Disclaimer: Sherlock and John belong to the BBC.

John looked worriedly from the clock on the wall to his watch, then to his friend's face, then back to the clock again. It's been approximately three hours since he and Sherlock had gone out and had gotten themselves into their pretty little mess.

The day had been pretty typical - Sherlock was his usual annoying self, insisting that they go with a shortcut on their way home back from the grocers. The night was getting nippy and the two had left their jackets back at 221B, charmed by the misleading orange glow of autumn's light. The trouble started when they rounded a corner only to come face to face with some ruddy thugs. The whole process went surprisingly similar to what one sees on the TV, a serrated knife, a few gruff words, the stench of alcohol, and vague threats before their wallets were whisked unceremoniously away from them.

Sherlock and his stubborn temper always got the better of him, and John knew that it would've been useless praying for the miracle that perhaps his best friend might shut up for once in such a situation.

"If you guys were going to mug someone, I'd wish you were a little less stupid and chose people who actually had money", he spat. John had started to roll his eyes at Sherlock's words when the larger of the two men suddenly stopped rifling through the contents of the wallet. Before John could utter a word the man had brought the blunt end of the large knife down harshly on Sherlock's head with a loud grunt. His nostrils flared as he then kicked Sherlock roughly behind the knee and Sherlock buckled, lurching forward until he was sprawled against the wall with a loud noise. The drunken vapors coming off of the thug spoke of a serious lack of self-control as the large man whacked with his large fist across the back of Sherlock's head once more. Sherlock went promptly limp and John had gasped in horror as he tried to go to his friend's aid.

The next few moments were a blur, but perhaps someone in passing had actually seen something because a police car had pulled up and suddenly there were strong hands and sirens and red and blue flashing across the walls. John didn't realize he was holding his breath as he watched one of the cops turn Sherlock over to assess his injuries after another had gone off giving chase to the thugs. There was a gash on Sherlock's head and his usual pale skin looked a few shades lighter. He must've hit the wall harder than he thought.

"Shit." The word escaped from John's breath like a hiss.

Now it has been a few hours later and John was sitting in a plastic chair in the hospital next to Sherlock. The injuries appeared minor but Sherlock's unconsciousness was disconcerting. The brain is a very complex organ, and who knows what kind of unforeseeable complications could arise from the blows he received?

John took a sip of the hot tea he had in a paper cup and leaned back, rubbing his eyes. Any moment now, Sherlock. He thought to himself. Why the hell couldn't you just shut up for once! You and your stupid ego…always deluding yourself by thinking that you can be more than human. Why, as horrible as this sounds, you kind of deserve this…this…

Before John could finish his thoughts a movement caught his attention. Sherlock's eyelids flickered and he opened then, then immediately squinted them shut again, deciding that light was a bad idea.

"Hey," John said, tentatively. "How are you feeling?"

Mmph.Was the only reply. Sherlock tried to sit up then, and instead he winced from the effort and threw an arm over his forehead, overcome by a throbbing pain. "W...water", he managed to croak.

"Here, Sherlock." John quickly poured a glass of water from the side table and handed it to Sherlock, who took a few sips before settling his head back on the pillow, his pale blue-green eyes a little less focused than usual.

Sherlock scanned the room with his eyes then he traced his own body with his gaze. He was covered in a standard issue hospital blanket. All his muscles seemed to be in functional order; he could move all his limbs. He took a deep breath – lungs are fine. The only thing amiss seemed to be his throbbing headache. Well, actually…Sherlock frowned. That's not the only thing.

Sherlock fixed his gaze on the man sitting on the chair next to him, keeping his face unreadable. He thought for a moment then decided to be blunt with it.

"Who…are you?"

John blinked. That was not a question that he had expected to hear and suddenly panic struck him.

"Sherlock? What do you mean? I'm...I'm John. JohnJohn." That seemed a little redundant but John had no better words to say.

Sherlock blinked again, then said nothing.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock sniffed. Now John was in full panic mode but he told himself to keep calm. Head injuries can often result in temporary amnesia. The key word was temporary.

"It's all right." John said in his most soothing tone. "You've…hit your head and you might be a little confused right now. It should clear itself up sooner or later. I'm…John…we…we're roommates." John cleared his throat. "I'm also your best friend."

Sherlock squinted his eyes a little bit out of his effort for concentration, but it only made his headache worse. "John." Sherlock liked the way the word just rolled off his tongue. Somehow the sensation does have a vaguely familiar feel to it. Satisfied for now and unwilling to expose too much more of himself, Sherlock closed his eyes in an effort to think.

Despite his injuries Sherlock remained true to his nature and demanded to be released from the hospital much earlier than was good for him. John had relented, seeing as he thought that perhaps familiar surroundings might help jog Sherlock's memory back a little earlier.

When they got back to the apartment, Sherlock had scanned the room with all his usual flair and deduced in minute detail quite a few things about his previous life. Knife on the mantelpiece – practical, always prepared. Bullet holes in the wall – his landlady must reallylove him. Chemistry set – he worked at home. Toes in the cookie jar – not a conventional scientist, then. Unlike his usual self, however, he didn't rattle off his deductions to the world at large but had kept his mouth shut for the most part. Somehow silence also suited him, and he recalled a vague sense of silence as protection - as comfort.

But that was a long time ago, it had settled over him because it was preferable to the alternative...whatever alternative it was. A sudden flash of memory flitted past his brain - a playground, a young child...taunting. "Smarty pants...leave him alone, he doesn't need friends what with his massive brain in the way..."

"Sherlock."

John's voice broke Sherlock's reverie and he noted with a slight annoyance that he had been too lost in thought to notice that John had been calling him. He turned around and winced, his headache was coming back. Double annoyance - pain didn't usually bother him, did it?

"Yes?" His voice was gruff, so he cleared it.

"Ah...lunch? What would you like for lunch, Sherlock?"

"I'm not hungry."

"Of course you're not..." muttered John. "Nevertheless, you need food, Sherlock. I'll make some soup."

Hmm. Sherlock didn't say anything else; instead he proceeded to explore the rest of the flat. The room was filled with a sort of...warmth, there were clear signs that the place was well lived in. A vintage violin lay on an armchair and he picked it up, examining the wood and make. German…circa 1880. It's been meticulously taken care of despite the general haphazard condition that makes up the desk tops and shelves.

Sherlock closed his eyes and placed the violin under his chin, taking the bow in his other hand. The music came easily, and he realized that the tune was one of his own...he had composed this song. The melody was plaintive and the ending...the ending resigned. No, thought Sherlock with a wry twist, it was a bit stronger than that...closer to…lamenting. He took a sharp breath and placed the violin down again.

John bustled out of the kitchen with some steaming soup and placed it on the desk behind Sherlock. Despite what he had said earlier, Sherlock felt his stomach grumble in anticipation and he sat down to his meal.

John was interesting to observe. He was Sherlock's friend - yet his presence was a relatively recent development. He hadn't known him for long then, maybe only a year or a bit more. Despite that there seems to be a closeness that time does not really explain. John was a doctor…recently returned from service in Afghanistan. There's a steadfast loyalty to the man and Sherlock wondered what he could've possibly done to warrant such trust from him. Suddenly Sherlock felt that this not-knowing was unacceptable. As fascinating as it was to observe his own life through his artifacts around the flat, his flatmate was something else altogether. He was actually confused – this man really seemed to worry for him. Why? Why would anyone worry over him?

After the quick meal, Sherlock had retreated to his bedroom but not without a little worried glance from John. Inside, Sherlock found there was a chemistry chart on the wall, suits in the closet (expensive suits, those) and a Beosound system on the wall. The bed was neatly made, the rest of the room Spartan and clean. Although he'd hate to admit it, his headache was making the bed look very enticing, and he rested on it with his eyes closed for a bit.