Got this one after binge watching "Blindspot". Mature themes throughout.

It was strange, waking up and having that stirring in your stomach telling you something was wrong. This wasn't my house. Yet the paper taped to the ceiling above me had the word 'home' scrawled in my handwriting. It was hard to accept. That this strange flat was my home, but then again, I felt this way every day. I just couldn't remember it. I sighed, lifting my hand to drag it down my face, only to frown at the tattoo on my palm.

Eat

"Don't tell me what to do." I grumbled half-heartedly, pushing myself up into a sitting position and stretching.

Odd thing was, I was completely nude and I tilted my head curiously, before spotting a paper on my end table. I picked up the note and scrunched my brows at the unfamiliar handwriting.

Had a great night.

Call me again sometime.

-Josh

I had no idea who this Josh person was, but the tattoo on the back of my left hand informed me of my bad habits. A small signature ortho rested just below the knuckle of my thumb and I groaned as I went towards the bathroom; throwing the note away with a number of others in a small trash can nearby.

"I really need to stop this one night stand thing."

I took a quick shower and climbed out to brush my teeth, only to frown at my reflection. Tattoos littered most of my torso, back, arms, and legs. Each with its own little meaning to remind me of something along with my journal and calendar, though I wasn't one who got into specifics, which made things harder. The coding on my upper right arm only further proved that; my mind easily unscrambling it after years of practice to find it having the address of my current and past home. I shook my head from the distraction and went to get dressed; grabbing a bowl of cereal upon entering the kitchen. I glanced at my calendar as I drummed my fingers on the black notebook in front of me. Hm, I need to go shopping. I leaned back in my chair and snatched a slip of paper from a notepad stuck to the fridge as I spun a pen around my fingers. I made sure to read my journal entry from the past few days first though, before I went around and checked the cupboards to see what I needed to buy at the store.

Milk, pickles, those caramel candies I like, shampoo, ice cream, etcetera. I mentally listed, writing it all down and stuffing the paper into my pocket before looking around. I spotted an arrow spray painted on the wall and followed it to the entry way where I found my keys, jacket, and iPod; tucking the keys and music player away as I pulled on the hoodie and headed out with a yawn. The trip to the store was uneventful, though I was grateful for the complicated map-like puzzle on my right forearm that prevented me from getting lost. As I was returning home, however, I wasn't really paying attention; my iPod playing loudly in my ears, so I didn't expect to be harshly ran into.

"Oi! What the hell, man?!" I shouted angrily as some of my groceries splattered out on the ground and the man scrambled to get up.

I grabbed him, kind of surprised at my own strength as I hefted him up from off the ground, and scowled at the man who struggled in my grip.

"Hey." I snapped at him. "I don't care what stupid meeting you're in a rush to get to, but you need to pay attention! Some people don't appreciate being ran into, you know!"

"Let me go!" He shouted back, reaching for something behind his back that made my eyes widen.

The glint of a knife made me lean back as the man slashed at my face, barely skimming my cheek before I released him. He went to make a bolt for it, but as I heard sirens approaching, I felt something in me snap. I growled and grabbed the back of the man's coat, surprising him as I yanked him back and slammed him into the ground. He struggled with me again, but I had the upper hand and I pinned him down with a grimace at the knife he had dug into my left forearm.

"I don't know what the hell you did, buddy, but I'm not letting you go." I snapped at him, shoving his arm back down and holding it with my knee.

"You don't understand!" He argued with me, wincing as he continued to try and get out from under me. "I'm not running from the cops! If he finds me, I'm screwed!"

I furrowed my brows. "Who? If who finds you?"

The man smirked suddenly, gesturing to his pocket. "In there. Take it. It's your problem now."

I was confused, but reached into his pocket and pulled out a flashdrive. "What? I don't—"

I looked back at the man, but he was foaming at the mouth now and I got up off him in a panic, not sure what had happened. He started seizing and I scrambled to try and think of what I could do, but then police swarmed the area and guns were aimed my way.

"Hands up!"

"Put your hands up!"

"Get on your knees!"

I did as they said, putting my hands up and kneeling down as they approached; one checking the guy I had pinned earlier and declaring him deceased as another brought my hands behind my back and arrested me.

"H-Hey, wait a minute!" I said as he took the flashdrive from me and handed it to someone else before pulling me up. "You don't think I did this, do you?!"

He ignored me and rattled on about my rights and such as he put me in the back of the police car while I groaned. Once having arrived at Scotland Yard and having my arm patched up, I repeatedly dropped my head onto the table in the interrogation room. I should have just left the guy. Why did I have to go and get involved? The door opened then and I lifted my head slightly; my handcuffed hands on top of my head as I rested my chin on the table. I didn't say anything, knowing that it was better not to unless I had something important to say to the older man in front of me; instead taking some time to look him over. He wasn't too bad on the eyes, despite his grey hair, but I wasn't into older guys and I waited to hear what he had to say as he sat across from me and flipped through my file.

"Claude Harkness?"

"That's me." I muttered and he glanced at me before nodding.

"You have a clean record, but it would be best if you just confess to what happened."

I frowned, sitting upright and glaring at him. "I didn't kill him."

He sighed. "We caught you on top of the man just before he died. No one else could have done it, so why don't you just make this easy for us and—"

"I didn't do it." I snapped. "The guy ran into me and knocked my groceries all over the place, so I confronted him. He pulled out a knife, I heard the cops and didn't want him running off and hurting someone else, so I pinned him down. Other than that, I did nothing."

"Then explain this." He said, sliding a photograph of the flashdrive they'd pulled off me.

I slid the photo back. "He gave that to me. Said it was my problem now. I have no idea what it has on it nor why he gave it to me. Honestly, I think he was just trying to get someone off his back. He did say something about not running from the cops."

"Because he was running from you."

I groaned, leaning back in my chair. "I didn't kill him! I don't even know the guy! I just let my temper get a little out of hand because he bumped into me! What'd he die from anyway?! Whatever it was, I doubt I have any evidence linking me to it."

"He was poisoned." The man said, as I narrowed my eyes. "Had a capsule in his tooth. Suicide."

"See? Not me."

"No, but you might have been the one to frighten him enough to resort to that measure."

"Are you serious?!" I shouted, getting annoyed at the narrow-mindedness of this detective. "I can't have done it! I don't even know what happened yesterday, much less plan out a murder while grocery shopping!"

The man shook his head and gathered up his things, standing to head out. "Feel free to explain that in court then. Because that's where you're going if you don't confess the next time I come in here."

"But I didn't do it!" I shouted after him, letting out a long groan, before frustratingly kicking his empty chair over. "You idiots. I can't have done it. It's completely impossible!"

Lestrade watched from the other side of the glass with a sigh as Claude leaned back precariously in her chair. Something wasn't adding up. Claude genuinely seemed innocent, but Lestrade had no other evidence other than what had been presented to him. Claude was the only on there who could have gotten Arthur Bennet to commit suicide for the flashdrive. Something of which even his best tech guys were having a problem decoding. Perhaps she can do it. He mused, though being reluctant to let the suspect mess with the evidence and possibly erase important data that could be a breakthrough for the case he was working on. Arthur was my only shot at finding out where the cargo was. With him dead, that only leaves Claude; who's obviously proving to be less than helpful. There was a knock on the door and he turned to see an annoyed looking Donovan standing there; tossing a thumb over her shoulder.

"The freak's here."

Lestrade nodded, heading out and to his office where Sherlock and John sat awaiting him.

"Did you get him?" Sherlock asked, straight to the point, as always.

"Yeah. He's dead." He replied, sighing and pulling a hand down his face as he sat behind his desk. "Cyanide capsule in his tooth. We have the person responsible in custody right now, but she's not confessing or giving us any help."

Sherlock frowned. "Let me talk to her."

"Absolutely not." Lestrade said firmly. "We've already got her for the death of Arthur and we'd have better luck waiting for the tech squad to crack the flashdrive we got from her than we do of her actually admitting to what happened."

John furrowed his brows. "What happened, exactly?"

Lestrade relayed what he knew back to the two, but Sherlock got up suddenly.

"Hey! Where are you going?"

"To interrogate her. Something's not right."

Lestrade groaned. "I already told you! She's not giving in!"

"Then what harm will there be if I speak with her?" Sherlock snapped and Lestrade knew he was beat and begrudgingly gave in.

"Fine. Do what you want, but don't blame me if anything happens. She's got a temper."

Sherlock scoffed. "Like I haven't dealt with that before."

I had been idly looking over my tattoos as I waited for the detective to come back, remembering things like my pet cat who'd died a year ago or that I shouldn't drink certain types of alcohol or that I was allergic to certain fruits. Of course, none of them outright said these things. I wasn't a walking billboard of things I liked and didn't like. They were puzzles though. Most of them anyway. Some were words, others coding, and some where even anagrams and cryptograms or long written out passages. I even had a few in other languages. Then there was the pictures. Some of those were even puzzles with double meanings and pictures within pictures, but others were just to remind me of things.

I was quickly distracted when the door opened though, looking up and expecting the detective, only for someone completely different to walk in. The man was tall with dark curly hair and this look about him like everyone else was below him. He immediately made me frown, not liking the way he was analyzing me as he sat across from me and steepled his hands in front of his chin silently. Neither of us said anything, just looking one another over until he finally spoke.

"Lestrade has informed me that you were caught red handed over the body of Arthur Bennet with the flashdrive that was on his person in your possession. Yet you continue to repeatedly claim innocence to the crime. Is that right?"

"The guy bumped into me, I got upset, he attacked me and I defended myself. Then he shoved a flashdrive into my hands, said it was my problem now, and then killed himself with some capsule or something. Okay? I didn't even know the guy's name until you mentioned it now. If I knew this was going to happen, I would have let him run from whoever it was instead of getting stabbed and arrested for a crime I didn't commit." I rattled off, narrowing my eyes at the man.

"What was on the flashdrive?" He asked and I leaned forward over the table slightly, being sure to enunciate my words to get the point across.

"I. Don't. Know." I leaned back and dropped my hands into my lap. "And if you idiots would look past the obvious and let me explain, then I could prove to you it wasn't me."

There was a hint of a smirk on his face for a split second before he too, leaned back.

"Very well. Explain. Why could you have not caused the death of Arthur Bennet."

"I don't remember yesterday." I said bluntly, making him raise a brow. "Or any day before that between now and an accident that happened on the eighth of December three years ago."

He frowned as I went on.

"I have anterograde amnesia." I said, having gestured to the two words etched into my skin just below the knuckle of my thumb. "Three years ago, I was in a head-on collision. Motorcycle versus truck. You can probably guess which one I was driving. But after that, I became unable to make new memories. More specifically, I live on a day-to-day basis. Every time I fall asleep, I forget what happened the previous day. So unless I woke up a few hours ago, knowing who this Arthur person was and what he was doing this very moment, then I suppose I could have killed him. But I can't even remember what happened yesterday, much less hunt down someone I never met and murder him for some stupid flashdrive with who knows what on it."

I glanced at the one-way mirror behind the man across from me, leaning to the side to give whoever was behind it a scathing glare.

"And if that idiot detective searched my house, then he'd know that there is nothing that could give me that information should I have even known the guy. And everything better be put back exactly where you found it!" I called out, before leaning back in the chair with a huff. "It's bad enough waking up in my own home and not knowing where I am, but it's worse if I go looking for something only to find it not where I labeled it to be."

"And how do we know you're not lying?"

My head snapped to the man across from me and I raised a brow.

"Seriously? I mean, if you're that desperate to find out, just keep me overnight and watch me have a panic attack the next morning when I wake up in a jail cell. And I hope that whenever you idiots come to the realization that I'm not who you're looking for, that you get me a cab, because I have no idea how to get home from here."

The man got up and left me alone once more, making me groan and drop my head back in annoyance. I'm so done with this.

Sherlock went to the other room where Lestrade and John had been watching his interrogation of Claude and drummed his fingers idly on his thigh as he watched her through the glass; Lestrade and John discussing things.

"I told you." Lestrade grumbled. "She's not confessing. And who knows if her amnesia story checks out. Our best bet is to put her in holding and see what they bring in from checking her flat."

"I don't know." John said, watching Claude as well. "She seems pretty innocent to me. Anterograde amnesia is exactly what she said, though I've only heard of one other case where they can only remember a day at a time."

"The tattoos." Sherlock said, drawing their attention to him.

"What?"

He pointed at her through the mirror. "Her tattoos. They're not normal tattoos. Look at them."

John came over and looked as well, but not seeing what Sherlock was. "I mean, some of them are weird, but they look pretty normal to me."

Sherlock groaned. "Look at the one on her upper right arm. It's computer coding. And the other one on her left forearm. It's a cryptogram."

"So?" Lestrade said.

"So everything." Sherlock responded, a bit of bite to his tone as he grew more annoyed at their idiocy. "She's smart. More than smart. Her body is covered in codes and secrets because she's hiding information from others, but needs it readily accessible due to her condition."

"I don't understand." John said, lost. "Is she some kind of spy or something?"

Sherlock shook his head, smirking at the woman through the glass. "Oh, no. They're secrets, but they're her secrets. Written all over her body. You've got to be pretty smart to figure them out, but she needs those reminders. Enough so that she had them permanently etched into her skin."

"You said they're her secrets." Lestrade said, equally lost. "Can they help us in any way?"

"Oh, no, no. They're of no help to us, unless you're making her lunch, in which case the cryptogram on her left forearm says she's allergic to peaches."

"Huh?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, explaining as simply as he could. "They're information to help her remember important things. Memories of past events, allergy information, bank numbers, etcetera. She basically has her entire life written out on her skin, but is clever enough to put it in codes that she can figure out to keep others from finding out her weaknesses; so to speak. But the coding on her shoulder." Sherlock pointed at the list of numbers peeking out from under her sleeve as she yawned in the other room. "She does computer coding. Coding that even I'm unable to figure out, so it's possible she can help us yet."

Lestrade connected the dots in his head and frowned. "No. Absolutely not. I am not letting my suspect touch evidence, Sherlock!"

"Oh, she's hardly a suspect." He drawled. "She's telling the truth about her amnesia. Why else would she have her own telephone number etched into her skin as Morse Code? Give her a computer and the flashdrive. And if you still doubt her, keep her overnight and do it the next morning. She'll be more than confused, but perhaps you can convince her of hiring her and putting her in protective custody or something." He shrugged off. "I wish to be here for the process, however you decide to do it. So text me. Come along, John."

John gave Lestrade a small shrug as the older man sighed and returned to the interrogation room to give Claude a rundown of what was going to happen.

"You want me to what?" I asked the detective; Lestrade, he said his name was.

"We're going to hold you overnight to test your claim and if you prove innocent, then we were hoping to get your help in decoding the flashdrive Arthur gave to you. Sherlock seems to think you'd be able to decode it."

I snorted. "First off, you arrested me for a murder I didn't commit. I don't see why I should help you."

He frowned, but I rolled my eyes.

"That being said, I'll probably do it anyway since I won't remember this whole mess. But!" I narrowed my eyes at the man. "I have some conditions if you want my help. And in exchange, I won't tell the media about my wrongful arrest. Which I will, remember, though I won't tell you how."

"Alright. What are your conditions?"

"First, I want food. And none of that crap you give prisoners. I want Chinese takeout." I said, earning a surprised look from the man as I went on. "Second, I want a soda and ten minutes to myself with my journal that you probably found while searching my place. You can take it back when I've finished and read it over in case you think I'll be telling myself something I shouldn't. But I want it returned to me tomorrow after I decode your flashdrive. It's imperative I get it back, because that has my last three forgetful years in it. Okay?"

He nodded and I gave out my next demand.

"And I want my tattoo artist brought here so I can get another one."

That made him turn his head in surprise.

"W-What?"

"You heard me. I've got his number and he makes house calls. I need another tattoo in order to remember something important. I'll even give you the design if you're so worried about it, but it has nothing to do with this case." I paused. "Well, not exactly. I've got to remember Sherlock somehow, seeing as he got me out of a bind. But that's all it is, really. Oh!"

I pointed at Lestrade with a stern look.

"And I expect someone to go grocery shopping for me, seeing as I got arrested before I could get my stuff home. You guys took the list from my pocket, and everything's labeled in the cupboards and fridge, so it shouldn't be too hard for your police friends to put things away for me so I don't starve when I get home."

He nodded with a sigh as I scribbled down the number for my tattoo artist and handed it back to him.

"I'll see what I can do."

"Hm, better do it all, or you can struggle with that flashdrive for ages." I threatened, turning away from him with another yawn. "Please and thank you."

Of course, it wasn't long before I was relaxing soundly in a small cell that was in the building; having had all of my demands met rather easily. I shifted uncomfortably though, doing what I could to ignore the ever present ache on my hip from where my newest tattoo laid and my bandaged arm. The scarf wearing skull with a padlock leaning up against it with the word 'sher' in black writing on the shackle seemed like a funny joke to me almost. Sherlock. Clever me. I shook my head of the thought though and rolled over onto my other side as a sad frown overcame my face. Sorry, future me. But tomorrow's going to suck. And with that final thought, my eyes slipped closed and I fell asleep; waking up in a panic.