His mind floated at the edge of consciousness just for a moment. "Mr Holmes, can you hear me?" someone said, and then he sank into oblivion once more.

When he finally opened his eyes there was an elderly couple sitting next to his hospital bed; as a matter of fact, he had deduced he was in hospital even before he was fully awake.

A man and a woman in their seventies. Both of them anxiously looking at him, obviously worried over his health conditions. Parents, clearly.

"Mother?" he tried gingerly, and the woman took his hand in her own.

"Sherlock, my dear boy – how are you feeling?"

So that was his name. Sherlock. Interesting.

"My head, it hurts like hell."

"Suspect hit you, that's what Mycroft said. If I ever lay my hands on the wretch –"

"We shouldn't upset him, darling," the man chided her gently, and she promptly snapped her mouth shut.

His last coherent thought before sleep claimed him again was for this mysterious Mycroft person. From the way the woman had uttered the name he could easily deduce it was another of her sons, and therefore his own brother.

Apparently his name was Sherlock Holmes, and he had at least one brother. That was very, very interesting.

xxx

More visitors followed. Now was the turn of a Scotland Yard man, along with a former army doctor and his wife.

"I'm glad to see you awake, mate. You had all of us holding our breath at the Yard."

"Did you really?" he muttered, fishing for further information.

"You bet. And I had to take John home myself, the good doctor had worked himself into such a state."

"I, well, I was worried," the man named John cut in defensively. A close friend, then. And, from the faded stain on his shirt, he was father to an infant too.

"How's the baby, John?" Sherlock prompted nonchalantly, and was rewarded with a smile.

"She's fine, thank you. Molly is babysitting for us, Mary and I just couldn't wait to see you."

"Hm. You should go back to her then."

"Don't you do anything stupid, understood?"

"Understood," he agreed, though he hadn't the faintest idea what they were talking about.

John's wife kissed him lightly on the cheek, then the three of them slipped out of the room. A pity that nobody had thought to mention the name of the Scotland Yard man – a detective inspector, if he wasn't very much mistaken.

Well, he needed to process the information now. He closed his eyes and took a walk along the empty corridors of his mind.

xxx

An elderly woman and a nervous female doctor came next. No, not a doctor; something related though, a forensic technician perhaps. He took a good look at her hands – which she kept twisting for some reason – and found the answer written in the traces of old scars.

Pathologist it was, then.

"Oh, Sherlock, we've been so worried about you," the lady said plaintively. "Why do you always have to put your life on the line?"

"Well, apparently I'm still alive."

"Poor John was so upset, you know?"

"Come on, Mrs Hudson," the younger woman murmured soothingly, "I'm sure that Sherlock didn't do it on purpose."

"I should hope so, Molly dear. That doesn't make it any easier for us all, does it?"

He took a deep breath, then made eye contact with the pathologist. It was as clear as day that she had a thing for him, and that only meant she would be more compliant to his request.

"Molly, I'm really tired now. Would you be so kind to take Mrs Hudson back to her flat?"

"Of course. We'll see you in a few days, I hope."

She didn't kiss him goodbye, but he could tell that she really wanted too.

xxx

He had just finished inspecting the contents of his wallet and mobile phone when a self-important bloke wearing an expensive suit walked in.

"Hello, brother dear," the man greeted him, and he could detect a condescending note about his tone.

"Mycroft," he acknowledged him, instantly perceiving that his sibling was far more observant than the whole lot of friends and family he'd met so far.

"How are we feeling today?"

"Definitely better. I should be discharged soon."

"Back to Baker Street then? Mrs Hudson will be relieved, it would appear that she doesn't know what to do with herself without you around."

He shrugged noncommittally. "You know Mrs Hudson."

"I do," Mycroft said very slowly. "I'm wondering if you do though."

"What do you mean?"

"You're not being your usual self, Sherlock. And while you're smart enough to fool your friends, I'm no goldfish myself."

They stared at each other for a silent moment. "Nonsense. A blow to my head is irrelevant to my mental skills."

"To your deductive skills, maybe. What about your memory?"

"I could recite you all the elements of the periodic table, if you want me to."

His brother turned his attention to the handle of his umbrella. "I see. What about your personal memories?"

"My name is Sherlock Holmes, I live at 221B Baker Street. I'm a consulting detective – the one and only consulting detective, as a matter of fact. I solve cases, and my friend John blogs about it. Or at least he used too, since he recently got married and had a child. Mrs Hudson is my landlady, while Molly is a pathologist who occasionally helps me with my investigations. And the Detective Inspector – his name eludes me at the moment – has consulted me on many a case, albeit reluctantly. You're my brother Mycroft, you have a power complex and clearly enjoy ruling our country in your spare time. Our parents are far too ordinary for either of our likings, but then you can't always get what you wish for."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed imperceptibly. "Good. Your deductive skills aren't failing you."

"I'm sorry?"

"Any fool could research you and come pretty much to the same conclusions. Those aren't actual memories, just good deductions."

"Oh, please."

"Prove it, little brother. Do you remember Redbeard?"

Silence fell as he desperately racked his brain for a logical answer. "A pirate?" he shrugged at last, and he knew he had lost.

A sigh fell from his brother's lips. "You've no idea who you are, have you?"