Well, where do I even start with this subject? It's not an easy one but it sure as hell is one that I've needed to get off my chest for quite a while it goes by the name of Sherlock Holmes, a name and a person that everybody has a problem with everyone except for me: I'm stuck in this run down flat day and in day out with the detective hearing him play violin music, experiencing the awful after taste of experimental residue in my food and hear him rambling on and deducing my every move and honestly I wouldn't change him, not for the bloody world I wouldn't change him, although I would be lying if I said there hadn't been times where I wish he would just sod off elsewhere and leave me alone, but life isn't the same without Sherlock.

In fact right now it isn't the same at all and not in the normal way either, Sherlock is currently suffering from a case of Amnesia after the last game that saw Moriarty's demise and himself plummet to the ground (with me watching) off of the roof of St Bart's Hospital and Christ I hated him for putting me through that, I still do but right now he is in no fit state to discuss the matter and is needing constant round the clock attention. The consultants diagnosed him with a 'minor' case of 'temporary' amnesia giving the detective several weeks recovery and a carer to help heal him through this difficult time: that being me. John Watson. The best friend, the army doctor, the one who is always there for Sherlock when he needs him, the one who will stick by that bloody annoying human being no matter how much he insults and hurts him. I will ALWAYS help that man, until my last dying breath.

"I don't remember, I'm terribly sorry but I really can't remember. Who are you?"

Sherlock repeats daily and it's been in the same cycle for about three weeks now with no improvement yet.

"It's okay, Sherlock. You're trying, that's all I ask."

I would reply to the practically emotionless detective who sits in that chair of his, staring off into the distance. He has nothing. Still.
Lunchtime comes around and I'll quickly pop into the kitchen which is considerably nice and rather large without the experiments all over the place, I have managed to enjoy my food on several occasions without having to worry about severed heads in the fridge or other body parts scattered around. Something simple will suffice for now.

"Sherlock, do you want anything?"

I asked, not that he really eats much if at all and as usual he responds with a simple

"no."

and continue to sit there almost lifeless.

Christ, I wish there was some way that I could help him he has way too much to throw away. That genius mind needs to get going again. I swiftly attempt to think of a way to switch on his brain once more and fail miserably. Coming back into the room with nothing but self-doubt and half a sandwich, eyes flickering to the man in front of me, the one who looks dull, lifeless and so incredibly done, like he's ready to give up at any moment but that's not Sherlock, that's not really my best friend. This is temporary, and he will get better. He has too, I promised him even though he doesn't remember that part.
I watch as his head turns to look out of the window and frankly I'm rather relieved that he had achieved such a minor task: there was life in him and something had clearly interested the man, I can't help but smile a little as I take a bite of my food and watch him closely. What in the bloody hell is going through his mind? If there is anything at all.

"Sunlight, the most important factor for planet earth to survive, it's beautiful isn't it?"

He questions, those bright blue eyes shimmering from the reflective light off the window and my heart practically bursting with pride, he remembered something. Something minor but still something.

"Sherlock, we live in the middle of London surrounded by cars, buildings and an interesting variety of people. The sunlight is beautiful, yes but it's more breathtaking in other countries like Africa and India."

I respond, trying to make use of the precious moments we now have, him and I. Just as it used to be.

I watch him curiously and with another inhale of breath and slight hesitation it's obvious that he had lost all train of thought once more.

There was something, something in his mind had triggered him to remember and I have never felt more alive and even though it didn't last if I hoped progress had certainly been made.

"I'm sorry, was I saying something? I don't seem to recall the subject we were talking about if we were talking at all."

"It's okay. You were just talking about the sun."

A pained tone in my voice came to him.

"Why are you sad?"

It was obvious that Sherlock was now querying my mood the ability to read people hadn't failed him this time. A frown pasted on his face as he looked towards me with those empty eyes.

"I'm not sad, I'm just concerned."

That was a lie, I was sad, but I couldn't tell him that. Sherlock didn't deal with emotions very well. I'd get more sympathy out of a brick wall. Things would be left unsaid, for now.

"Concerned?"

"Yes, concerned. Concerned that you won't get better."

"Better?"

I nod.

"Care to explain?"

In all honesty I had no idea where to start but if Sherlock was close to remembering then it was only right to tell him: he would only whine and insist more, later on, that was the problem with his mind, it was a rollercoaster of thoughts and emotions and all of a sudden it's come to a halt and crashed now it was a jumbled mess that was desperately attempting to piece itself back together again.

"You had an accident, Sherlock. A very nasty and tragic accident."

I began, Christ where the bloody hell was I going with this.

"Like a car accident?"

"No, Sherlock. You threw yourself off a building. Took on a bloody challenge against Moriarty, you complete and utter twat! You made me believe that it was real, that I had lost you and that you were-!"

It hurt to say the last bit, but I couldn't stop myself.

"Dead."

Then it was almost as if his memory had been jolted and honest to god I was slightly beside myself with intrigue and fear, how in the hell did his brain do that? His genius mind had switched itself back on, even for a moment but this idiot was remembering, and it had to be the sodding last part of the conversation, didn't it?

"I'm sorry, John…."

I blinked and resisted punching the bastard right in the face several times.
"I'm sorry, what?"

Had my mind been playing delusional tricks on me? Tiredness, pain and stress can really take its toll on people, so it wouldn't have been a surprise if this was some dream. But then there it was again, more meaningful, more emotional, more, well more Sherlock.

"I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry for everything."

How I didn't faint was a goddamn miracle, Sherlock never apologised, he still doesn't, not sincerely anyway and yet here he was practically pouring his heart out to me.

"I-ugh, why can't I remember?!"

He practically yelled, smacking a half-full cup of coffee over and letting it hit the floor: at least he was feeling something, coming to terms with what was around him and right now that was all that mattered to me, I was getting my best friend back.

"I took all my time to remember and now my brain fails me, it's taken me about…. how long?!"

"Three weeks."

"Three weeks! Just to remember who you are to me, I should have known, I should have remembered the voice and face of my dearest friend. Yet I didn't instead I failed you, I'm a mess, John. Fix me."

Sherlock Holmes had resorted to begging me for help, practically tearing up and close to breaking point that was when I knew I had to comfort the detective. So, I did and with a swift push of my own body up and out of the chair, I headed in his direction and knelt beside him taking his hand and giving a small smile up at him. He appreciated that. A lot. Although he doesn't ever admit it to me, I could see it.

"Of course, I will, Sherlock. I won't leave you."

I promised.

That reassured him slightly, knowing that he had his best friend by his side and holding his hand which had proved rather comfortable to the detective, his mannerism and eyes showed it completely, all he needed was patience, care, a slight push every now and then, friendship and love, although Sherlock doesn't really have anybody who shows that they love him, I do but I don't count. I'm only his friend, ours is more platonic, I was talking about family. Mycroft hadn't even been around to visit him regardless of my efforts to try and persuade him with endless texts and phone calls but it hadn't worked, Sherlock's big brother wasn't coming to see him and all the others were busy: so that left me, on my own, to deal with him.

"You're my best friend and the best human being that I know and I promise you right now that I am going to get you better, even if it kills me."