sherlock..." John sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face. "Keeping me locked up in my cabin isn't going to make my memories come back. Having me still and resting and bored to tears isn't going to make me get better. I need to work, I need to be useful. Being in here is killing me."
Sherlock looked confused at this explanation, and didn't seem to grasp that his carefully laid out plans for John's memories to come back weren't making any headway. "But..." Sherlock started, leaning forward as he studied John. "But I've been conducting experiments designed specifically to trigger optimum memory recovery by using sensory modality and carefully stimulating your senses. Your brain should easily make connections when confronted with the tests that I have designed."
It was John's turn to look confused, licking his lower lip as he thought. "Okay, I'm... not going to pretend that I caught all of what you just said, but I did catch 'experiment'. Is this why you've been playing your violin for me when I can't sleep?"
Sherlock smiled proudly, as if glad that John put two and two together. "Auditory trigger."
"And the time I woke up to find a sprig of rosemary hanging from a string attached to the ceiling, right above my face?"
"Olfactory trigger."
John laughed, staring at Sherlock happily. "And all of the tea that Molly keeps pushing me?"
Sherlock seemed to relax a bit, sitting back and watching John with one leg crossed over the other. "Gustatory perception trigger."
Grinning, John shook his head. "Amazing. You're amazing. You're a walking marvel, aren't you?"
The same surprised and pained look crossed Sherlock's face for a moment, and he tensed up again. John wondered what he'd done wrong, and felt himself closing off again as well. The two stared at each other for what was likely a much longer time than was generally comfortable for most people, but neither of them moved to stop doing so. After a while, John sighed softly. "I really would appreciate it, though, if you could give me some jobs on the ship to see if muscle memory kicks in and I remember what it is that I used to do, here. Maybe with more outside... stimuli?" he said, raising an eyebrow to indicate that he wasn't sure if he was using the word correctly. "Instead of just in here, things will happen more naturally. Maybe just give me the job that I used to have, here, and we can work from there. Or something simple if you don't think that I can handle it."
Sherlock stood up, cold exterior firmly in place. "I cannot possibly give you back your previous job, John, at this time." he said quickly, not sparing John a glance as he smoothed his coat out. "You see, you asked for the man who captained this ship to come and speak with you. I am not he. I am merely the acting Captain until such time as our Captain is able to take command of the vessel again. I will talk with Lestrade, and he will set up some work for you to begin on starting this evening, if you so wish it."
Sherlock turned from the doorway, to a still rather confused looking John, still sitting up on his bed in his long white night shirt that he'd been given the first night he was aboard.
"We will see you topside after Lestrade comes to fetch you, later. I'll have him bring you more suitable clothes. Good day, Captain Watson."