Hey Guys are you ready for another Sherlolly adventure? This one is inspired by MizJoely and her Sherlollylists on tumblr. How she manages to keep track of all the Sherlolly fics on Fanfiction, AO3 and tumblr I have no idea. Anyway, for those that don't know it breaks down all the fics by their various tropes and I love trying to get my fics into the various lists. This one was inspired by AmnesiaLock.

On having a look a lot of the stories have Molly losing her memory but this one is switched about. It's Sherlock losing his memories and how he handles and interprets the bits and pieces of memory as they come back to him.

I hope you like it. It won't be massively long...just 8 delicious chapter bites of Sherlolly goodness with maybe just a dash of angst thrown in. Enjoy!

Chapter 1

'Sherlock...Sherlock...can you hear me? It's John.'

He came too blinking against the harsh light in what was obviously a room in a hospital. There was a middle aged man leaning over him who seemed to breathe a sigh of relief at seeing him awaken.

'Thank God Sherlock. You've been out for over 12 hours. What do you remember?'

He swallowed but his mouth and throat felt like sand-paper. The man, John, passed him a glass of water, holding the straw against his lips so he could take a couple of sips. He felt the cool liquid travel all the way down to his stomach.

He tried to move himself up into a sitting position but as he did there was a sharp, blinding, jolt of pain in his forehead on the left hand side and he fell back with a gasp. He moved his hand to the side of his head reflexively but pulled back before he touched his temple sensing it would just lead to more pain.

'You were hit...with a crowbar. For a moment there I thought you were dead.'

On hearing that he narrowed his eyes and tried to remember but there was just a blank...like thick fog.

John flashed a light across his eyes and asked him to follow his finger but his eyes kept juddering and losing focus and he felt an overwhelming tiredness washing over him.

'Sherlock...stay with me. Don't fall asleep.'

Finally he found his voice. 'Who's Sherlock? Is that me? It's a stupid name.' Then he took a deep breath and closed his eyes, giving in to sleep once more.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

The next two days seemed to be a flurry of tests and questions and endless examinations. The only time he had any reprieve was at night.

He relished the peace and quiet, broken only by the distant noises of other patients and the constant hum of equipment.

That first night he was awake when she visited. At first he'd just thought she was just another doctor. She was wearing a staff badge and a white coat and he opened his eyes to find her looking at his notes; the ones held on a clipboard and stored at the end of his bed. It was her eyes that gave her away though. She looked worried and sad when they met his own...not the clinical detachment that he would have expected from a doctor.

'You know me?'

She gave him a shy smile and nodded her head. 'Yes...we...umm...we work together.'

He frowned. That didn't feel quite right. Slowly, so as to not cause himself any pain, he shook his head.

'No...I don't think we do. At least, that's not all we are. You look more upset that I think you would over a colleague. Anyway, that guy...John? He said I'm a detective of some kind. So, I don't work here.'

At this she smiled more openly and he couldn't help but think how very pretty she was when she smiled. He felt a warmness from her that made his heart seem to skip a beat, he didn't have any conscious memories of her but it felt more like an emotional, reflex, memory.

'I'm a pathologist. We work together when you're investigating a murder. Like you were when you got hurt.' The was a pause and she sighed. 'I hate seeing you get hurt Sherlock.'

He chuckled and then winced. 'If it's any consolation I hate getting hurt as well.'

'How are you feeling?'

She took a tentative step forward and seemed about to reach out and touch his hand but at the last minute she drew back. He wished she hadn't changed her mind.

'I feel confused, frustrated and yet bored...which makes no sense.'

She laughed and he enjoyed the sound of it. 'For you...that makes perfect sense. Anyway, I'd better get back to work.'

As she moved towards the door he felt a sudden feeling of loss...he didn't want her to go. She meant something to him he was sure, he just didn't quite know what.

'Will you come back? To visit me I mean.' He hated how needy he sounded. Whoever he was he didn't think he liked to depend on others.

She turned and nodded. 'Yes, if you want me to.'

It was only after she had gone that he realised he hadn't asked her for her name.

The next night he'd been asleep when she visited. He only had vague memories of her sitting and holding his hand before he was pulled back under into sleep. He felt irritated that he hadn't had another chance to talk to her.

She was there though two days later when he was visited by John and another man. This one was dressed more smartly than John with an irritatingly imperious look upon his face. They seemed an odd pairing. He sensed that they weren't friends.

'Hey Sherlock. How are you feeling?'

He rolled his eyes and pulled himself up to sitting. 'For God's sake I wish everyone would stop asking me that question. I feel the same as I did yesterday and the day before...bored, irritated and fed up that I don't seem to be able to remember anything as simple as who the fuck I am.'

At that the taller man arched an eyebrow. 'I see the blow to your head hasn't improved your personality. Good.'

'And who the hell are you? Not another consultant...'

The man sat down on one of the plastic chairs but not before grimacing at that being all there was to sit on.

'No, I'm not. Why don't you tell me who I am Sherlock?'

Sherlock felt himself getting angry. 'You know I can't do that...no memories remember.'

The older man sighed. 'I'm not talking about memories Sherlock. I'm talking about your impressions of me...your deductions.'

Sherlock huffed. He felt like he was a kid being lectured by his parent or an older sibling...he felt a flicker of something and took a closer look...that was it.

'You're my brother.'

John stepped forward excitedly. 'You can remember him...'

But the other man put his hand up. 'No, no...he just deduced who I must be. That's good. It means you haven't lost your faculties...your abilities, just your memories.'

Sherlock slapped his hands against the sheets. 'Oh well that's OK then. I mean who needs memories after all. So, brother, at least give me your name.'

'Mycroft...your older brother obviously. Older and smarter. In case you're wondering our parents are still alive and well and have been informed, to an extent, of your situation but knowing you as I do I knew you wouldn't want them fussing over you until you're more recovered. Now, shall we see what else you still have access to?'

As Sherlock nodded his head the door to his room pushed open and she walked in. She gave him a shy smile but stayed leaning against the wall away from the others. John turned his head and smiled at her as well and Sherlock felt a jolt of jealousy as he saw their interaction. They were close...he didn't like that.

He turned back to Mycroft. 'What do you suggest?'

Mycroft leant back in his seat and crossed his legs adjusting the cut of his trousers before looking back at him.

'You and I store information in a different way to most people and I'm thinking that you might still be able to access that even if you can't access your memories. You refer to yours as a mind palace.' The sarcasm was dripping off his words as he spoke and Sherlock wondered if he'd often wanted to punch him in the face as they were growing up.

'Close your eyes. Picture a building...a palace if you must. When you see it I want you to go inside and tell me what you see.'

Sherlock did as he asked. Instead of the blankness, as he focused his mind, the fog seemed to dissipate until he saw a large black door with a brass knocker sitting slightly askew on its brass plate.

'I see a door.'

'Good, go inside.'

Sherlock pushed at the door and entered a long corridor. It seemed endless with doors leading off on either side. He described what he was seeing.

'Do you see any names on the doors?'

Sherlock shook his head. 'No, they have name plaques but the letters are fuzzy, indistinct...'

'That's fine. I want you to instinctively go to the door that you think is mine and tell me what you see inside.'

Sherlock walked the corridor and he'd only gone past half a dozen doors when one seemed to call to him. He put his hand against the cool wood, marvelling at how real it felt to him. Slowly he pushed the door open.

'I see an office. There's a picture of a woman behind the desk...she seems regal...a queen?'

'Good, very good. That sounds like my office. What else do you see?"

'There are filing cabinets all along one wall. An umbrella and a gun on the desk. And cake...lots of cake.'

There was a snort from John and Sherlock opened his eyes to see him laughing and Mycroft looking angry.

'Yes, well I think that's quite enough of my room. Shall we try to find John's? This is good, it means you haven't lost everything...it's just an exercise in piecing your knowledge back together.'

Sherlock had to agree with him on that. It felt exhilarating to find information still in his mind when he'd been fearing that he'd lost everything.

He closed his eyes eager to try again.

Once again he was faced with the doors. He tried to think of John, the man who'd visited him every day, who'd told him he was his best friend but he couldn't keep his mind focused. Instead he was thinking about her. She was watching him now, he could feel her eyes on him...those bottomless brown eyes. They seemed to seep into his soul.

As he thought of her he turned and pushed open a door into a room which felt as though he was coming home. He could smell her subtle scent. She was all around him. The room was a bedroom, with a small, Ginger cat asleep on a floral duvet. All around the room was equipment; a microscope, a tray of scalpels. It was interspersed with clothing; an ugly cardigan covered in cherries, a pink and purple scarf, a black, velvet dress hung up on the wardrobe with what looked like a silver, gift bow stuck on it.

He opened his eyes and looked straight at her and he saw her duck her head in sudden embarrassment.

'We love each other.'

It was a statement rather than a question and he saw her mouth fall open in shock but rather than confirm it she took a step forward. She held up her hands and shook her head.

'No...I mean, we don't. It's one way...unrequited.'

His stomach dropped and he frowned. 'Oh, you don't love me...'

Before anything else could be said there was a tap at the door and it was pushed open by his doctor, a Dr Hendrix.

'Hey, sorry to interrupt but I need to talk to my patient if that's alright. Time to discuss your discharge and on-going care.'

He saw her nod her head once and she cast him a quick glance before she left the room. He wondered if they had ever had a relationship. His impression in her room had been so strong that he couldn't believe she'd never felt anything for him.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

Sherlock was left feeling very disgruntled about the plans for his discharge. John was to pick him up about 2pm the next day and take him back to his home on Baker St to 'settle him in'. He didn't want to be settled in...at least not by John. And to top it off he forgot to ask his brother and John who the woman was that he now knew he was in love with.

He swung his legs out of the bed. His head injury was almost recovered, even if it did look hideous still; half of the left side of his face covered in an angry purple, green and yellow bruising. It meant he wasn't confined to either the bed or his room. He shoved his feet into the leather slippers and picked up his dressing gown; grateful that someone, probably John, had retrieved them from his home.

The Pathology department wasn't hard to find. He instinctively knew that it would be down in the bowels of the hospital and that that would be where she would be. He had a few odd looks from some members of staff but no one actively tried to stop him.

He walked along the corridor towards the morgue looking in each of the offices and labs as he went when a largish, middle-aged man came out of one of the rooms looking at a file as he went. He glanced up at Sherlock and then stopped and greeted him with a wide smile.

'Ah Sherlock. I'd heard you were visiting us upstairs. Glad to see you up and about. Nasty bruise you've got there.'

Sherlock frowned a little not knowing who on earth this man was but he played along. 'Yes, it seems I lost the battle with a crowbar.'

The other man chortled. 'Ouch. Well, I take it you're looking for our Molly?'

So that's her name...Molly...it felt right, suited her even. 'Yes, I am. Do you know where she might be?'

The other man indicated towards a door just down the corridor on the right. 'Her normal place. No autopsies today so she's just catching up on paperwork. Anyhow, I must be getting on, I'll no doubt see you again soon.'

Sherlock gave a non-committal nod and made his way to the room where she was. As he took hold of the handle he felt his heart flip over at the thought of seeing her again. God he had it bad!

I do both love and fear this moment...when I've posted the start to a new story and I wait to see whether it's well received or not and whether people like the concept and want to know what happens next. So, put me out of my misery and let me know and I promise I shall post again soon xxx