And again many thanks to the wonderful yalublyutebya .

Please let me know how you like it.

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Chapter 2

It was cold, so bloody cold. He opened his eyes and found himself on a sandy beach, his clothes were soaked and icy water washed over him. He tried to move, away from the water, from the wetness and the cold, but it was hard, too hard in fact; he only managed to crawl a few feet before he became unconscious again.

The next time he opened his eyes he was shivering, but there was no water and no sand anymore. He lay in a bed, was hot and cold at the same time and someone was giving him cold compresses. 'Fever' - it shot through his head, before he passed out again. A few hours later the fever abated slowly and finally he fell into a deep and restful sleep.

It took him a few more days until he regained his strength, so he could pay more attention to his surroundings. He was in an old fisherman's house and the man who lived there called himself 'Mike the Fish'. At John's blank look he told him that there were a few chaps called Mike living on the island and he got his name from his passion for fishing. Mike talked a lot but did not necessarily expect a response, like he was accustomed to being alone. He also explained that they were at one of the smaller Channel Islands where only a few people lived. There was no doctor on the island, but Mike was one of a small team of well-trained first responders, so he had been able to take care of John without further help when he had found him half-frozen on the beach. The people here were accustomed to taking care of themselves; everything coming from outside, including the authorities, was eyed with suspicion and caution.

He had suffered no serious injuries and recovered quickly once the fever was gone. Although Mike had talked a lot during the first days, he'd barely ever spoken directly to him, and if he did, it was very gently. But Mike finally had to give up his hope that he would start to talk by himself, so he asked the fatal question: "What is your name, my friend?"

And there he was, sitting on the bed with shaking hands, his right leg and his left shoulder were aching, and he hadn't got a clue who he was. "I … I don't know. I think I was on a fishing boat, but I don't think that I'm a fisherman. But - I can't remember. I don't know my name - or who I am." Now he had spoken it out loud for the first time, but the world continued spinning around, nothing had happened.

Mike had already thought of something like that and nodded mindfully. He'd watched the man very closely in the last few days to try to decide what to do. The stranger seemed to be anxious, but at the same time he radiated a certain calmness and self-assurance. Mike liked him and his deliberate way of speaking. Not a word too much, just to fill the silence, and the silence was never uncomfortable with him, quite the contrary. Mike would have preferred not to ask him, but he had to get an idea what was going on in his head.

Of course he had seen the man begin to tremble, rubbing his bad leg unconsciously, shoulders tensing, but he had to do this. At least once they had to talk about it. "Do you have an idea where you come from? Guernsey perhaps? Any idea? You've got an impressive scar at your shoulder that looks like a gunshot wound. Nothing to forget easily. - You're not a smuggler, are you?"

He gave Mike a startled look. A smuggler? No, he didn't think so, but the scar ... he had no idea.

"Ok, don't mind the smuggler, was just a thought. But we need a name for you. Any suggestion?"

He shook his head.

"What about Paul?" Mike asked him. "Once I knew a guy who had short blonde hair like you, called Paul. Moreover there is actually no other Paul on the Island, so it's a good name."

He nodded hesitantly. It wasn't the right name, he was sure - sure, bollocks, how could he be sure about anything? But at least it was as good as any name, wasn't it? Thus the matter seemed to be done for Mike. "All right, so it's Paul. When you feel better you should get up and get some fresh air. If you need anything, I'll be in the garden." And he was gone.

After Mike had gone 'Paul' sat on his bed, motionless for long moments, thinking about their brief conversation. Was that it? Was that all? Mike didn't inquire anymore? He didn't want to take him to the police, was happy just let him stay here? Paul didn't understand that at all.

Distraught and relieved at the same time, he finally got dressed and went out. The garden actually was more of a field, as it turned out, where Mike cultivated various vegetables. Paul sat down on the grass, enjoying the sun on his face; and for the first time in days, he was not afraid of tomorrow.

Two weeks later Mike and Paul were working in the garden. Mike had never asked Paul about anything after that first time. He didn't want to rush him to do something or to go somewhere else. To be honest, he liked Paul, even if he knew nothing about him. Paul had lost his memories, but Mike was sure he had an upright personality. He decided to give him as much time as he needed.

Surely Paul would remember one day; he could stay until then, if he wanted. Mike didn't trust the authorities and therefore he had no intension of taking Paul to the police, if he didn't want to. There was no police station anyway, they would have of take the boat to Guernsey, and Paul was still afraid of the sea. At no time did either of them mention the possibility of a simple phone call, which was at the same time a relief and disconcerting for both men. So Paul lived at Mike's house and helped him with his work as best he could, but he never left the house and the garden, and he wasn't talking a lot.

Mike's house was secluded, very quiet, which gave Paul the necessary peace to handle the shock. Paul wasn't sure what to do, but was thinking constantly about it. Mike didn't push him to do anything. He didn't understand that, but found it very reassuring. The islanders really were something very special.

Should he go to the police? And what would happen then? They probably would find out who he was and would bring him home. But … he didn't want to leave this house, this peaceful place. He had a feeling as if he'd searched for such a peace for quite a while. And at the same time he felt restless, unsettled, as if he were used to run all day long. His hands had calluses, physical work then, but not too hard. They could also do very fine, precise work. What kind of job might he have had? Maybe he'd been a criminal, maybe not, but when he thought about the police it felt strange, almost familiar, accustomed. Maybe he was a police officer?

Uncertainty was his constant companion in the very first days. It wasn't normal, that he didn't want to know who he was, right? Wasn't he supposed to put all the wheels in motion to find out everything as soon as possible? Someone would surely miss him and search for him? Or had his life been so horrible that he wouldn't want go back? Was there actually someone missing him, or has he had been all alone? Was he married? Perhaps he had children? Guilt spread through him at the thought of people who might not even exist. He wasn't wearing a wedding ring, so probably not married. Was there somebody weeping about his loss?

His clothes were nothing special, no brand products with the exception of the shoes. He had no papers with him, no money, no ID. Was he on the run from someone, the police? But without money? And Mike - didn't that make him liable to prosecution when he brought him here instead of bringing him to the police? There were so many questions, but he didn't want to think about them anymore; and he didn't want to go to the police, and he didn't want to talk about it, and he really did not want to know. He became a master of pushing it aside, lived only in the here and now, sealed completely off from the world. This worked very well with Mike because his TV was broken weeks ago and the newspaper came only every few days, and then Paul usually didn't read it. He wasn't interested in the world, not at all.

The days passed by, they grew into weeks and the weeks into months. Mike and Paul had become close friends and developed a daily routine of work in the garden and in the house. Mike went fishing regularly; Paul didn't even go near the beach. In the evening they often sat together, Mike telling old stories of the island or just reading. It was a tranquil life, until one day Paul was tidying away an old newspaper and his gaze fell on the headline and the photo below:"Sherlock Holmes reveals serial killer", with a picture of a dark-haired man wearing a deerstalker. Why did the picture and the headline leave him so shaken? He read the article, but it didn't tell him much more. From that day on he got uneasy.

Then the dreams began. He was always running in his dreams, running after a dark, tall man in a long coat. He couldn't recognise the man, but he was sure it was the one from the paper, with the dark curly hair. Why was he running after him? Was he chasing him? But he was a detective or something like that, wasn't he? The newspaper had declared that he had caught a serial killer, he'd helped the police, was on the side of good. So why would John be chasing him? Was he following the man? Why? Which side was Paul on? He began to feel restless and started to wander around the island; soon he knew every path, every stone and every house.

There were no cars on the Island; instead, the people got around on tractors and quad bikes. One day, a quad driver had an accident, and Paul went along by chance. The driver apparently had run off the road and overturned. He had passed out next to the road, but there wasn't anyone to help. As if on autopilot and without thinking about it, Paul began to treat the wounded man, checking his respiration and heart rate, examining the head wound. One arm was broken and he checked it, while the driver was still unconscious. He worked quickly and efficiently, as if he had never done anything else. A second quad-driver, who had left when he saw that Paul was taking care of the wounded man, had brought one of the first responders, Steve, who now helped Paul with cleaning and bandaging the numerous abrasions and stabilising the broken arm with protections. Meanwhile the driver was regaining consciousness. Paul talked to him briefly, he examined his reflexes and the main organ systems by inspection and palpation then he was satisfied; the driver didn't seem to have any other injuries.

Steve and he had barely exchanged a word during the treatment, but when Paul got up, he saw Steve and Mike talking. When Mike came to him afterwards he grinned: "You never mentioned that you're a doctor." Some of the bystanders turned their heads and he heard several times 'Doctor? He's a doctor?' He looked up a bit uncertainly. Yes, he'd acted like a doctor, but that had happened somehow quite automatically, he still didn't remember. "Steve says you've patched up our Billy excellently, as far as possible on the spot here," continued Mike. "Perhaps you've worked at a hospital, emergencies and so, you know."

Steve joined them and shook Paul's hand. "That was really good work Doc, have you been in the Army? The way you dealt with the arm, that's something I haven't seen anywhere else." Paul just stared at him, in his head everything spun. 'Hospital', 'doctor', 'army', what else? He did not remember! He wanted to scream at Mike and Steve and all the others who had gathered little by little to the injured young man, scream into their faces: "I don't know!" Everything he had repressed and suppressed successfully for such a long time, came up again now, the fear, the uncertainty; panic rose in him. Like a hunted animal, he looked around, searching for a way to escape. Where did all these people suddenly come from? Since he'd been on the island Paul had never seen so many people in one spot. A couple of boys ran through the crowd. A father called his son: "John! John, come over here!"

That was the moment when the world stopped turning around. The first memory struck him with the force of a sledgehammer. Paul's mouth fell open. "John," he whispered in astonishment, "John, that's my name, that's me." He turned to Mike, who watched him with concern. The entire colour drained from his face and it was like in slow motion when he opened his mouth. "I am a doctor, Doctor John Watson." Then his eyes grew wide, he mouthed a soundless word:"Sherlock." And like a wave his memories washed over him, overwhelmed him. Mike and Steve responded simultaneously and held him as his knees buckled.

From there on it was all in a blur. They brought him to the White House Hotel and called the Guernsey Police Service. Three hours later he heard a helicopter. Mycroft then.

Sherlock's legs gave in, he sagged on the stairs, tried to speak, but his throat was too tight and he just couldn't say a word. Finally he managed a shaken "Where?"

Mycroft took his arm and pushed him into the waiting car. "On one of the Channel Islands. I don't know any more; I just got the report that he's alive. Come on now!"

They drove in absolute silence. Sherlock's mind raced, but he wasn't able to focus on a single thought. John was alive, he couldn't believe it. After all this time, so long … But Mycroft wouldn't have told him if he wasn't absolutely sure. He glanced over to his older brother, who stared at his mobile as he exchanged message after message. So it must be true. But what had happened to John in all those months, where had he been all this time? And why hadn't he tried to get in touch? Mycroft had merely said that he was alive. Was he possibly hurt? Kidnapped, as Sherlock had always feared? Possibly tortured, injured? One horror scenario after the other ran through his head, until a warm hand settled down on his trembling arm, bringing him back to reality. His gaze focused on Mycroft, who only shook his head slowly. "Stop it, Sherlock," he said softly, "He's fine. I've just been told that he is obviously mentally and physically in good health. We'll get further details when he arrives in ... about 34 minutes."

Sherlock calmed down a bit, but a new terrible thought crept into his mind. What if John hadn't wanted to be found? What if he had hidden purposely? From him, Sherlock. And again the questions were racing in his head, round and round the garden, like a teddy bear, but he couldn't find an answer. He felt dizzy and sick when he suddenly realised that he had no idea where they were going. Mycroft had just talked about John's 'arrival'. Sherlock glanced out the window, ah, obviously Heathrow. His gaze shifted back to Mycroft. "Right," Mycroft confirmed, "Heathrow, I sent a helicopter to pick him up." Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to focus on his breathing.

John looked out of the helicopter at the lights of London and remembered his flight to Buckingham Palace many years ago. He shook his head, it was all like a bad dream, but he wasn't sure if he was now awake or not. What was reality? What a dream? The last eight months - eight months! - or his previous life, which he had only recalled a few hours ago. And Sherlock! His hands began to tremble again. What would he say? What would he do? Would he be at the airport? Or would it just be Mycroft to tell him Sherlock wouldn't come to see him.

Why had it taken so long for him to remember? Why hadn't he recognised Sherlock's picture in the paper? Hadn't Sherlock searched for him? And what about Mycroft and his minions? So many questions, so many 'whys', John's head ached, he squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed the bridge of his nose with two fingers. He felt sick and numb and anxious and he didn't know what he should expect.

As the helicopter landed, he could see the empty airfield through the window. By now it was dark, but the airport, of course, was brightly lit. John climbed from the helicopter, wondering where he should go now, when a black sedan rolled towards him. Alone in the headlights of the car, he felt even more vulnerable, completely exposed. His hands were trembling so much now that he clenched his fists to hide it. But if - if Sherlock was in the car, he would have noticed it anyway - if he was.

One of the car doors opened and Sherlock got out, all pale and so thin. His eyes fixed on John, who couldn't move, as he got slowly closer. When Sherlock reached him he raised a hand and his fingertips brushed over John's cheek with a feather-light touch. His mouth opened, but he couldn't speak; his eyes were tracking all over John's face now. John tilted his head, his eyes fell shut and he nuzzled his face into Sherlock's hand. The taller man pulled him close and kept him in a firm embrace. John's head sank onto Sherlock's chest, his arms locked around him, and a great peace came over him.

For several minutes they stood almost motionless, clinging to each other. Sherlock's hands crossed Johns back, his shoulders. He gently turned John's face towards him, caressing it. His fingers ran through John's blond hair. It was longer and brighter than before, and he had a full beard, slightly darker than his hair. John buried his hands in Sherlock's dark curls, their eyes fixed on each other, and none of them noticed the tears that flowed from both. Eventually Sherlock brought out a hoarse "John", but that was all. John mouthed Sherlock's name, but he couldn't speak.

And finally they kissed, a first, delicate touch of lips, as if they still couldn't believe it. Sherlock cupped John's face with his hands, caressing his cheeks and his lips with his thumb. He had to examine him closely, again and again, to make sure that he was really there; he needed to touch him. It was still unbelievable to him. Sherlock covered John's face with light kisses, and then he embraced him once again and held him tight as if he would never release him again.

Suddenly Mycroft stood beside them and cleared his throat; this brought them back to reality. "I'm sorry that I have to interrupt you, but the airfield will still be needed this evening, and the car is waiting." With a nonchalant movement he gave them some handkerchiefs which they accepted, a little confused and distracted. Mycroft allowed himself a relieved sigh and smiled at them. "Gentlemen, if you'd be so kind."

They cleaned their faces and followed him to the car. Sherlock had grabbed John's hand and wouldn't let him go again, even in the car. They still hadn't spoken to each other, but that didn't seem to be so important at the moment.

It was important that Sherlock could hold John's hands. It was important that he could watch John. He was afraid to wake up at any minute and find that everything was just a dream. His throat instantaneously closed up, he couldn't breathe. In a sudden panic he began to breathe faster, trying to fill his lungs with air, but he noticed that he began to feel dizzy.

John awoke from his torpor. He had been overwhelmed with his feelings, but now the doctor reappeared and took over. Sherlock was hyperventilating and stared at him with wide eyes. "Sherlock! Sherlock, I'm here, it's all right. You have to breathe." With gentle force John pushed Sherlock's head down and held it between his knees, while he stroked his neck and head softly. The whole time he spoke soothingly to him until Sherlock's breathing returned to normal and John loosened his grip on his neck.

A shy smile crept onto John's face. "It's all right, love, I'm here, and I'll stay here." Sherlock sat up slowly; he still felt a little dazed. Immediately he grasped John's hands again and stared at them as if he still couldn't believe it. He looked into John's eyes, those vibrant blue eyes, not staring and dead as in his dreams, but alive and beaming. "John, you're back, you're alive," he whispered, as if he was afraid that one loud word would destroy everything.