When he woke up, he found himself in his bed, sheets neatly tucked in. By a quick glance over to the window, Sherlock assumed that it must have been about 5 am – the sun had not risen yet but the sky didn't have the colour of John's favorite tea either. But why was he in his bed? The last thing he remembered was that he laid on the sofa, the sun had already set (although this was hard to tell because of the never-ending rain on the streets of London). He had been in his mind palace, trying to escape from his thoughts. He had been trying to progress in his investigations about the Voynich Manuscript, his latest Mystery of the Month (of course to be solved only when not on a case). But no case, no murder, no mystery, nothing could prevent him from thinking the forbidden thoughts. Nothing helped. He concentrated on botanical sketches, astrological constellations and quickly found himself back in the comfortable and familiar surroundings of his mind palace.

After a quick shower, John got into the kitchen, preparing breakfast. He automatically put two slices of bread in the toaster, poured enough water for two cups of tea in the kettle and fried enough beans and sausages for a whole family. Only then, he noticed that it was Wednesday and that he was the only person in the flat to have breakfast. Sighing, John sank to his stool, picked up the newspaper and began to eat.

"Sleep well?" Dressed only in his pants and red dressing gown, Sherlock emerged from his bedroom, crossed the kitchen and flourishingly fell on the sofa. Burying his face in the Union-Jack-pillow, he stretched out his arm in John's direction, mumbling "tea!"

"But Sherlock – it's Wednesday!" John gave his flat mate a bewildered look.

"Wednesday? Already?" Sherlock's answer confused John even more – but he decided not to care. With a heavy sigh, John got up from the kitchen table which for once was not covered in body parts and more or less dangerous chemicals and cleared his plate. Reaching for his coat and keys, he once more turned to his friend "I'll be home late."

"You were on a date yesterday. Doesn't the protocol say to wait at least two to three days before calling her again?" Sherlock scowled at John, obviously pissed.

"Even though I think that this is none of your business – it was a shitty date and I'll be in a pub with Greg, having one or two beers. I would've invited you, but I kno-"

"Alright, see ya!" Sherlock jumped up from the sofa and crossed the room with five large steps. He slammed the door to his bedroom before John got the chance to finish his sentence.

The doctor still shook his head when he entered his office in the surgery, completely puzzled by the behavior of Sherlock. During the day, he had no more time to remember the morning and by the time he met Greg at the pub, everything was already forgotten.

"Boring! Boring!" Sherlock shouted with every blow he dealt the dead pig with the ancient sabre. Today, boredom stroke. Boredom and the discomforting thoughts that tried to catch his attention every other minute since Saturday. What was wrong with his brain? Why didn't it work the way it used to? He was no longer able to control his thoughts, they always drifted to... those thoughts. Why?No matter how hard he tried, he could not find an answer to this question.

It was already late afternoon when he finally stopped stabbing the pig. John. When does John come home? Its five pm, he'll finish work in half an hour, considering the traffic, small talk with Sarah, additional paperwork... seventy minutes. Seventy more minutes of this hell called boredom. Sherlock threw the sable on the sofa and turned for the bathroom. Shower, shaving, suit, shoes, coat, scarf... forty-five minutes, maybe forty-seven.

Sherlock turned the shower on for the first time since saturday. Absent-mindedly he accidentally reached for Johns shampoo. The familiar smell of musk and sandalwood overwhelmed him and immediately, the thoughts shoot back into his brain. John's soft hair, damp from the rain, on his shoulder, John's hand in his lap, a slight snort emerging from his mouth.

No. Enough. No more of these thoughts.

Fifty minutes later, Sherlock sat on the couch again, the sable now laying on the coffee table. After endless thirty minutes, he still didn't hear the familiar sound of John's keys in the lock. Why? Where is he? It took him one hour to wander through his mind palace, searching for an answer. At half past eight, Sherlock finally shot up from his place. Pub! Greg! HOW could he forget about it!

Come home asap. Need your help. SH

I'm in the pub, remember? JW

It's for a case. SH

There is no new case. I'm with Greg, I'd know it. JW

Sherlock scowled at his phone, well aware that John couldn't see him. Slowly he undid the buttons of his coat, the laces of his right shoe, of his left shoe. Kicking the shoes off, he wandered to his bedroom, undid his tie and threw it on his he strolled back to the living room, picked up his violin and started playing. A soft and charming melody emerged the instrument. He soon lost track of time, could have stood there for seconds, minutes, hours, ages.

"I wasn't aware you were actually able to play such romantic tunes. " Sherlock did not hear John coming home. Apparently he must have come about ten minutes ago, his coat was on its hanger, and he held two cups of tea in his hands. His reassuring smile did not touch his eyes - oh dear, he's mad. Why?

"What's wrong, John?", Sherlock asked friendly.

"Back to you, Sherlock. You seem to be well occupied. Why the hell did I need to come?"

"Oh isn't it so obvious?"

"No, Sherlock, not to me."

"Gah!", Sherlock pouted and left for his bedroom. He couldn't bare John's little brain any more. After two minutes and 47 seconds. He'd imagined this evening to be... better.

"Sherlock Holmes. Come out there. I left Greg and my beer halfway drunken so you better carry your ass here and stop being an complete arse and tell me WHAT THE HECK YOU WANT!" John did not quite understand himself and why he was so in rage but it seemed to help because Sherlock immediately unlocked his door and came back to the living room, grabbed one of the cups and cautiously began to drink the hot beverage. "Speak to me, Sherlock."

"I was wondering why I woke up in my bed this morning."

"Well because I brought you there after you fell off the sofa having a nightmare." John seemed to be surprised by his question.

"I don't remember a nightmare. I never have nightmares. Except... no. You must have mistaken."

"Um, I certainly know what nightmares look like. You were all sweaty, not approachable and always called out that one word.. umm... redhead. Yeah must have been redhead or redband or something.

"Redbeard."

"Yeah actually I think that was it. Redbeard. What does that mean? Is it a case?"

"Yeah. The case of the lonely child and his dead dog." Sherlock slammed his cup obviously angry on the counter and started to walk back into his room but was held by the hood of his dressing gown.

"Why did I have to return, Sherlock?"

"I was bored."

"You didn't seem to be bored."

"You made clear that you wouldn't come so I thought I'd make the time pass quicker."

"Of course I came. I'd always come. Come on Sherlock. Tell me what's wrong."

"It's the fifth."

John took in a sharp breath. He thought of it. Of course he thought of it. For the last 23 months, the fifth had always been a black day for them. And then, suddenly, he realized. He had forgotten. John felt the floor slip away under his feet. In slow motion, he saw the windows collide, the ceiling came down. He forgot. He forgot it. He forgot her. His head felt heavy and he waited for it to crash on the floor. But instead of the pain, the long awaited pain that should punish him for forgetting, he felt Sherlock's strong arms catching him.