He stayed at his parents' for a week after he was discharged. The way his mother kept fussing over him was quite unnerving, but he endured the pain of it because she was a reliable source of information about his past.

"You and your brother have always been different," she told him over a cup of tea. "That's why I decided to home-school the both of you. Other children wouldn't understand, and I didn't want my boys to be bullied or laughed at."

"Did you really write this book?" he demanded, holding up a copy of The Dynamics of Combustion.

"Of course I did. Pure mathematics is, in its way, the poetry of logical ideas."

"You're quoting Albert Einstein now."

"I am. Though he also said that not everything that counts can be counted, and not everything that can be counted counts."

"Meaning?"

His mother shrugged. "Mycroft has always despised sentiment, and spent his youth trying to pass his beliefs on to you. Emotions can be dangerous, I give you that – but there's no point in avoiding them completely."

"Either way, it would appear that I haven't quite succeeded in doing so, since I have at least a few selected friends I presume I care for."

"I know. And I'm very proud of you, Sherlock."

Sensing an impending display of affection on his mother's part, he quickly excused himself and sneaked out of the back door for a much needed cigarette.

xxx

Since the doctors seemed to think that his usual routine could help him get his memory back, his brother had arranged for his PA to escort him on a crime scene.

"Just because I don't remember who I am, doesn't mean I need a handler," he stated pointedly at the woman that was sitting beside him in a car with tinted windows.

"You could have used one even when you were still yourself."

That had him smiling. "I think I like you. What's your name?"

"Anthea."

"No way."

That was when she finally looked up from her phone and found a smile of her own. "It's Andrea, actually. I would appreciate if you kept it to yourself though."

"Scout's honour."

Andrea went back to typing on her phone, and he checked his own for incoming texts.

xxx

It took him approximately five minutes to expose the murderer, and her motives too.

"Boring," he said out aloud. "Mycroft doesn't have the slightest idea how to properly rate a case."

"Well, you can't order murders like you order lunch," the Scotland Yard man pointed out in the down-to-earth manner that was peculiar to him.

"I suppose you're right, hum, Inspector."

"It's Lestrade, you know. Greg Lestrade, though you never remember my first name anyway."

"That's how we met, isn't it? Solving crimes?"

Lestrade hesitated for a moment. "Officially, yes."

"What about unofficially then?"

"Drug bust. Cocaine, if I'm not mistaken."

He raised a questioning eyebrow. "Seriously? Did you arrest me?"

"Handed you back to your brother. What he's done after that, I'm afraid it's something between you and him."

"I see. Didn't want his name to be dragged through the mud, did he?"

"As a matter of fact, I think he genuinely cares for you. It just isn't like him to admit it."

With that DI Lestrade strolled away, leaving a bemused Sherlock to process the unexpected bit of information.

xxx

Spending a day at John and Mary's was actually nicer than he'd expected. His friend was clearly delighted at the idea of having him around, and his wife looked definitely pleased too.

She was quite an extraordinary woman, he had to admit – quite like him in ways he couldn't fully pinpoint yet.

"So, I am your best friend then?" he felt the need to clarify.

"Of course you are, you idiot. I shot a man to save your life, and you did the same to the worm that was threatening to ruin mine. Isn't that proof enough?"

A warm smile tugged at his lips. "I should say it is."

"Remember what you told me once? Your best friend is a sociopath who solves crimes as an alternative to getting high."

"Did I really? Well, that's not much of a surprise, given Lestrade's account of my fondness for class A drugs."

"If you ever get anywhere near that stuff again, I'll shoot you myself."

"Hey, that's my job," Mary cut in wryly, and he eyed her in amusement.

"Meaning that you've actually shot me? Now that's intriguing."

"Long story," she said with a shrug. "I did my best to ensure your survival though."

"You do have a thing for sociopaths, John," he replied in amusement.

His friend pursed his lips for a brief moment, then shrugged his shoulders. "Let's leave it at that, shall we?"

xxx

Back to Baker Street at last. He couldn't say he recalled anything specific about his flat, but the whole place felt oddly familiar somehow.

As did his violin, he thought fondly as he ran his fingers over its polished surface.

When Mrs Hudson came upstairs bringing his tea he was playing an impromptu melody, relishing the soothing effect music seemed to have on his mind.

"This is beautiful, Sherlock. It's a bit like the waltz you composed for John and Mary's wedding, isn't it?"

"It could be. I can't say I remember it."

He ignored the pitiful glance that Mrs Hudson shot in his direction, and turned his full attention to his violin again.

xxx

Anthea – Andrea, actually – had picked him up again, escorting him to the morgue this time.

Thankfully the woman had the sense to let him walk inside alone, sensing that her presence would fluster the already jittery pathologist. Molly was smarter than many, but he still wished that her nerves wouldn't get the better of her half the time.

"Strangled?" he muttered by way of a greeting, turning a clinical eye over the body resting on the slab.

"Definitely. Can you see the bruises there?"

"Tiny fingers. Must have been a woman, or a teenager. Interesting."

"It is, isn't it?" she agreed cheerfully, and he paused to take a closer look at her.

"Why are you in love with me? By all accounts, I'm not exactly a nice man."

She bit her lip and averted her gaze. "I suppose you're not. You've been quite rude to me on a number of occasions."

"I don't understand. You're a smart woman, you could do better than me."

"I know. It's just – I care about you, that's all."

He furrowed his brow. "Thank you, I guess?"

Molly shook her head gently, then stood on her tiptoes and planted a chaste kiss on his cheek.

"You're a better man than you think you are, Sherlock," she murmured softly before hastily pulling away.