A/N: This is a new story, that has been rumouring in the back of my mind for quite some time now. Now, that I have finally found a beginning, I just wanted to publish it and see what happens. It is more a teaser than a complete chapter but I hope you'll like it, anyway. Comments are most welcome, as usual! :-)

The Case of the Lost Memory

I remember, when I first met Sherlock Holmes, ages ago, I had told him that my nerves were shattered and that I would thus object to rows. I was then, of course, referring to my deeply disturbing experiences during the Afghan war. Nevertheless my nerves must have been under some kind of healing process since then; otherwise it would have been hardly imaginable how I could possibly have let this man become such an eminent purpose of my life – thus also dealing with the dangers, strains and anxieties that go with his lifestyle and his profession… or may I even say our profession?

It was only with the events I would simply like to refer to as the “Reichenbach incident” that for a while I had to suffer from a serious backlash, consisting in the terrible fear of losing my dear friend one more time.

Now, he is lying asleep on the settee, as he has done so many times before.

And I am terrified!

I had somehow grown accustomed to his habit of leaving our apartments and returning at the most unusual times of the day. I know that, when at work, he is likely to forget or neglect everything else, including questions of time or health. So, a week ago, when I returned from a visit at the family of an old college pal of mine and found our rooms deserted, I saw no further reason for acute worries. I spent a rather quite evening with some books, curious about the possibly interesting case I assumed him to handle right then.

When I rose the next morning and found out that he had not returned during the night and had not sent any message either, I started to get apprehensive. The following night, still without any news about the whereabouts or the wellbeing of Holmes, found me anxiously pacing up and down my room, and finally I decided to do what under normal circumstances would make me liable to Sherlock Holmes most biting sarcasm: I turned to Inspector Lestrade.

During the three years after Reichenbach, when I had been working as a police surgeon for Scotland Yard, I had cooperated with Lestrade on several occasions – and had come to consider him an at least halfway intelligent and not completely incompetent fellow. Since those times, we have been on rather agreeable terms. So, the next morning after a sleepless night, I called on him at the Yard. I tried to appear as casual as possible, asking him over a cup of Earl Grey whether he had happened to consult Mr. Holmes on a case.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows about my lack of information, but luckily held back any comment on the matter, stating only that he had not been in any kind of contact with my friend since the Case of the Black Carriage, three weeks ago.

I did not know what to do. As far as I knew Holmes, he could by now being anywhere and doing anything. He could be acting under some secret disguise. He could also be seriously harmed. The word REICHENBACH suddenly seemed to appear on the tapestry of our sitting room like the famous writing on the wall. The thought alone made me sick with worries!