Of course something like this would happen only a couple cases after they began working together again. The universe loved to irritate Sherlock, didn't it? It happened so fast. He hadn't even wanted to take the case. After exposing a serial killer like Culverton, especially after no one believed him at first, Sherlock felt like he deserved a better case than going after a moron who stole a priceless bust. Honestly, he was above that by now! But John had wanted to do it.

"Come on, it's been awhile since we've been on a case that wasn't batshit insane," he said, avoiding Sherlock's eyes. (He had been doing that a lot lately.) "I'm out of practice with working with you, anyway."

Sherlock, aware of their fragile relationship and how John didn't really work with him on the Culverton case as much as he had reluctantly followed him around and listened to his drug-induced ramblings, decided to bite his tongue and agree. He and John were...getting better, he thought. He was coming over to Baker Street more often with Rosie, but there were times John couldn't look him in the eye and his posture would tense up. Sherlock thought it had to do with the unease between them since Mary's death, and the less than favorable things that happened during the Culverton affair, but John had apologized for that, and he forgave him. He truly did. John didn't seem to believe that, though, and was harboring guilt. Sherlock didn't want to bring it up and upset John, so he left it alone and hoped things would get back to normal. Somehow.

None of that was on Sherlock's mind now, however, because he was currently curled up in a chair beside a hospital bed. While wrestling with the moronic thief, an accomplice struck John in the head with a metal bar. He had fallen to the ground like a sack of rocks, and Sherlock nearly killed them both. Now here he was, watching John lie there. He had been unconscious for two weeks.

God, Sherlock was so stupid. He should have been paying more attention. He should have warned John the bar was coming. There had been so much blood coming from his head, enough to stain Sherlock's scarf as he held it to his wound…He rubbed his eyes. He hadn't gotten a good night's sleep since before the case. Each hour that John was still out cold made him grow more and more worried. He wasn't a doctor like John, but he knew how severe head injuries could be, especially as more time passed. The damage done could be irreparable. Sherlock swallowed down bile. He needed to eat. Too much stomach acid was sloshing around. John would want him to eat. He rubbed his jaw. And shave, he thought.

He pushed his growing fringe out of his eyes, sighing heavily. He felt responsible, but would John think so, too? Would this set them back again? That fear was on his mind this whole time. He wanted John to be friends with him again and didn't want to go through losing him another time. He was tired of it. Sherlock forgave him for his behavior after Mary's death. He did. He knew John was at his absolute worst and wasn't thinking clearly. But that didn't change how much it all hurt. He tried to shut off his heart all of his life because he knew how much romantic entanglement could and would hurt him, and yet somehow John Watson found his way into Sherlock's heart a long time ago and had no intention of leaving, no matter what happened between them. Sherlock knew what his feelings were by now and that there was no going back. John was Sherlock's world. He couldn't stop loving him even if he if he-no, John was going to wake up. He had to. Sherlock swallowed. He wasn't there when John got shot, but he still knew this had to be one of the worst industries he ever sustained. Would he wake up?

Sherlock stretched out his legs and his knees ached. He crossed his arms over his chest, pondering if he should go to the cafeteria and grab something, or stay here and continue watching John.

His fatigued body must have decided for him, though, because when he heard a slight groan, his head shot up from being bowed with his chin on his chest.

John's mouth twisted into a frown, his eyes moving behind his lids.

"John?" His voice was a croak. He cleared his throat, heart pounding.

He moaned, his hand twitching and grasping the sheet.

"John," he spoke clearer, but kept his voice soft.

"Huh?" John breathed, and then started coughing, most likely from not talking for weeks.

Sherlock was so happy he could cry. John was waking up. He was going to be okay. He pulled his chair closer to the bed, excitement bubbling in his veins. "Take it easy, John."

His eyes fluttered open, and then shut. His head lolled on the pillow towards Sherlock. He blinked his eyes open again, his gaze bleary, unfocused, and confused. A deep wrinkle formed in between his eyebrows, and somehow, he got paler. "Sh-Sherlock?" he rasped.

"Yes, John." He was smiling.

John stared at him. Slowly, his breathing grew heavier, his chest started heaving, and the beeps on the heart monitor got faster. He looked like he was going to pass out again.

Sherlock's smile fell. "John, what is it? Is it shock?" He supposed being unconscious for two weeks would do that.

"You-" John tried to lift his hand and point a finger at him, but his arm was weak and wobbled. He found his strength and held up his arm and pointed his finger. His eyes were huge. "You can't be here."

Sherlock's breath hitched. "What?"

John's arm fell, the heart monitor beeping quickly. "You're supposed to be dead," he whispered.

Oh. Oh god . Sherlock's jaw dropped. "John...John, what year is it?"

"What's that have to do with anything?" he snapped. He was breathing out of his mouth.

"Please answer the question," he said urgently.

"2012."

Sherlock felt woozy. "No," he said quietly. "No, John, it's 2017."

John was astounded. "It's fucking what ?!"

Sherlock stood up on unsteady legs, beginning to back out of the room. "I should get your doctor."

"Sherlock!" he called out.

He fled the room. This was bad. This was very bad. He found the doctor (What was her name? Not important). "John's awake. He has amnesia."

He followed the doctor back to John's room. When they entered, John was rubbing his suspiciously wet eyes. Sherlock listened in the corner of the room as the doctor calmly explained to a fuming John that he had been in a coma for two weeks following a head injury and that yes, memory loss was to be expected. Forgetting the past five years of your life, though, was a little surprising.

"You remember nothing?" the doctor asked.

"Absolutely nothing," John replied curtly. "I thought he was dead, for Christ's sake."

Sherlock couldn't bring himself to speak.

"Your memory stops at your friend's 'death'?" she asked.

John cleared his throat. "Yeah."

"Perhaps there is some connection between that traumatic event and your memory loss," she observed, her tone detached and clinical. Was that how Sherlock sounded when he interviewed clients? He wanted to tell her to be more sensitive.

John looked away, tension in every one of his muscles. "Well when will it come back?" he asked in a mutter.

The doctor frowned. "I'm sorry, Doctor Watson, but there's no way of knowing. Amnesia is still a mystery to the medical world, as I'm sure you know. It could be tomorrow, next week, next month, a year from now, five years from now, or never."

John kept his eyes on the wall. "Okay," he said quietly.

Sherlock's heart was aching. "Thank you, doctor," he said, surprised at his own politeness, "I think John would like to rest now."

"Of course," she said. "I want to keep him here for a few days for observation, but he should go home at the end of the week. I'll leave you two now," she said with a light smile.

When they were alone, Sherlock felt like he was going to be sick.

John looked at him, his eyes suspiciously wet. He didn't say anything.

Sherlock wished the floor would swallow him up. "So. The last thing you remember is St. Bart's."

"No," he said, voice scratchy, "the last thing I remember is sitting alone in the flat a few days after your funeral."

Sherlock looked down at his shoes. He couldn't bear the expression John wore. "I'm sorry."

"When did you come back?" He sounded disgusted.

"November of 2014."

John sat up and then clutched his head, letting out a grunt of pain.

Sherlock's head snapped up. "Careful-"

"You let me think you were dead for two fucking years?" he spat.

"It's a long story," he mumbled.

"You're going to tell me all of it, you cock. You're lucky I'm weak from being bedridden or else I'd kick your arse right now," he said. It wasn't a joke.

Sherlock pressed his lips together. "You did, when I came back the first time."

"Good," he said proudly.

Sherlock knew John had a right to be angry, thinking that he had just been dead for two years, but he still winced. Great. He was on bad terms with John again.

John shook his head slowly. "I can't believe this is happening. I don't know what's more shocking, that you're alive or that I lost the last five bloody years of my life."

"I truly am sorry, John," Sherlock said sincerely, "for both your memory loss and my actions. I know now that it was wrong of me to leave you in the dark for that long. I should have told you what was going on. It's one of my greatest regrets. I never meant to hurt you."

John stared at him, blinking slowly. He had an expression caught between frustration and surprise. "You're serious."

"Yes?"

"I mean, this is a genuine apology. You're not messing with me. I don't remember you genuinely apologizing for anything. Well, I don't remember much anymore, now do I?"

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back, squeezing them together for comfort. "Trust me, John, the last five years taught me to value you more."

The anger was still there, but a smidgen of softness entered his eyes. "Are you sure you're the one who didn't hit your head? You're...nicer than I remember you."

"Five years is a long time," Sherlock murmured.

"Yeah, guess it is. You still need to tell me why the fuck you faked your suicide." John rubbed his eyes with his finger. He brought his hands away from his eyes, glancing down at his left hand. "What's this?" he held up his hand and spread his fingers, focused on his wedding ring.

Sherlock's heart stopped. He didn't remember Mary. Of course he doesn't remember Mary, you idiot. His throat was clogged. He must not have remembered Rosie, either. That was certain to be a shock.

"Moriarty had three snipers, one trained on you, one on Mrs. Hudson, and the other on Lestrade," he spoke rapidly, trying to distract him. "If I hadn't jumped, all of you would have been killed. I then spent the next two years taking down the rest of Moriarty's network while being captured and tortured-oh, don't look that way, I got over it. I didn't tell you because I thought you would have blown my cover which would have killed us both. I realize my error and am sorry, John, for hurting you. If I could go back in time and do things differently, I would have let you in on the plan, but I cannot change the past." He was out of breath.

John was gobsmacked. "Okay, okay, wait. Tortured?"

"I got over it," he waved his hand, but realized he never told John about that before, even when he had his memory. Oops. "I assure you all of my assailants are dead."

"They better be," he muttered darkly. "So that's why you did it...Christ, Sherlock, I don't know how to take in any of this. How am I supposed to react?"

"I don't know," he said honestly.

John looked at the wall again, silent for a long moment. "I need some time to think," he said, an indirect command to leave.

"Yes, of course," Sherlock said. He left the room without another word. He made his way to the cafeteria in a daze, sitting down at one of the empty tables, staring into space. John didn't remember Mary. How was Sherlock going to explain her? Explaining his falsified suicide was easier because, in part, he still didn't fully understand Mary. "Well, John, you got married to an ex-assassin who lied to you about her identity and then shot me to keep me quiet, but I told you to go back to her out of fear for your safety. Then, you sort of cheated on her, her past caught up with her, and she ran away to deal with a former colleague who was out for her blood, only to be killed by a bullet meant for me. Not sure why she did that when she tried to kill me first. Oh, did I mention she was the mother of your child?"

Sherlock could picture it now. First, John would be confused, but then he would mourn over the dead wife he couldn't even remember. He would look at old pictures of her, especially the ones of her with Rosie when she was first born, and wish that he remembered her. He would then feel guilty all over again for cheating on his wife who then went and took a bullet for his friend before he could come clean. Sherlock wasn't sure if he would be able to take that. He wouldn't be able to handle John mourning and moping for the woman who was the cause of the scar on his chest and the worst rift in their relationship ever. Their relationship had been recovering when Sherlock came back from the dead in 2014, and their downfall had been because of her. Sleep-deprived, hungry, and shocked, Sherlock could admit to himself that he just could not stand the thought of Mary anymore. He was tired of her constant, looming presence in their lives that continued after her death. He wanted to build a life with John now that the worst was over, but it felt like they could never truly move on. Rosie was a constant reminder of Mary, although it wasn't her fault and he did love her. He wished John never met Mary, but Rosie still existed. He knew that was impossible. His mind wasn't working efficiently.

Sherlock was eating a muffin because he was certain that if he didn't put something solid into his stomach, he would vomit. Emotions were running wild throughout his entire body.

His phone rang in his coat pocket. He answered it with a trembling hand. "Hello?"

"Hello, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said, "how's John?"

"He's awake."

"Oh!" she squealed. "He is? How wonderful! Rosie, do you hear that? Your daddy's awake!"

"Mrs. Hudson, I wouldn't advise bringing her to see him right now."

"Why not?"

He took a deep breath. "John has amnesia. He doesn't remember the past five years of his life, including Rosie's existence."

"How awful!" she cried. "Are you serious? Sherlock, how long will it last?"

"No one knows," he sighed. "I believe it would be best to reintroduce him to aspects of his life slowly. He's already shocked."

"Of course," she said sadly. "I can't believe it. How is he otherwise?"

"The doctor said he could go home in a few days."

"I see. Well, tell him I said I hope he feels better and let me know when we should visit."

"I will. Goodbye." He hung up. This was all terrible.

After eating and spending more time sitting alone in the cafeteria to calm his jittery pulse, Sherlock intended on leaving the hospital to go home and shower, but he stopped by John's room one more time just to glance in. He was so used to John being asleep in the bed that it took him by surprise to see him awake and watching something terrible on the television on the wall.

John saw him. "Sherlock."

"Sorry, I know you want to be alone. I was just about to leave."

"No, um, it's okay. You don't have to."

Sherlock walked into the room. "Really? How are you?"

John exhaled heavily out of his nose. He was still pale and had lost some weight in the past two weeks, but he looked a tad more alert now. "Still fucking overwhelmed," he admitted. "But I've had time to think about what you said. I'm still angry with you, but, I think I understand why you did it. Still wish you hadn't done it, but. Can't change the past. Besides, I feel like it's unfair being pissed at you for something you apologized for years ago." He stopped. "You did apologize back then, right?"

"Yes," he rolled his eyes. "I thought you would be pleasantly surprised, so I was confused when you attacked me," he said with an awkward cough. "But once the severity of my actions set in, I apologized."

John's shoulders moved up and down in a quiet sigh. "I won't stop being angry or a little while, but that's because of me, not you. I need to be pissed off for awhile."

"I understand."

"Hm. Well, as for everything else, I still can't believe I've forgotten so much." He frowned. "I've gotten old-looking."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "That's what concerns you?"

"Well, sort of," he said defensively. "I got up and went to the loo and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I've got a lot more grey now."

From stress. "I'm sure I look different now, too."

"Not really," John squinted at him, as if trying to get a closer look at his face. "Of course you'd look the same."

Sherlock didn't know what to say to that, so he looked at the television. "Really, John?"

"There's not much else I can do in here. Besides, I slept for two weeks. I'd rather watch whatever the hell this is than sleep now."

"I see. Do you need anything before I leave?" Please say "no", please say "no", please say "no."

"Hm, don't think so. You should go home. You might look young still, but you look worse for wear. When's the last time you shaved? I don't think I've ever seen you with stubble."

"You have," he said.

John picked up the remote, and curse him for being left-handed, because he noticed the ring again. "Oh yeah, actually, Sherlock, what is this ring? I don't wear jewelry."

Sherlock gulped, dreading the story of Mary he would have to tell. "Surely you recognize the significance of the finger your ring is on," he mumbled, looking at the television.

John was silent.

Sherlock was silent.

The television was playing Jeremy Kyle. Sherlock hated that he knew who that was. He blamed Mrs. Hudson.

"A wedding ring," John said flatly.

"Yes."

"You're telling me I'm married."

Sherlock bit his lip. "Well…" His stomach hurt. Telling your friend that he was a widower was not a pleasant thought. Telling the love of your life he was married to someone who tried to kill you was even worse. If only Mary's entire era could be erased from their lives.

But what if...Oh, this was truly unethical. This was perhaps one of the worst thoughts ever to pop into his head, which made it more enticing. He was supposed to be better than this now. Maybe he'd just say it and see John's reaction, and if it were negative, he would immediately say he was kidding. Actually, that was the most likely outcome. There was no way John would want this, too. This was a blissful moment in which the ghost of Mary did not haunt them, and Sherlock wanted to savor these last moments. He wanted to pretend he could have John for a second. "Yes."

John huffed a breath. "God, how many heart attacks are you going to give me today? Well, who is it?"

Sherlock's heartbeat was in his ears. "Me."

All of the blood rushed to John's face. "You ?" He looked down at the ring. He looked back at Sherlock, and then back at the ring. He put his head in his hands. "I swear, I'm going to have a heart attack," he mumbled into his palms. He lifted his head. "Is that why you're nicer than I remember?"

This...was not an explicitly negative reaction. "Yes?"

John licked his lips. "I...Really?" He swallowed audibly. "I guess this makes sense...sort of." He scratched the back of his neck, averting his gaze. "I, uh, when you were gone, I thought about how if I got a second chance with you, I'd tell you how I felt, so I guess I must've done that when you came back. I guess I grew a set of bollocks in five years, huh?"

Sherlock was now the one who felt like he was hit in the back of the head with a metal bar. How he felt? Oh my god. His mind was blank, then rapidly went into overdrive. John had feelings for him. He wasn't reacting negatively to thinking they were married. He thought the idea made sense. He...he wanted Sherlock? He thought about this before? Sherlock had inferred that John had romantic feelings for him before he fell, especially when Irene Adler came into their lives and he overheard their conversation at Battersea, but he thought he destroyed all of that when he hit the pavement. Apparently not. John had romantic feelings for him. He was seemingly okay with supposedly being married. This was Sherlock's greatest desire. They could start over. He could have John. They could leave their ugly past behind them forever. This was too good to be true.

"Sherlock, hello? You listening?"

Sherlock sucked in a breath. "What?"

"I guess you weren't, then," he rolled his eyes. "I was...well, you know I only remember you from 2012, so I was asking...you really want a relationship?" he asked with a self-conscious look on his face. "I can't picture you wanting any of what a marriage entails."

"I love you," he blurted out, immediately feeling heat sting his face. "I always have, John. I should have told you sooner, before I jumped, and I'm sorry."

John looked astounded for the tenth time that day. "You're actually going to give me a heart attack," he said. His heart monitor was beeping quickly. He sat there staring at him, breathing out of his parted lips.

Sherlock's legs felt shaky.

John shrugged his shoulders with a snort. "Christ, it feels like I've woken up in the Twilight Zone, but," he grinned a little, incredulous, "at least this bit is good news."

Good news. Sherlock couldn't tell him the truth now. If he told them they weren't really married, John would most likely feel humiliated and close himself off. He probably wouldn't believe Sherlock if he told him he truly loved him, and why should he? He just lied about a marriage, for god's sake. On top of that, John was dealing with Sherlock's lie about his death all over again. He was already vulnerable. In an instant, Sherlock let the lie get out of hand, and he couldn't crush John with the truth and have him feel lied to again. But he was lying about something gigantic. Yet, making John feel mortified over opening himself up would be excruciating-to see the hurt in his eyes, then anger, then self-loathing, Sherlock was too much of a coward to see that happen. What was he going to do?

Sherlock couldn't stay here any longer. Already, guilt was starting to prick at his veins. "I'm...I really should go, John. I promise I'll be back tomorrow."

John looked a bit disappointed, but nodded. "Okay. I think I need more time to process every fucking crazy thing you told me today, and you know, you being here, alive, again. And being my...husband." He looked dumbstruck after uttering the word, as if he couldn't believe this was happening.

Sherlock was torn between loving this and wishing he could turn back the clock and tell him about Mary.

He sunk into the pillow. "This has to be the craziest day of my life. I feel like I'm going out of my mind."

"Me too," Sherlock muttered.

John looked him over. "You need to go eat and shower. I still want to talk to you, but your well-being is more important." That was the old, caring John Sherlock had missed so much. In general, John was more open now than he had been in...well, five years.

Sherlock nodded, feeling a lump in his throat. "Bye," he choked out, and turned on his heel.

What was he doing? This was dangerous. This was doomed from the start. John would likely regain some of his memory, and when he did, he would certainly hate Sherlock. He would probably never forgive him for this. But John was able to forgive him for faking his death; that was much bigger, right? Sherlock thought it was. Maybe John would forgive this, too?

Sherlock climbed into a taxi with shaking legs. He needed to think. He needed to find a way to prolong this as much as possible.

Sherlock looked out the window. He had the eerie feeling that the countdown clock to the end of his relationship with John had already begun.