A/N I've always wanted to try this- a story consisting mostly dialogues with minimal description (the next chapter will have even less). Then the idea of the plot came to me and I thought 'Why not?' I hope you like it and yes, yes, I know, it's really short.

Amnesia

The smile that met him when he burst into the room was... unusual. It was what he called 'the polite smile'- tight around the corners, eyes filled with artificial warmth.

"John?" he asked again, wondering what had happened in the week(s) he had been away. The smile became a little more real, yet it didn't loose the air of fake around it.

"Yes, that's me." John put the book he had in his hands aside and stood up, reaching out to shake the still man's hand. "And you are?"

Sherlock swept his eyes over his friend's body searching for any sign the man before him was joking but it was all too real. The way John held himself, the army posture he had lost months ago now back with full force, body ready for battle if the need arose. Without that distinctive light that shone in the blond's eyes when he looked at him. He barely had enough time to stop his hands from wiping on his pants. He was nervous and that realization came with far more emotions than any of his previous deductions.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, yet nothing but a little whimper left his mouth. Before he could blush, not that he wold have, John was smiling wider now, the 'comforting smile' and it made something in the detective's stomach twist and turn. He wasn't a bloody victim, he didn't need comfort, the word sounded disgusting even in his own mind. If someone was acting weird it was John.

"I'm sorry. A couple of days ago I hit my head and now I don't remember some things."

"I..." Sherlock's hands twitched, begging him to curl them but he resisted the urge. It was weakness. As was the guilt slowly creeping in his body. If only he had been there... but, no, it had been an important case. He couldn't pass a triple murder with a smiling face on the wall as the murderer's only note. And it hadn't been his fault John had chosen that moment to be away and he hadn't been able to say goodbye.

"No, please, let me. I'm quite good at reading people." The voice was calm and collected but the eyes were sparkling with barely-hidden excitement. That was the main reason Sherlock nodded, preparing himself to listen to a load of badly-drawn conclusions and most importantly, keep his tongue in check.

"You studied with me in the university." The detective bit back a groan. 'Here we go'. "No, not university. I thought you were a major in biology, the little flicker of interest, hidden behind the worry, when I mentioned the amnesia and me? I was studying to become a doctor. But it was crime, wasn't it. You like crimes, solving them. It's not a big leap from biology, despite what most people think. And in all honesty I was warned that I was sharing a flat with a... consulting detective, wasn't it? I just wasn't sure how long we have known each other. But there was no way we met in university and, no offense, but you aren't exactly army material.

But even if I didn't know it wouldn't have been that hard to guess, your stuff are all over the place and I could easily see what sort of person you are just by looking at them. But you are secretive, aren't you. You don't like showing your feelings, the way you are holding yourself now makes it obvious and since I started guessing right you have begun to close yourself off.

The chaos in you room, don't worry, I didn't snoop around should have told me random, impulsive person, but I really must congratulate you. The way you were able to put everything in perfect order so it seems as if it's random but one careful look and... Brilliant, simply brilliant..."

The praise, the only familiar thing in the whole scene managed to shake Sherlock out of his stupor. His gaze focused, pupils shrinking just as he had taught himself years ago. It was strangely comforting, the reminder that no, he was okay, the whole world had turned upside down.

"I know me, John." He didn't mean to hiss. But he wasn't used to his own techniques turned against him. "But who are you?"

Cliche. Dull. Boring.

The words filled his mind the moment the question left his mouth.

John smiled, hand beginning to twitch slightly. It wasn't one of his pretty smiles, Sherlock noticed.

"We both know who I am."