A/N: So…hospitals, awkward silences, and my muse not helping a lot and just yelling "Keep going!" Hopefully this will go better than it feels like it will…
John:
John felt everything go by so slowly, and yet at the same time fly by at a break neck pace. Lestrade drove up, took one look at Sherlock, and immediately called for an ambulance. From there they went to the hospital, ran some tests for any serious condition that wasn't noticed, and soon it was decided Sherlock could go home-under Lestrade's and John's close supervision, that is. Sherlock was out of it the whole time. To John it all seemed to happen like it was a dream. He walked into the flat, showed Lestrade where to place Sherlock, then promptly passed out in his chair, wondering what Sherlock had gotten himself into this time, and if there was still the need to be helped out of it.
Had John known just how much help Sherlock was going to need, he may have just given up then and there.
Sherlock:
I was somewhere different from where I last was when I woke up. I could tell. Beneath me was something much softer. A bed, maybe? The throbbing in my head was somewhat dulled, and it was quiet, so I risked taking a look around where I was. I was on a couch, I soon found out, because when I went to shift into a more comfortable position, I promptly fell face first onto a red carpet. I let out a groan. I heard someone running down a flight of stairs.
"Sherlock? You okay, mate? You really shouldn't be moving around yet."
I groaned in response. I assumed he was talking to me, since I was the only other person in the room. But I still was confused. Was Sherlock me? Was that a first name, last name, nickname? And where was I? What was going on? There were so many questions my head hurt. The man who came down to check on me yelled, "John! He's finally up," which caused a great crash upstairs, and some more running sounds. The man helped me up to the couch into a sitting position, and I could finally get a good look at him. Gray-haired, brown-eyed, mid-40's to early 50's, posture like that means he must have a job that keeps him moving…facial expression suggests familiarity, so he must know me from somewhere before-
"Sherlock! You're finally awake! How's your head feeling?" I looked up. There was another man moving over to a chair by the fireplace. Ash-blonde hair, brown eyes, posture straight but not tense, history of being in the military, then-"Sherlock?" The man was looking at me with concern on his face. "Are all right?" He came over a little too close for comfort. I flinched. Wrong reaction. "Sherlock, what's wrong? It's John, remember?"
"No…" I said the word so quiet I could barely hear it. The men seemed to go pale. "Sorry, what?" It was the other man again. I looked him dead in the eye, and with as much force as I could gather in this increasingly uncomfortable position I found myself in I said, "No, I don't remember." The room just fell silent after that. I counted how long it took for someone to reply: one full minute. That was when the man named John jumped up and started yelling. "What?! What do you mean, 'I don't remember!' You remember everything! Now stop playing around Sherlock, I've been really worried! This is not the time for jokes!"
I was silent for a while, but the look on my face must have spoken volumes because the other man said, "John, I don't think he's joking." All three of us just waited then for something to happen. That something wound up being a punch the face. My face, specifically. I wasn't punched very hard, but it was enough for me to slip into unconsciousness again, as I saw John's face a mix of fury and terror as he looked at me and the world faded to black.
John:
All that was going through John's head as he was going down the stairs: Sherlock's okay, Sherlock's okay. When he started to talk to him he kept thinking: Something's off about him. When the penny dropped about the amnesia he thought: Stop pretending, this isn't funny. But now as Lestrade moved him away from Sherlock slumped on the couch all he could think was: This is happening. This is real. And Sherlock could be gone for good.
Sorry about the cliff hanger guys…wait…I guess I'm not. MUAHAHAHAHAHA! Sooner or later I'm thinking about bringing Mycroft in to see what he can find out about Sherlock, and hopefully give reason to the title. I have to say writing Sherlock with amnesia is fun, because his personality can really go about any which way. This should wind up being pretty interesting.
