Amnesia: Unknown [a Tom Hiddleston / Jonathan Pine, Jim Moriarty fanfiction]

[2]

There were two things wrong with what he said:

1. He never smoked. And it's not like he could hide it, even if he did; you had a keen sense of smell, and the odor made you so nauseous, even shopping has a risk of you not being able to make it past the front doors without needing to hurl within ten seconds. That's why you had to move outside the city, but still in range so he can have convenient use of the airport.

2. There was no one you knew by the nickname of Doc.

So you were still at a loss. But he also knew that he wouldn't have told you if you couldn't figure it out.

It was evident that there was more to your husband than you thought, so you took the opportunity to investigate. Not that there was much to go on, considering everything was smashed, tore, gone, or blood-smeared. Even your wedding picture, which he kept so pristine on his desk, was not only out of its smashed glass frame, not only stained a dark red, but was torn, your heads removed from your picturesque pose.

It made you wonder about the person who took him.

You hadn't dated anyone that you both knew, nor that was against the idea of Tom and you being together or, if they did, they hadn't mentioned it to you. You were squeaky clean and worked as an author; if anyone wanted to sabotage you, they could have simply stolen your work and taken credit. And of enemies, you knew of none, for you seemed to be on good terms with those of your writing genre.

But perhaps the problem wasn't you.

You're hesitant to open the desk drawer. So many early mornings you would wake from the sudden cold as Tom would rise from bed. From a sleeping position and eyes ever so slightly cracked open, you would watch him slowly try to open the drawer so as not to wake you, examining whatever was in there, and then promptly lock it all away with a key he kept under the windowsill. He never held up what he was looking at, keeping everything in the drawer during this daybreak sessions.

You only ever asked once, six months into the marriage after noticing his monthly ritual.

"What's in there?"

He had promptly closed the drawer before you could see anything, locking the drawer with an old key, much like the style of the antique desk.

"You know I would never hurt you," he says, head down, eyes still on the furniture before looking up at you. "You do believe that, right?"

"Of course, but Tom--"

"Then please, don't ask me about it again."

"Tom--"

"Promise me, (Y/N)...please."

Tears brimming in his eyes, he had taken your head so gently, kissed your cheek in the way he knew to get you to calm, to trust him with everything you had.

And you had been a fool.

"Alright."

Now here you were, his life in your hands, and all you could think about was whether your promise was worth breaking, whether or not it would mean everything or nothing at all.

And time was ticking.

There's got to be something else.

But what else could he have meant? The closest doctor's office was a half hour away, and it was even a hassle to make sure he went for his annual check-up. He claimed to hate needles, but he never wanted you in the room with him.

"Darling, I'll hold you hand to make you feel--"

"No, stay out here. Please, it's better this way."

The doctor wouldn't even tell you anything, and when you asked, it was always:

"Mrs. Hiddleston, I understand this is your husband, but there's a patient confidentiality I cannot violate."

And then there was the fact that he would call from random numbers, whenever he was away. Because he was traveling abroad, you suggested investing in international phone lines, after the idea of internet communication was shot down. But he was adamant against that, too.

"I'd rather use that money we'd accumulate to take you on a proper honeymoon."

"But Tom, I hate the fact I can't communicate you days, sometimes weeks, at a time without a simple check-in. And I know you do call sporadically, and I know I sound like the overprotective one here, but I just want to make sure you're okay each night."

"I know you do. And I'm sorry for all the times I have and will continue to hurt you in this way."

"Will it always have to be this way?"

"One day, I promise. It'll just be the two of us, no one else. And I'll take you to see the northern lights, and I'll tell you the stories they're trying to whisper to you."

He had made that promise before you got married, and in your heart you knew he'd never break it out of his own volition. Now, two years later, you weren't so sure.

You look at the remnants of your bedroom. It was harder than you thought, getting into your husband's head. Everything was either not making sense or was too grey and vague, and the man you once knew was turning from perfectly formed sentences into a question mark.

Who was Tom Hiddleston?