I sat up in a panic, covered in a cold sweat after a nightmare of my accident; the blaring truck horn still ringing in my ears and the headlights still blinding me temporarily. I grimaced and dropped my head into my hands, rubbing at my eyes before looking around and freezing. I was lost. Completely alone in a room that was more than unfamiliar. There was bars on one side though and I paled. A-Am… Am I in jail? W-What happened? How did I get here? I looked around frantically, feeling my breath hitch in my throat. W-What did I do? I forced myself to get up, wincing at the ache in my legs, but even more so at the pain in my arm. I winced at seeing the slightly bloodied bandage, questioning if I'd gotten into a bar fight or something. But the burning on my hip made me lift up my shirt and look at my newest tattoo in confusion.

A skull, scarf, and padlock? What the hell does that mean? Did… Did I kill someone?! I paled at the thought, feeling my head spin at the worrisome possibilities. I barely noticed when I'd begun to pace back and forth in my cell like a caged animal, tugging at my shockingly short brown hair; forgetting when I'd cut it. I shook the distraction from my head and turned to the bars, trying to see as far down the deserted hall as I could as I shouted.

"Hey! Hey, is someone out there?! Someone tell me what's going on! Why am I here?! Oi!"

I heard a door opening and grew hopeful as an older gray-haired man headed my way.

"Oh, thank God. Hey, could you tell me what happened? Did I do something wrong?"

He stood across from me in apparent surprise. "You… You have no idea who I am, do you?"

I blinked, confused. "No? Look, I just want to know why I'm here. I have this thing, see?" I pointed to the tattoo on my arm. "Anterograde amnesia. I can't remember things after I go to sleep. I know it sounds stupid, but you've got to believe me. I honestly don't know why I'm here."

He scratched the back of his head, before reaching into his pocket. "I'll, uh… I'll explain in a second. Let's just get you into interrogation first."

I nodded quickly, desperate to be out of the cell even if he did have to handcuff me to get me to interrogation. Once there though, he informed me that we were going to have to wait for someone else to show up and in the meantime, he brought me a soda from the vending machine and some Chinese takeout, for some reason. I was confused, but accepted the kind gesture with a nod; eating as I watched him leave the room. Are prisoners always treated like this? Something's going on here, and I don't like it. I frowned at the thought, looking over my tattoos once more as I ate in the hopes of finding some new information, but all I had was that skull and lock one that made no sense to me. It might be helpful later, but right now I honestly have no clue. I sighed, before checking another tattoo I'd spotted with the letters M, T, W, T, F, S, S written out on my arm; some of which were circled with a marker. I immediately connected the letters with the days of the week and a little stick figure of a man digging let me know it was my work schedule and I frowned.

There was no calendar in here and I honestly had no clue what day it was, but I was worried that I had work today, if the two circles on the T and F had anything to say about it. How do I explain to my employers that I can't work because I'm in jail? I groaned and pinched the bridge of my nose, before standing and starting to pace again; not knowing that there were people watching me from behind the one-sided mirror.

"So what do you think?" Lestrade asked Sherlock and John as they watched Claude steadily get more anxious. "It seems pretty legit to me. I walked in there this morning and she had no clue who I was or what happened to get her in a jail cell. But if she's innocent, it puts us back to square one as far as the case goes."

Sherlock turned to him slightly. "Have you given her the flashdrive yet?"

Lestrade shook his head. "No, not yet."

"Bring it and a laptop. I'm going to see just how poorly her memory functions."

"Sherlock." John groaned, following after the man with a roll of his eyes as Lestrade sighed; going to get what Claude would need as the other two went into the interrogation room.

Claude stopped pacing as they entered and frowned as she eyed the two of them. "Who're you? Are you with the police?"

"Of a sorts." Sherlock responded, eyeing her for any signs of recognition. "We're detectives who work alongside the Yard."

"Are you going to tell me what's going on? Did I commit a crime or something?"

"Not quite. You were a suspect in an ongoing investigation, but you've just cleared yourself of all suspicion this morning."

She raised a brow, but didn't comment, moving to sit back down and bouncing her leg anxiously as she returned to her cold Chinese food.

"Well, that's good." She said between mouthfuls of food, gesturing to the chairs across from her. "You're welcome to sit, you know. I won't bite."

Sherlock gave her a half smirk at that, taking a seat as John soon joined him.

"Do you know who we are?"

She shook her head, gaze turning down to her food. "Nope. I'm assuming you, like Lestrade, know me though. My anterograde amnesia probably cleared me of whatever crime you thought I was involved in too." She glanced at John, catching his surprised look. "It's not a hard conclusion to come to." She turned back to Sherlock then. "I'm guessing I made a deal then? Seeing as they're treating me rather nicely for a suspect."

Sherlock nodded. "There were some conditions, but yes. The police gave you a deal in order to keep you from spreading your arrest to the media and possibly assist in solving the very case you were arrested for."

She snorted, opening up her soda. "Lucky me."

"You in no way recognize us?" Sherlock asked again, eyeing her. "Not us, Lestrade, or the case? Nothing that happened yesterday?"

"No." She said, beginning to get a bit annoyed.

"Sherlock Holmes? John Watson? Those names don't mean anything?"

"No, they—" She cut herself off then. "Wait. Sherlock?"

Sherlock nodded, seeing a hint of recognition and beginning to grin as she stood up and lifted a portion of her shirt, making John blush and Sherlock quickly grow confused as she laughed.

"Oh, I am funny." She snickered, turning to show them the tattoo of a skull on her hip. "Sherlock. Nice. Skull and scarf suits you."

Sherlock frowned at the tattoo that had been etched into her skin in order to remind her of him and his hope at having made her remember something shattered as she sat back down and returned to her meal.

"You must be pretty important for me to get another tattoo." She commented. "So I'm assuming you're helping me somehow."

"You trust us? Just like that?" John asked and she shook her head with a chuckle.

"God, no. I don't trust anyone as far as I can throw them. That's the problem with my kind of amnesia. Makes it hard to make friends for more than a day." She frowned then. "Which reminds me. I should probably get a tattoo to prevent one-night stands."

John grimaced as she gestured to a patch of skin covered in small tallies; one of which was still a little pink.

"I think I'm getting carried away." She muttered, before Sherlock spoke.

"Best not." He said, surprising her. "It's been proven in multiple studies that sex helps relieve stress of day-to-day life. And with you only remembering one day at a time, you most likely acquire far more stress just waking up in the morning in your own apartment than a normal person would throughout the day. Due to your condition, your body and mind are in a constant state of panic and anxiety. If anything, the sex would help ease that."

"Okay!" John said loudly, red in the face from embarrassment at the topic. "Could we do something other than discussing the health benefits of her nightly activities? Please?"

Claude smirked a bit, eating some more as Sherlock even gave John a little grin; earning a glare in return. Sherlock got back to the point though, turning his attention back to Claude.

"How do you remember things usually? Lestrade has already mentioned labels around your flat, a calendar, a journal, and your tattoos, but how do they work? Are you memories triggered by familiar objects?"

Claude shrugged. "Sometimes, I guess. Depends on what I'm trying to remember. Like with my tattoo. I had no idea what it was until you mentioned your name. But there's others that just the picture helps me remember an event, like the crow on my neck." She pointed idly at the dark bird in midflight on the left side of her neck. "I caught sight of it in the reflection of the mirror and immediately remembered my mother scolding me for bringing an injured crow back to my old home and nursing it back to health." She gave them a bland look at their confused expressions. "She's superstitious. Thinks they're bad luck, so coming home to find one flying around the kitchen quickly upset her, as I'm sure you can imagine. My psychiatrist said it was good therapy though. That was only six months after the accident."

"And the coding?" Sherlock questioned. "You're obviously clever enough to keep your secrets hidden in puzzles in plain sight, but one usually doesn't do that with such a complicated computer code."

"Hm?" She turned her body to get a better look at it; getting up to check it in the mirror. "Oh. That. It's not that hard, really. Computers were the one thing I was good at wrapping my head around as a kid."

John turned in surprise as she moved towards her chair once more. "So you do remember things?"

"Only things before the accident." She answered easily, not lifting her gaze from her food. "And the accident itself. Everything else comes in flashes that I forget by the end of the day unless I write it down to remind myself later. There's very few memories that I manage to make after the accident and remember."

"So there are some memories you can remember?" John asked, simply curious, but he immediately felt bad when Claude dragged a hand through her short hair and pushed her food away with a haunted look.

"Yes. Though I'd rather not discuss them." She stated bluntly, looking up with her light blue eyes that appeared as more of a stormy grey. "Even I have things I'd rather not discuss, nor put out in visible sight."

Sherlock went to say something, but it was then that Lestrade came in with a laptop and the flashdrive.

"I brought what she'll need." He said, before taking in the room and shuffling a bit. "Did I interrupt something?"

"No." Claude said bluntly, before tilting her head curiously. "Though I am curious as to what it is you want me to do with that ancient piece of junk."

John gapped in shock, as did Lestrade as he looked down at the laptop and back up at her.

"This is the latest model that we have!"

Claude snorted, snatching the flashdrive from him before waving him off. "Get my laptop. There's no way I'd be able to do anything with that one. Especially if this is coded, which I'm suspecting it is. Hence, why you would need me even after I've apparently been cleared of any and all suspicion of whatever it is you thought I did."

"Murder." Sherlock said, making her raise a brow as she took a seat. "In a sense. Technically the man killed himself after you had apprehended him for bumping into you. With you being the only one around and holding a piece of evidence the victim had, it was no wonder the idiotic police of Scotland Yard assumed you killed him."

Claude snorted at that and Lestrade groaned, going to fetch Claude's laptop from the evidence room.

"Great. Another one."

I could feel them watching me as I typed away rapidly through the coding hidden away on the flashdrive. It was vexing. Them watching me, anyway. The coding wasn't actually as hard as they made it sound. I'd dealt with it before. This exactly one too. Odd. I felt my eyebrow twitch though as John shuffled once more and Lestrade cleared his throat. This is why I like doing coding in the private of my own home with music drowning out everything else. I thought with a frown, catching their attention.

"Something wrong?" John asked innocently and I gave him a dirty look.

"You're loud. Between your constant uncomfortable shuffling and Lestrade's choking coughs, I'm about ready to kick all of you out. Sherlock's the only quiet one."

Sherlock smirked at that, but continued to remain completely silent as Lestrade complained.

"Are you anywhere close to being done?"

I raised a brow. "Do you know anything about coding?"

"Well, no."

"Then shut up." I snapped irritably. "Because coding can take anywhere between five minutes to a week or more to decode. You're lucky I've seen this one before, or it might have taken me about three days to work through."

That got their attention.

"You've seen it before?"

"Where?"

"How can you tell?"

I glanced at Sherlock, who had asked the right question, before turning back to my laptop.

"I work for companies to test the strength of their firewalls and security systems virtually. And I've seen this signature before on one of my jobs. Don't ask me how I remember that, but I do. Remembering the codes of these companies has been one of the only things that seem to stick in my head through my constant bouts of amnesia."

"Signature?" John asked and I sighed, explaining as I finished up what I was doing.

"Yeah. Each group, company person, whatever has their own signature that makes the coding theirs. This one, belongs to a port and harbor operations firm. I'd have to go through my records to get their name, but they're a small time company owned by a private investor and…" I paused, blinking as I turned to them in surprise. "That's actually the most I've remembered about anything before."

Sherlock grinned, like he'd just solved a piece of a puzzle. "It's something that has always been a part of your life. Computer coding comes naturally to you and everything associated with it makes things easier to remember. Even if it's something as mundane as what a certain company does that has no actual connection to you."

Lestrade cleared his throat again, drawing our attention to him, though I frowned in annoyance.

"So, what does the coding say?"

I rolled my eyes, knowing that that would be what was important to him. "Impatient, aren't you?"

I turned my laptop around and showed him the list of numbers; him looking completely lost.

"They're numbers of shipping containers and where to find them on a dock." I pointed at another set of numbers. "Though there wasn't a street name or anything like that, but if you take me with you, I could probably pinpoint which one it is. I'd have to see their computers to make sure it's right, but I believe it's either Dover, Portsmouth, or Tilbury. Those three use a number system that's all pretty similar."

"We can't take you with us!" Lestrade said abruptly. "This is a part of a very important case that is immensely dangerous! Just letting you decode this for us is a risk enough."

I scoffed, snapping my laptop closed. "Then I guess you're stuck going to have to go through each one of these ports and check each individual shipping container one-by-one. Not to mention possibly tipping off whatever smuggling group you're after that you're looking for it; thus making them get rid of it before you even find it. Whatever 'it' is." I leaned forward then, voice serious. "I'm the best shot you got at this."

Lestrade grit his teeth, knowing I was right and I leaned back in my chair.

"Think about it this way. You let me help, you catch the smugglers, get all the credit, all the glory, and probably never have to see me again. The only other conditions being that I remain anonymous, get a ride home, get a case of my favorite soda, and get Sherlock's number." I smirked at Sherlock, who raised a brow. "You're interested in me, whether for my case of amnesia or something else, but it'd be nice to finally keep in touch with someone for more than a day. Though I'm all up for whatever else you have in mind."

John looked between the two of us with wide eyes, but Lestrade finally responded.

"Fine. I'll meet your conditions, but my conditions are you do exactly what I say and don't get involved in the field other than locating the containers for us."

I shrugged, half-heartedly agreeing. I didn't exactly want to get shot—not knowing what kind of smugglers these were, exactly—but knowing that if I could somehow help them, I would. My mother would call me reckless, but that's just the kind of person I was. Which was probably why I never became a hacker and instead went to help people improve their security systems; thus preventing theft and other such activities from behind the comfort of my computer screen. Though, those companies are still convinced I'm a company myself. Forgetting that I've worked with them before has probably helped in keeping myself safe. They think I'm multiple people, most likely. Otherwise—depending on the kind of group this company is dealing with—I might have been killed by now. Pleasant thought.

"Claude." Sherlock's voice rang out, pulling me from my thoughts as he gestured to the open door.

I bobbed my head and got up, following after him and soon joining Lestrade and his team at the first port: Tilbury.

"It's not here." I replied, eyes scanning the computer before me with Sherlock, John, Lestrade and a number of other cops behind me; all of us decked out with bullet proof vests. "The numbers aren't adding up right, so it's probably at the next one."

Lestrade nodded and we all headed to the second port: Dover. Upon showing up there, I was easily able to access the computer and grinned at finding what I was looking for.

"Here! It's in this section on the East side of the port." I said, gesturing to the image I'd gotten of the port. "And if you give me a second, I should be able to… Ha!"

The screen changed to security images of the area, making me grin as I turned in the chair to face the group.

"I hacked into the security feed."

"Great job, Claude!" John said excitedly as Lestrade nodded and began giving out orders to his men, before turning to me sternly.

"Stay here. Understand? I'll leave you this radio, so keep us in check if you see anything on the cameras. But I don't want you moving from this spot."

I frowned. "How come Sherlock and John get to go?"

He sighed. "If I could make them stay too, I would. But it's better for them to be with me so I can keep an eye on them. You're a loose cannon. I don't know you well enough to let you be on the field, let alone give you a weapon."

I scowled, but turned back to the computer. "Fine. I'll be your techie."

He nodded and the group headed out; John sparing me an apologetic glance as I sipped at my soda and waved. Once they were gone, I begrudgingly did as they said and kept my eyes on the cameras. There wasn't any movement for a while, but then I saw a group of guys pull up in one of the maintenance trucks in front of the cargo containers. I wasn't sure who they were, but I kept an eye on them as I grabbed the radio.

"Hey, Lestrade? There's a group of guys who just showed up in front of the cargo in a maintenance truck. Don't know if they're friendly or not."

"We'll keep an eye on them." He responded and I bobbed my head despite the fact that he couldn't see me; checking the cameras again in search of a better angle.

I spotted Lestrade's team moving further in on another camera, but went back to the previous one, only for my eyes to widen at the sight of a man giving directions and a large truck having pulled up.

"Lestrade! They're moving the cargo! They've got a truck and are using a crane to—"

I was abruptly cut off as an arm wrapped around my throat; choking me and yanking me up and out of the chair I was in. The radio fell from my hands as I struggled against whoever had me; hearing Lestrade calling out from the radio.

"Claude? Claude! Answer me!"

I grunted, swinging my elbow back and hitting the man in the stomach; making him loosen his grip enough for me to grab the scissors on the desk and jab them into his upper thigh. He cried out in pain, clutching at the wound as I spun around and slammed my knee into his face; knocking him out and breaking his nose. I stood there, panting as adrenaline rushed through my veins, before remembering what was going on and I grabbed the radio.

"I-I'm okay! One of the guys attacked me, b-but I knocked him out. Hurry though! They're trying to move the cargo onto a truck." I hurried to spit out, catching sight of the screen and coughing at my aching throat. "And they're armed with some pretty big guns, Lestrade."

"On it. And stay safe, Claude! Get back to the car if you can."

I nodded, but then looked at the guy on the floor with a cringe. I couldn't just leave him there in fear that he'd escape or warn his buddies, so I hefted him up as best I could and put him in the chair I'd been sitting in. Then, with some quick thinking, I tied up his hands with the phone cord only to cringe at the sight of the blood seeping through the wound I'd given him in his thigh. Oh, I'm going to regret this later. I mentally complained, tearing the bottom of my shirt and using the strip of cloth to bandage his wound as best I could; leaving the scissors in place should I have hit an artery or something. He'd started to come to at that point and I quickly grabbed the radio and left the office, grabbing a plank of wood nearby to hold the door shut should the man escape the bonds I put him in.

"Lestrade, I'm out of the office. And I wrapped up that guy for you inside." I said into the radio, only to turn away from the door and freeze at the cocking of a gun. "T-Though, I'm in a bit of trouble still. There was someone outside."

"Put the radio down!" The man shouted, looking furious and I nodded; unable to hear Lestrade's reply as I tossed the radio away from me.

"Look, I-I don't want any trouble." I said, wincing at the cliché line as the man stepped towards me. "Really. I-I'm just a consultant… of sorts."

He didn't care though, growling before slamming the butt of the rifle across my head and making me fall to the ground. I hadn't yet hit unconsciousness, but I was very close and I felt fear well up in my stomach. No. No. I-I can't fall asleep. I'll forget everything! I-I'll forget all of this! Stay awake! Stay awake! I mentally demanded of myself, doing what I could to blink the black spots from my vision as the man slammed a foot into my back.

"Where is he?!" He shouted angrily.

"I-Inside." I breathed out with a wheeze as he kicked me harshly in the stomach and stormed over to the blockaded door.

I coughed and choked on the ground, spotting the radio not too far away and I did what I could to try and reach it. I needed something to keep me going. To keep me awake.

"Have you tried setting a goal for yourself?" My therapist asked me as I sat across from him glaring at my hands in my lap. "Something simple like remembering where you keep your keys."

"I've tried that." I snapped, displeased.

"Try setting a long-term goal then. Getting a promotion, benching a higher weight at the gym, anything that you can do to have something permanent to remember. Anything could help, you know. Even something that may seem insignificant. Just try it. Set a goal."

I pushed myself closer, the radio just barely reaching the tips of my fingers, before a foot crushed my wrist and I cringed in pain as the man aimed his gun at me; his friend now at his side, limping heavily.

"Where are your friends, huh?! Which way are they coming from?!"

I ignored him, straining even with his foot on my wrist to reach the radio, before he saw what I was doing and kicked me away from it; turning around and shooting it. My heart stopped at the sight; my goal destroyed.

"What do you want me to do?!" I shouted at my therapist. "I can't remember anything! Any goal I set o-or have tried to set before I forget! Every time, it's destroyed! How am I supposed to complete a goal if I can't even remember what it is I'm trying to do in the first place?!"

There was a second gunshot then and the man wielding the gun fell back; a bullet through the heart as two people rushed before me. John held the pistol, aiming it at the other man who willingly surrendered and went to his knees as Sherlock came over to me and looked me over; trying to keep me focused.

"Claude. Claude, stay with me."

"Then find someone to remind you of that goal." My therapist said, calm as ever. "Someone who can stick with you and help you push past this. Having a constant companion could potentially help your progress.

I scoffed, calming down and dropping back onto the chair with my arms crossed. "Yeah, right. Who'd want to put up with someone who won't know who you are every day?"

"You never know." The therapist smiled. "I've seen many amnesia patients turn their lives around because they had someone stick it out with them."

"Must have found some stubborn people then." I muttered, turning away from the man across from me with a frown to look at the sun setting outside.

"Claude? How many fingers am I holding up?"

I blinked at Sherlock, before glancing at his hand. "T-Three." I croaked out and he let out a sigh of relief. "You're late, you know."

He smirked ever so slightly, before turning around to call out to John. "John, come and take a look at her. She might have a concussion."

"I'm fine." I grumbled, making to sit up, only to have Sherlock push me down again with a firm look; switching places with John to look after our prisoner as I sighed. "Really. I'm just a bit sore. I'll be fine. I'm not the one with a pair of scissors in my leg."

John smiled a bit at that, turning my head to get a better look at where I'd been hit; though I didn't appreciate him poking at it and shining a light in my eyes.

"You seem to be alright. I don't think you have a concussion, but you should get checked out in a hospital just to be sure."

Sirens rang out loudly, echoing in my head as I was wheeled on a gurney through a hospital; doctors frantically calling out demands as I lilted up a hand to see it covered in blood.

"No." I said, draping a hand across my eyes. "No hospitals."

John sighed. "Were you hurt anywhere else? You're going to have some bruising on your neck, but other than that and a major headache, you should be alright."

"And stomach bruising." I grumbled. "He kicked me a few times."

John looked down and furrowed his brows at my torn shirt.

"What happened to your shirt?"

I pointed towards the guy Sherlock was aiming a gun at. "He's wearing it. Didn't want him bleeding out."

John shook his head with a small smile. "You're far too kind for your own good. I hope you know that."

"Hm, my mother called me reckless, but I suppose that works." I smiled a bit back, before hearing the thundering footsteps of Lestrade's group returning; him immediately checking on me as John helped me sit up.

"Is she alright?"

"I'm fine." I grumbled, waving him off. "Bit bruised and beat up, but alright, nonetheless."

John clarified for me. "She'll need a lot of rest and someone to look after her for the next day or so for signs of a concussion."

He turned to me then and I sort of glanced away.

"Do you have family or something that can keep an eye on you?"

"They're in France." I grumbled. "In a retirement home."

"Right… Friends then?"

I turned back to him with a glare. "My condition makes it rather hard, don't you think?"

He winced, understanding, before Sherlock strolled over.

"She'll stay with us."

"What?" We all collectively questioned and he rolled his eyes.

"John's a doctor, he can keep a better eye on her than anyone else. It keeps her from having to go to a hospital for an extended amount of time. And she's already doing better while with us, as far as remembering her past. She can sleep in my bed. I rarely use it anyway."

I blinked, too stunned to say anything as Lestrade begrudgingly nodded.

"Seems like that's the best option then. Is that aright with you, Claude?"

"Uh, yeah… I-I think I can do that." I said, still unsure about this.

It had been much too long since I've ever lived with someone. Especially since I knew I'd be waking up tomorrow with no idea who they were.

I looked around the messy, yet organized flat tiredly, already feeling the exhaustion from the day's hectic events wearing me down. It definitely suited Sherlock and John though, from what I knew of the two—which wasn't much. It was easy to tell what stuff belong to who though, like the knife and skull on the mantelpiece and the romance series on the bookshelf. I yawned as I took a seat on their couch, John offering to order us some takeout before I was given free rein as to using the shower or reading or anything else. Not wanting to sleep just yet, I got up and showered; getting yet another look at my tattoos and the bruising from my scuffle earlier. I winced at the bruising on my stomach, covered mostly by the numerous tattoos scattered about. But I lightly touched my injured neck, wincing not only at the bruising, but the dragon tattoo that had angled itself over my shoulder with its open mouth and claws aiming for my throat.

"You got a new tattoo recently, I see." My therapist noted, gesturing to the dragon with his pen. "Something you wish to tell me?"

I scowled, lightly touching the design.

"You don't have to." He insisted, turning his gaze back to his notebook and probably making a note on my trust issues. "I simply believe it will help. Tattoos are your way of remembering things, but also of making sure you remember them."

"You're talking in riddles again."

He nodded. "Yes, but you fully understand what I mean, Claude. You're smart. We both know that. And tattoos are your way of blaming yourself for things and making sure you never forget your mistakes from the past. That one in particular. It's lunging for your throat. So there is most likely something bothering you that makes you not pleased with your life. Would you like to discuss what that is?"

I took a deep breath and let it out, grabbing my clothes that the police had nabbed from my flat for me and tugging on the undergarments, grey sweats and tank top before heading out into the flat once more as John headed downstairs to get the takeout from whoever had just arrived. I was in there too long. Sherlock will be suspicious. I idly mused, not too bothered because there wouldn't be much the man could pry from someone who didn't really know much herself. Sure enough, the moment I laid back onto the couch, he commented on it.

"You've been remembering things."

"Mm." I hummed. "Happens some days. I'll get flashes of memories. Usually therapy sessions."

He twitched at the mention of therapy, making me wonder what he'd done to have to get one and dislike them as much as I did.

"Anything helpful?" He asked, lounging back in his chair as John began to make his way back upstairs.

"No. One was a bad memory of one of my tattoos and the other was my therapist telling me to set goals to remember and possibly find a long-term companion to help me with remembering said goals." I rattled on, not really minding Sherlock's nosiness.

There wasn't much for me to hide about that, after all.

"Have you?" He asked and I shook my head.

"No one sticks around long enough to be a long-term anything. Doesn't help I see them as a stranger the moment I wake up the next morning. Makes friends a bit difficult, but doesn't bother me much. And as for the goals, well, can't really remember them long enough to do them. Tried making notes, but even then, it didn't help. Not many goals I can do like this. My most recent one is remembering where I put my house keys every morning. And I only know that, because it's on the stickynote app on my laptop,the spray painted aroow on my wall and common sense saying 'by the door stupid'. Couldn't tell you where my house keys were yesterday morning, so it's obviously not working."

"Hm." He hummed out, before John appeared with a smile and began passing out the food.

We ate in relative silence, only talking when John had a question about things I like and such. John soon went to bed though and I was offered Sherlock's bed again, but I wanted to hang out on the couch for a bit more… No, that was a lie. A very big lie. An insecurity that I didn't want to admit. Something that they wouldn't know about if Sherlock wasn't sitting in his chair silently. A few hours passed like this. My eyes slipping closed only to snap them back open again and shift into a different position or grab another soda to stay awake. I washed my face a few times too, the chilly water waking me up for another half an hour or so. After the third hour of this, Sherlock finally spoke.

"You don't want to sleep."

I frowned at the slight twitch I made upon hearing his voice suddenly after being in silence for so long, but said nothing.

"You're afraid, aren't you?" He asked, tilting his head slightly to look at me in curiosity.

"I'm not afraid." I snapped in annoyance, knowing he could easily see right through that lie.

He scoffed, getting up and taking my empty teacup from off the table as I frowned up at him. "We both know that's not true. You've been attempting to not fall asleep for the past three hours. You're afraid of losing your memories."

"No, I'm not." I insisted, making him scowl and slam his hands on either side of me; trapping me on the couch.

"There's no point in denying it, Claude. It will happened eventually. Postponing it won't change anything. So why bother?"

That infuriated me, and I lunged forward and got in his face with a snarl.

"Because I don't want to forget you, alright?!"

He stiffened, eyes wide in shock as I shoved him off and went towards his bedroom.

"I'm finally starting to remember things with you around. You and John are the first people who have wanted to stick around me without caring that I won't remember who you are tomorrow, but I care. Alright? Sorry if I don't want to forget the first people who wanted to help."

I went to open his door, but a hand suddenly pushed it closed and I turned to Sherlock with a frown.

"You don't want to forget me?" He asked, turning me around and pushing me back against the door as I looked him over in slight confusion. "Then let's make sure you won't."

His lips suddenly pressed themselves to mine and my body reacted immediately, leaning into the kiss as he easily maneuvered us around so he could open the door to his bedroom and push me down onto the bed. He began to trail kisses down my neck and I groaned, still rather lost by the sudden attack.

"W-Why?" I asked as his hands roamed up my side under my shirt. "You don't seem like a one night stand kind of guy."

"Some scientists believe that sex helps improve memory." He grumbled against my collar bone. "And who said this would be only for a night?"

I frowned, sitting up on my elbows and pushing him up as well. "I've had constant one night stands and never remember who the other party was the next morning. Why would I remember you?"

He smirked, leaning in again. "Because you're desperate."

I growled at that, not pleased with how he made it sound and it was my turn to attack as I spun him around underneath me and pleased to see his annoyance when I did so.

"And what's in it for you?" I asked, leaning in and breathing in his ear. "I doubt you're in it just for the fun."

"Sex also helps improve brain processing functions." He responded, barely holding back a groan when I chewed on a sensitive part of his neck. "I need every ounce of my mind working in order to find a solution to your memory problem."

I stopped, sitting back up and giving him a cautious look. "You… You want to help me?"

"Not for the reasons you might be thinking of." He said bluntly, rolling me over and taking control once more with a smirk. "You're simply the most interesting puzzle I've come to find thus far. And I can't let that go to waste."

I raised a brow. "That is the biggest turn off I've ever heard before sex, but somehow, you make it work."

He chuckled and we lost ourselves in each other in the hopes that I might remember something the next morning. After all, how often is it that one gets to have sex with the Sherlock Holmes?