Sherlock
Not today Greg. Waiting for John to return. We have reservations.
Sherlock
No.
Even as he denied the text request, his mind's image of John's knowing look prompted the detective to begrudgingly give Lestrade the courtesy of acknowledging the details of his case. Sometimes John was too much of a good influence. He sighed.
What is it? Be quick about it.
You have to trust me Sherlock and you need to hurry
Punctuation, Greg.
Sherlock ended the text after learning the location. At first annoyed for being summoned away, he began and then canceled a text to the doctor. Greg said to hurry. It was nearby. He could be there and back again before John returned. He knew no possible reason Greg would have for hurrying him to examine a dead body and that annoyed him all the more.
Two streets from Baker didn't warrant a cab, it was faster by foot. Minutes later the detective turned the corner, colliding with Detective Inspector Lestrade with enough force to knock both of them back a step.
"Greg, what-"
Greg grasped his arm and led him toward the two police cars and an ambulance parked at the far end of the alley.
"Don't talk, just come with me."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, remembered it was something Mycroft often did, and reverted to his previous annoyance. Greg's agitation piqued his interest, but he wasn't about to give the inspector the satisfaction. Instead, Sherlock gave him the benefit of the doubt. John's influence once again. Annoying little...army doctor.
Just as they drew near the vehicles, a young police officer joined them. He was obviously new, as he hovered around Lestrade. Still annoyed, Sherlock didn't waste his time deducing anything about him.
"Someone walking by saw him and called in. He's wedged himself so far back, I can't see him anymore, but I can hear him talking to himself. Not making much sense, though."
Lestrade frowned. "Can he get out from the other side?"
"No, sir, he can't. Part of the brick wall is blocking his way."
The detective looked from one man to the other.
"So, not a dead body then."
"No, Mr. Holmes."
"Is he armed?"
"No, Sherlock, he dropped his weapon when he barricaded himself between the wall and the skip. If it's in there somewhere; if you should see it."
"Of course," he murmured under his breath. "I'm not a complete idiot."
"Sherlock!"
"Oh, for God's sake, Greg, why is this so important that you had to get me all the way over here? This can't be more than a two if there's no dead body."
"That's going to be a good thing for you, Sherlock."
Now thoroughly exasperated, the detective ignored Lestrade's attempt at sarcasm and shouldered his way between the two men. Shrugging Lestrade's hand from his shoulder, he strode toward the brick wall. As he slipped behind the overflowing skip and edged his way along the side, he stooped to retrieve the weapon...
"Sherlock, wait. You need to know..."
He paused as a sudden sense of something not quite right washed over him at the sight of the handgun, which he slipped into the rear waistband of his trousers. Sherlock looked over his shoulder to scowl at Lestrade before turning toward their mystery quarry.
"Know what?"
His shout died in his throat. His heart threatened to leap from his chest. And Lestrade's sarcasm became clear when the man before him stared back with terrified blue eyes.
"John?"
"Whoever you are, just stay away."
Of all the ways Sherlock could have lost John, he'd never anticipated this. It was so far down his list, it wasn't even on the list.
Locked in at once, heart pounding, Sherlock stepped forward, offering his hand. "Hello, John. My name is Sherlock."
"No, don't...don't come any closer."
Sherlock ignored the warning and moved a half step closer. The only exit now blocked, John had nowhere to go.
"I can help you."
John smiled, but it wasn't his friendly smile at all.
"Help me? Why would you do that?"
"John."
"I don't know you."
His doctor's pronouncement pierced like a knife through Sherlock's heart. John studied him for a moment before he stood from his crouched position, soldier straight, exhaustion drawn on his face and far from steady. When a single tear traced a line along John's dirt streaked cheek, Sherlock was certain a little nudge was all that was needed for the desired outcome.
"But I know you, John. I can help you remember."
"I don't...I can't..."
John's shoulders slumped in defeat.
"I don't know what to do."
"It's okay."
"I don't know you."
Between one thought and the next, the detective devised a plan, discarding a dozen possibilities before settling on the one most likely to succeed.
"Do you have your phone?"
"Phone?"
"In your left coat pocket."
John studied him for endless moments before dipping his hand inside the pocket. Holding it in his hand, he stared at it as though it were something alien. Sherlock held his breath until John finally looked up.
"Tap the icon for photographs, John."
John drew in a small gasp when the first image displayed.
"What do you see?"
John looked at the image, then at Sherlock a second and third time, and once more at the phone. "You?"
As Sherlock moved forward another half step, he offered his own phone to the frightened doctor. John snatched it from him with a shaking hand.
"Yes, that's me. This phone is mine. It's the same as yours. Look at my most recent photograph, John."
"I don't know..."
"It's you."
"No."
"Yes. That's you. Look at the next one. That's us, together."
"You know who I am?"
"Yes, John, I know you very well."
"But I don't know you."
"Not right now, but you will, John. I promise you will."
The detective stepped closer to rest a hand on the doctor's shoulder. John looked up at him, nodded and then followed, just as he had the first time they were together at Baker Street. Clutching a phone in each hand, and staring at the same image on both, John stumbled, would have fallen, if not for Sherlock's quick reflexes.
Once clear of John's hiding place, the detective pocketed both phones, but not before glancing at the image that had gained John's trust. Weeks ago, Molly had caught them in an unguarded moment just seconds before they'd kissed and forwarded it to them. Blinking away sudden tears before they could fall, Sherlock glanced up to discover John watching him.
Before Sherlock realized it, John had reached into the pocket of his Belstaff and pulled out one phone. The doctor studied the image for a moment before glancing up at Sherlock.
"Are we...together?"
"Yes."
"Do we...do you love me?"
Sherlock smiled. "Far beyond anything I thought possible."
John cleared his throat, his eyes suspiciously bright. For a moment it was as if all was well. The Watson demeanor was intact, at least here, now, but it was his essence, what made him John, which was lost. He was John and not John all at once, much like John without the jumper. Sherlock frowned.
"Do I love you?" he asked, his expression thoughtful, and very much John.
The detective took a deep breath and smiled.
"More than I deserve."
~0~
After passing his concussion questions and having no visible signs of injury and no complaints, John declined a visit to A&E. Following a brief argument with Lestrade over a ride to Baker Street, and an agreement to keep in touch, Sherlock departed with the doctor. John looked at the phone image several times as they walked, clutching the device with a firm hand.
Nearing Baker Street, the detective threaded his fingers with John's, earning a raised eyebrow glance, but no comment. He allowed a brief smile despite the unaccustomed churning in his stomach. John was in there somewhere; Sherlock just had to find a way to reach him and guide him home.
Mrs. Hudson was at the door collecting a delivery when they arrived. Her smile disintegrated into concern at John's lack of greeting.
"Hello, Mrs. Hudson. Fine day, isn't it? Rain expected tomorrow, but then this is England."
The elderly landlady nodded. They'd known each other long enough for her not to question.
Sherlock leaned down to kiss her cheek. "Nothing serious, will explain later," he whispered, leading John inside and toward the stairs.
"Come, John, you need a bath to wash off all that refuse. I will order takeaway and we'll retire early. Busy day tomorrow."
"Sleep well, boys."
"We will, Mrs. Hudson, thank you."
Locking the doors behind him to further discourage Mrs. Hudson from disturbing them until morning, Sherlock turned to John.
"Wonderful woman, but a bit of a busybody. She insists she's our landlady, not our housekeeper, but she takes very good care of us."
John stared back at him, eyes wide and expression wary, his fisted hands flexing with nervous energy.
"Bad idea."
"John."
"Don't know you. This was a very bad idea."
With a fluttery wave of his long slender fingers, the detective beckoned John to join him beside the sitting room table.
"Let me show you something."
When Sherlock lifted the lid of the laptop, revealing John's blog, the doctor stared at it.
"This is your blog, John. You describe our cases to your readers."
"Oh."
"A Study in Pink was the first case you and I worked on together."
"First one."
"There have been dozens, John."
Sherlock glanced at the dazed and very pale doctor. Alarmed at what he saw, he closed the laptop, guided John to his comfortable chair and pushed him into it.
"Breathe, John. I'll get you a glass of water."
When the detective returned to the sitting room with the water and a bowl from the cupboard, John opened his eyes. He sipped at the water and stared at the bowl with a disapproving frown. Sherlock recognized another hint of the John Watson he knew hovering just out of reach.
"Just in case, John."
John nodded. "Do I have a room?"
Sherlock stared at his best friend, uncertain how much more information he could safely give him.
"Yes? Um, no?"
John paled a second time, his breathing spiked. Reaching for the arms of the chair, he grasped each until his fingers lost their color.
Dropping to his knees in front of him, the detective rested his hands on John's shoulders. "I think I've overwhelmed you with so much information. Perhaps you should rest a bit?"
John shook his head. "I have to know. The more questions I ask, the sooner I might remember something. Please."
"John."
John twitched the cuff of Sherlock's shirt. "Please?"
"Very well, but not now. Later, John. After your bath and dinner, and before we sleep, but only for a short time."
John huffed, sighed, frowned and nodded. "Yes, all right. Thank you."
Sherlock smiled and kissed the top of John's head.
~0~
"No, I can't."
Shifting his weight from one foot to the other in a constant rhythm of fear, agitation and whatever else it was that escaped Sherlock's spare observation, John appeared ready to bolt. If sharing a bed had his doctor this panicked, then Sherlock had no choice but to prepare for any response while using reason to break through John's fear.
"John, listen to me. I think I can give you a bit more information to ease your fears. Do you think that would help?"
The doctor nodded, but another familiar warning appeared in the clenching of his fists. "Yes."
"Would your sit down? May I sit beside you?"
With barely a nod, John eased down onto the edge of the bed.
"May I hold your hand?"
John opened his hand, allowing Sherlock to entwine their fingers.
"We've been flatmates and partners for five years. We've been lovers for nearly two. Rarely have we been apart in all that time." Sherlock deliberately omitted the two dead years, preferring to give John the positive, less emotional details now. He'd remember that painful time soon enough.
"I want to believe you...but when I try to remember us in the photograph on the phone, it's just blank. There's nothing there..."
"It's quite understandable that you're afraid of the unknown."
"No...I'm terrified."
"I know. Everything about you shouts it."
John frowned again. "I'm sorry."
"It's not something to apologize for when you can't control it. John, if I give you my word that nothing of an intimate nature will happen until your memory returns, would that ease your fear?"
John stared, his mouth quirked, an echo of the John he knew.
"Yes, all right."
"It's late, John, and we both need to sleep."
"Okay."
Once Sherlock slid under the duvet, and turned away toward the wall, John still hesitated. Finally, as the wait stretched into minutes, Sherlock rolled onto his back.
"John, I've left the light on in the hallway so it won't be dark in here. I gave you my word not to ravish you. There's nothing to be afraid of."
"I..."
"You are fully clothed, you aren't naked, well, except for your feet, but those are just a small part of my love for you. Come to bed. Please, John."
"All right."
"Still hesitating, John."
"Yes."
"John, I rarely make promises, but when I do, I keep them. I meant what I said."
"Yes."
"John."
Patience wearing thin, even though he knew John did not process emotional issues quickly under normal conditions, and this was far from a normal condition, the detective grasped the front of John's T-shirt and tumbled him onto the bed. The look of surprise on the doctor's face melted Sherlock's heart all over again and filled up his patience reservoir.
"I'm going to bend my promise just a bit, John, and kiss your cheek."
When Sherlock did just that, John, wide eyed and holding his breath, lay still.
"If you remember nothing else, John, remember that I love you."
In the warm glow of the light just outside the door, Sherlock watched John, as he always did and would do for the rest of their lives. When sleep finally circled round him, he allowed his eyes to drift shut, content to listen to the soft breathing beside him. In that warm place between awake and asleep, he was aware of a fingertip resting on his thumb.
"John?"
"I'm afraid," he whispered.
"I know."
Sherlock folded his hand over John's smaller one, squeezing it to give him courage.
"I'm right here."
~0~
Sherlock startled awake when John bolted to a sitting position.
"Men in the park...men in the park."
John's voice, harsh now and so unlike his usual warm tone, raised all of the detective's danger signals, but it was the unblinking stare that threw Sherlock into his protective mode. Without regard to John's past warnings to always be mindful of an unexpected fist, Sherlock wrapped the duvet and himself around John to hold him close. If his doctor was aware, he gave no sign. Sherlock waited, but when John remained silent, he pressed his lips to his best friend's ear.
"You can tell me, John. Tell me what you see."
John went deathly still for several long seconds. Sherlock startled when he finally spoke.
"Tall, dark hair, dangerous. Smaller, dark hair, evil. Talking, laughing."
"Do we know them?"
"People don't have archenemies..."
"What? John?"
The doctor slumped against him, mumbling words Sherlock couldn't hear.
"Say it again, John?"
For another short time there was only John's ragged breathing.
"Rubbish, pointy nose...umbrella. Spider."
John's disjointed words were an immediate insight for Sherlock. As dawn approached, he finally lay back, cradling John against his chest. No matter what he did or didn't do, there was no way to avoid the inevitable pain of all those returning memories, but, if he wasn't mindful, those memories could rise up like a monster that would bury them both in its path.
~0~
"I need to see you. Outside. Discreetly. John's asleep."
"Very well. I'm nearby."
"Of course you are."
"Don't be cheeky, Sherlock."
John was still in a deep, exhausted sleep when Sherlock slipped through the front door where Mycroft waited in the rear seat of his obviously official black car.
Refusing to enter the car, the detective waited for his insufferable sibling to sigh and join him on the pavement. Immediately stepping into Mycroft's personal space and fisting his hands to avoid removing the annoyed and smug expression off his face, Sherlock was gratified by the one step retreat in his brother's stance.
"You were in Regent's Park yesterday."
"And you came by this information...how?"
"Don't deny it, Mycroft."
"Sherlock, I can only tell you that I met with a high-ranking American agent to discuss a matter of national security."
"Whose national security? Are you moonlighting for the CIA again? Why the park?"
"It was the only place where we could meet by chance, as it were, and retain some modicum of privacy."
"And did he resemble Moriarty?"
Mycroft leveled a glare that was intended to stop him from continuing, but Sherlock was never afraid to push his brother to the limit of his patience and beyond to get to the truth.
"Sherlock."
"I'm not a child anymore, Mycroft. Your warnings no longer frighten me. When it comes to John, I will do what I must to protect him."
"Yes, quite."
"Don't."
Mycroft raised his suspicious eyebrow. "There may have been a passing resemblance."
Forcing his fisted hands into the pockets of his dressing gown did little to curb the second nearly overwhelming urge to strike his brother. Perhaps one day in private he would give in to that urge.
"The pieces of the puzzle fit now. John was there, Mycroft. He must have seen you, suffered a flashback and blocked it out. PTSD, Mycroft, or have you conveniently deleted that for your own purpose?"
"Sherlock."
"Did you see John?"
His brother paled, displaying guilt that few, if any, would recognize, but to Sherlock it was as plain as the nose...
"I had no way of knowing he would be there."
With his voice filled with as much venom as he could gather, he hurled the deliberate accusation with no regret. "Yes you did. Anytime we leave this flat, whether alone or together, you and your eyes are always aware. You saw his reaction, probably enjoyed it. You know he was diagnosed with PTSD. You left him there, alone, afraid."
"Brother, dear, it was not my intention-"
"Oh, please, save your platitudes for someone you can manipulate."
"Sherlock, be reasonable. I didn't expect he would react that way. After I sent the agent on his way, I followed John; but he eluded me."
Sherlock never lost control, but anger consumed him, forcing his words through gritted teeth as he pushed Mycroft against the car.
" .him."
"Sherlock?"
Startled, Sherlock turned away from his brother at once. John stood in the doorway, disheveled, still in his pyjamas, clearly confused, and when he stared at Mycroft, terrified once again.
~0~
"Sherlock?" John called to him in a timid voice. "What's going on?"
"Mycroft. Inside. Now."
"Sherlock? Why is he here?"
"Come, John, I'll explain when we get upstairs."
"No...he's...he was in the park with the other one. I know...I think I know them and they're...it's not good."
Sherlock pushed John inside, kicking the door closed behind them. Pinning John against the wall, the detective silenced John with a hand over his mouth.
"Everything is fine, John. There is a simple explanation, but you have to stay calm."
When John nodded, mumbled into his palm, Sherlock glanced away, anywhere but at the man before him. The sudden urge to kiss John into the middle of next week nearly got the better of him, but his promise held. He'd deal with Mycroft first, then perhaps amend his promise a bit, again, with John's permission, of course.
"Sherlock," John mumbled against his palm.
Sherlock dropped his less than steady hand. "Not now, John."
"Sherlock, I..."
The detective glared at his doctor; the doctor glared back at the detective. Stalemate, but the door holding back the memories was open even more.
"Sherlock...I need to tell you something."
"For god's sake, John, what is it?" he said with more irritation than he intended. The instant the words passed his lips, Sherlock regretted them.
John gazed up at him, his eyes bluer than he had ever seen them, pupils dilated with an emotion he couldn't determine. Fear? No, not fear. Sherlock ignored a flash of something familiar in John's eyes. No, not that either. Sherlock tried to shut down that line of thought immediately, but it refused to obey, preferring to linger just out of reach, effective, nonetheless.
"Sherlock?"
The detective blinked, returning to the present so quickly he experienced a quickening of his heart before it settled down.
"Sorry, John, what was it you needed to tell me?"
Sherlock focused on John's words: Needed, not wanted to tell him. Until a pain in his chest reminded him, he hadn't noticed he'd been holding his breath.
"My head doesn't remember you, but my body does?" John whispered. "Is that possible?"
Sherlock tried and failed to keep a smile from his lips as his doctor's fair skin flushed a pretty pink.
"John?"
John stared up at him, his mouth forming a perfect "O" as realization dawned. He shook his head quickly, repeatedly.
"No, Sherlock, not that." John's smile was soft, barely lifting the corners of his mouth.
"Oh," Sherlock teased. "I thought...you...em...ooo-kay."
"I...just meant...that I trust you, I'm comfortable with you."
"You're not afraid of me?"
"No, not of you. I mean...I was...a bit...at first. Not anymore, well, just afraid in general?"
That John had feared him even for a brief moment hurt more than he would have expected. "What made you trust me enough to not be afraid of me?"
"Sherlock, shall I make tea?" Mycroft called from the landing.
The detective glanced toward the stairs. He'd forgotten about his brother. John grasped his arm before he could step away.
"Last night, when you said you loved me."
His mind already on what he wanted to say to his brother, Sherlock turned around at John's softly spoken words.
"Sorry?"
The shy smile he coveted every time it appeared on John's face slipped away at his absentminded response.
"You asked me when I stopped being afraid of you...last night when you said you loved me. That was my answer."
Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but he couldn't force a single word from his throat. It was John's mournful expression that reached him, via his heart. Rushing forward, he gathered the doctor against his chest, kissing the top of his fair head.
"Thank you."
Pulling back, Sherlock caught a glimpse of the shy smile once more.
"Come with me, John. Mycroft has been a bad man and he needs to be punished."
"I don't know any Mycroft?...Do I? What a strange name." John shook his head. "I don't know anyone, well, you, I know you, sort of...that...the man in the park, the one upstairs. You know him?"
"Don't ramble, John. It's a bit not good." Sherlock tossed a sly grin over his shoulder. "And, yes, I think he is our key to rescuing your memories." The detective again recalled the image in his mind of the memory door, as he now thought of it, at first firmly locked, behind which lay all of John's memories. Simplistic though it was, it served its purpose. It was especially satisfying that the door was now nearly wide open.
"Key? What key?"
"Come along, John, I have a plan."
"You have that look on your face again."
Stunned, Sherlock stared at John. "What look?"
"The look that says I know what you're talking about."
"And?"
"I don't. I think I should be annoyed, but I don't know why."
Sherlock's heart skipped, its rhythm erratic and joyful. He'd never been truly joyful until this army doctor came into his life. A smile sneaked over his lips at the thought of that delightful sentiment.
As they ascended the stairs together, Sherlock rested his arm over John's shoulder despite the narrow climb. He pulled John in, kissing the top of his head.
Perhaps the key to the door behind which John's memories waited was not necessary. In his mind, the new image of the door nearly fully open gave him hope. Could he nudge it open a bit more? He could and he would. For both of them.
~0~
A obviously annoyed Mycroft paced the sitting room as Sherlock and John stepped in. He'd apparently forgone his previous offer to prepare tea. At the sight of the elder Holmes, John stiffened, but Sherlock's arm around his shoulders kept the doctor at his side.
"Not to worry, John. Mycroft's mere presence would frighten a vulture off a carcass, but he rarely bites."
Mycroft attempted a pinched smile. "How droll, Sherlock."
"Sherlock?"
John's tone more than his stiff posture pressed Sherlock forward with his plan. It was more like an experiment, its outcome hopeful, but less than certain, risky at best considering John's emotional state, but one that Sherlock felt the benefit outweighed the risk.
"John, this is my brother, Mycroft."
"Your...brother?"
"Yes, John, my older brother. He is the man you saw in the park. Explain, Mycroft, to ease John's mind, perhaps enough to restore his memories."
"Very well. John, my apologies. I had no way of knowing you would be in the park or that you might react so strongly to the appearance of the man I was meeting. It became clear to me that there was enough of a resemblance to James Moriarty to cause you to have a traumatic flashback."
It was just like Mycroft to try to absolve himself of any guilt or responsibility. He'd managed to wriggle out of wrongdoing for years, spider that he was even as a child. Sherlock knew from experience that his brother was a master manipulator. He also knew John was no match for him, so he did what he always did: he protected John.
"You left him there alone, Mycroft. Your spies are ever vigilant and expertly trained. You could have found him."
"Sherlock, by the time my spies, as you call them, found John, Detective Inspector Lestrade was already on the scene."
John kept his distance from Mycroft and his attention and proximity on Sherlock. "Is your brother a spy? Sherlock?"
"On occasion."
John frowned. "Who is Moriarty?"
"He's dead, John. He tried to hurt you, but he's dead now. He can't hurt you anymore."
Instead of easing John's mind, the information agitated him further. John's frown deepened, he began to shake, his hands clenching repeatedly.
"John?"
John stared at Mycroft. "No...no...no," he moaned, pressing his hands over his ears. "I can't hear this. I can't."
"John?"
"It hurts."
"What hurts?"
"My head, my thoughts, everything hurts."
John bolted for the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. Sherlock followed, leaving his brother behind. Slowly pushing the door open,
the detective approached with caution to the center of the room where John stood, shaking, gasping for air and vibrating like a tuning fork.
"John?"
"I don't...I can't...do this alone."
"You're not alone," he whispered as John's words reminded him of...no, he wouldn't think of that. Instead, Sherlock folded his arms around his army doctor, and as he did so, John's arms circled around his neck.
Soft footsteps alerted Sherlock of his brother's presence. Sherlock looked up just as Mycroft inclined his head, and without a word, departed. It was no longer his need to punish his brother. The only person who mattered was John.
~0~
As the rest of the afternoon unfolded and passed into early evening, John grew increasingly withdrawn and distant. He neither spoke nor gave any indication that he was aware of anything or anyone beyond himself. Sherlock brought tea and toast with jam to where he sat in his chair near the fireplace, but it remained untouched. And the ache in the detective's chest hurt more than he'd thought possible.
When the silence became too deep for him to ignore, Sherlock rose from his chair to carry the cold tea and stale toast to the kitchen. Securing the flat for the night, he turned off the lights. As he padded barefoot across the floor he observed the flame from the fire casting shadows on the sitting room walls and over John as well, holding him in its warm glow.
Standing behind John, he gathered both the courage and the details of his plan which had the potential to go horribly wrong considering John's reaction to the confrontation with Mycroft. Sherlock rested his hand in the curve of John's neck and shoulder.
Circling the chair, Sherlock deliberately let his fingers trail along John's shoulder and down his arm as he knelt between John's knees and grasped the doctor's hands, holding them firmly between his own.
"John, you've been quiet for a long while." Placing one curled finger beneath John's chin, He lifted his head until their eyes met.
"Talk to me? Please?"
John's dark eyes glistened with unshed tears that Sherlock suspected had been held in check for some time, but now spilled over.
"I...don't know what...to say." Drawing his hand from Sherlock's, John rapped his knuckles on the side of his head. "It's empty. Everything is empty. There's nothing there. Nothing makes sense."
"May I try to help you?" he asked, tenderly swiping at the wayward tears.
"You brought me here, kept me safe. What more could you do when I remember nothing?"
"Do you trust me, John?"
"Yes."
"Close your eyes."
"Sherlock?"
"It's not dangerous, just a technique I've used myself to remember something important."
"Yes, all right."
"Trust me, John?" he asked again.
"Yes."
"You're sure?"
"Yes," John repeated with a thread of annoyance in his voice that made Sherlock smile.
With comfort as his guide, Sherlock folded himself into the chair, his long legs astride John's, and sat his bum on the doctor's thighs.
"What are you doing?"
"Trust, John. Your memory is not as far away as you think. We just need to give them a bit of a push."
"Okay."
Framing the doctor's face between his slender hands, Sherlock created a calm enveloping them both.
"Shouldn't we be standing so we can turn in a circle?" John whispered.
"Shush."
The bland expression John wore suggested his words were random, with no connection to the memory on a conscious level, The memories were there; of that he was certain. They just had to find a way to connect them and Sherlock was determined they would accomplish that together.
"You remembered that Mycroft was the man you saw in the park and the American agent resembled James Moriarty, but nothing more than that, correct?"
"Yes."
"You left the park and a short time later, you were behind the building just two streets from here. Why do you suppose you were..."
"Running. I was running. I needed to get somewhere...see someone...warn someone, but I don't know..." John's face lit up. "Maybe I was trying to get to...you?"
"Good, John. It's a puzzle, we just have to put all the pieces together. Do you know why you hid behind the skip?"
"Couldn't run anymore. I thought someone was following me, so I got behind the skip."
"Did you see anyone? Did someone pass by while you were hiding?"
"Just the police. He talked to me and said he was calling someone to help me. He said the other man was a detective inspector with the Yard. They both knew who I was, Sherlock, but I didn't know them."
Sherlock brushed his thumbs across John's cheeks to calm him. "It's okay, John."
"It's really not. You told me my name is John Watson, the blog says I'm John Watson, but I don't know it. Not for certain. I...when I was behind the skip with all the rubbish, I was lost. I didn't know what to do or where I was supposed to be."
"You're here now, John, with me. And you're safe."
"I'm not afraid of you. I'm terrified I will never remember."
"John."
"That I'll never remember..."
John opened his eyes, rested his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder, his arms hugging Sherlock's neck.
"I was so alone and I owe you so much."
Sherlock was surprised as much by the raspy voice as he was by the long ago words. Could it have been so easy all along?
Sherlock hugged John with a ferocity he'd not thought himself capable, only easing his grip when John uttered a sudden gasp. The doctor pulled away, his eyes downcast. As the Sherlock waited, his breath caught in his throat, John raised his head.
Sherlock's heart flipped wildly in his chest. "John, what is it? Are you all right?"
With deep blue eyes blown wide and suspiciously bright, John stared back at him.
"John?" Sherlock whispered.
John remained silent, studying him, as though memorizing every inch of his face.
"John, have you remembered something important?"
John's lower lip trembled as he sucked in a shaky breath. Barely nodding, tears flooded his eyes, spilling over and racing down his cheeks. Sherlock's heart ached to see John trying to force words past his heaving sobs.
"I...remember..."
"What do you remember, John?"
Raising his finger to trace over Sherlock's Cupid's bow, John tried and failed to stifle a whimper.
"Tell me, John. What do you remember?"
"I remember you."
~0~
The detective rebuilt the fire and they exchanged places so that he had John cradled against his chest and each was fitted more comfortably into John's chair. Tight, but just perfect.
As the once lost memories returned in gentle waves over the course of the hours that followed, they spoke in whispers. Sherlock listened, speaking minimally to encourage John when what he remembered was vague or confusing and to concur so they could move on to the next memory.
It was nearly three in the morning when John sighed and said no more. The fire was only glowing embers by then and a chill permeated the flat.
"John?"
"Hmm?"
I think we need to go to bed."
"Mmm. Yes, all right."
John only snuggled closer.
"John, in order for us to go to bed, you have to stand up, unless you want me to carry you."
"No...what? I'm sorry...what?"
"Let me help you."
"I can do it."
As John struggled to extricate himself from the chair, he lost his balance and tumbled right back into Sherlock's lap. John's exhausted giggling was infectious. Soon they were both giggling.
"Not a crime scene, John."
John grinned his understanding. Sherlock kissed him gently, then maneuvered him out of the chair and onto his feet. After securing the fireplace, Sherlock pushed and pulled John toward the bedroom.
Beside the bed, while the detective divested him of all but his underwear, John squinted up at him, with a soft, soppy smile.
"Are you trying to seduce me, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, sir?"
"I don't think you'll be awake enough to be seduced, Dr. Watson."
"Really?"
Sherlock held him upright with his arms around John's waist. "Yes, most assuredly."
"Ugh. Let's not bring him into this otherwise..."
Sherlock lowered his head to take John's mouth in a kiss intended to calm rather than arouse and chase away the aforementioned cause of the problem just past.
Catching John off guard, Sherlock simply tumbled him onto the bed. Only seconds were needed to drop his own clothing to the floor. Slipping beneath the duvet, he drew John into his arms.
"Oh, cuddling. I like cuddling...have I ever told you how much I love cuddling with you?"
"John?"
"Yes?"
"Shut up."
Pulling the duvet up over their heads, the doctor attached himself to Sherlock's person, his body both soft and sturdy.
"Sherlock?" John whispered on the third try.
The detective shivered at John's warm breath against his ear. "Yes, John?"
"Love you," John whispered, snuggling closer.
"Love you, too," Sherlock whispered, wrapping himself around John.
"Sherlock?"
"Hmm?"
"I remember you."