Beige. It's a stupid color for walls that contained a genius and John hated this place. He hated it more than Afghanistan, and more than an empty Baker Street. Room 862. A familiar room at the end of a familiar hall, and the steps that led him there were heavy and unsatisfied. A woman with blond hair was leaving the small apartment when he reached it. "Oh! Hello, John!" She always greeted him in this way.
"Good afternoon, Anne." John smiled at her, handing her the bouquet of flowers. "I brought these by for you."
"Oh how thoughtful of you. Sherlock is inside, and I'm sure he will enjoy a visit from you."
"How's today been?"
Anne's smile faded slowly and her eyes filled with sympathy. "It's a bad day, John. One of the worst I've seen."
John just nodded. "I'll see what I can do."
He pushed open the door, and behind it was a very small two room apartment with a genius stretched out upon it's sofa. "Sherlock?" He asked very tentatively. The former detective did not break his vacant eye contact with the ceiling. Sherlock was only 60, but his demeanor was that of 100 and it made John sad to see the energy gone from his oldest friend. He tried again. "Sherlock?"
Sherlock turned his head and saw John now. It took him a very long silence to connect the dots. "John?"
"Yes, Sherlock, it's me. I brought you something." The genius sat up and took the files from John.
He leafed through the case files John had brought him, hoping the former detective would find some entertainment from them. Finally he slowly asked, "What are these?"
"Unsolved crimes. Some cold cases Lestrade sent with me today."
"Who?"
John sighed. "Never mind, love." He took the cases out of Sherlock's hands and set them on the coffee table, sitting next to him on the couch. Anne was right, it was a very bad day. "Do you remember what today is?" John knew it was a stretch, but he wanted to try.
Sherlock thought very hard, glaring at his hands in frustration. Then, he saw his ring. "Is it... is it our anniversary?"
John smiled and put an arm around his husband. Sherlock always tried harder when John was there. "It is, Sherlock. I was hoping you would want to watch a movie with me and-"
The door opened again and Hamish, 25 and fresh from a crime scene, came in and closed the door behind him. "Hello, Papa. How are you?"
Sherlock went rigid and frowned indignantly. "Who are you? Go away!"
Hamish looked hurt. "It's me, Hamish. Your son."
"John, who is that?" Sherlock was getting angry now. "Leave us alone!"
John shot off the couch and pulled Hamish out into the hallway. "Hal? Are you OK?" The young police detective was on the verge of tears. He pulled his son into a hug. "We knew this was going to happen, Hamish. The doctor told us long before your Papa had to come live here that he would start to forget people in his life. It's part of his Alzheimer's, and you can't take it too personally."
Hamish was crying now. "It's not fair! How could he just forget everything when he used to know everything?"
John had asked himself that question everyday for the past 6 years. "I'm going to go in there and see if I can jog his memory of you a bit."
Sherlock was still sitting on the couch, a confused and angry look still on his face. "John, I think I know that man."
"Good, good. Who is he?" John was trying to coax the memory out of him. Sherlock thought for a very, very long time, before he just shook his head. "That's our son, Hamish. Do you remember Hamish, Sherlock?"
The former detective thought for another long stretch of time, before saying, "Yes. I... I think I do." Hamish, upon hearing this, slowly reentered the room. "Hello, son."
The young man, an almost exact mirror to his Papa, relaxed and returned the greeting.
The small family spent the rest of the afternoon in front of the TV in the nursing home apartment, Sherlock falling sleep with his head on John's lap; a position from their near past, but, to John, it felt like lifetimes ago. Hamish excused himself after the movie, needed to go back to work and manage a small team for an investigation.
John, however, wished to stay and spend the rest of his anniversary with his husband, even if the latter was asleep for most of it. For an hour, John quietly ran his fingers through Sherlock's greying curls, watching the sleeping genius. John loved him most these days when he was sleeping, because in his dreams, he wasn't confused and upset.
After a while, Sherlock woke back up and sat up on the couch. John squeezed his hand. "Want to get some dinner?"
Sherlock stared at him blankly, then asked very evenly. "Who are you?"
John's face fell a bit; it was the first time Sherlock hadn't remembered him. He kissed Sherlock's forehead. "It's me, John. Your husband."
Sherlock wriggled out of his grasp. "No you're not! I don't have a husband! Leave me alone!" He stomped into his small bedroom and slammed the door, screaming through the wood, "I don't know you! Leave me alone!" And John left him alone.
That night, back at Baker Street, it was not the first time John Watson-Holmes cried himself to sleep.