Title: Being Selfish

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Sherlock (this incarnation) belongs to the BBC. I (and the other 7 billion people in the world) own the originals because they belong to everyone (yay!)

Pairing: John/Sherlock

Summary: The explosion at the pool causes John to forget everything that came after being shot in Afghanistan. He becomes obsessed with trying to gain his memories back. The problem is that his mysterious flat-mate seems equally obsessed with making sure he doesn't remember.

A/N: To say I found this chapter difficult is an understatement of epic proportions. There was nothing wrong, per se, other than I was overwhelmed by the positive response and this sent me into an 'I'm a terrible writer really who will never amount to anything!' panic and became convinced of my lack of talent and the certainty of disappointing everyone. Even as I type this to explain, my hands are shaking with nerves. Anyway, just explaining why it's late, and also hoping you can reassure my panic. I do know where this story is going, so it's an irrational phobia.

Anyway, end of author breakdown, on with the story.

A month passed with the sort of aching boredom John normally associated with afternoon murder mystery repeats. It was as if his life was now a never ending stream of Murder She Wrote, Diagnosis Murder, Quincy, and (on slightly more interesting days) Ironside. He remained in his room most of the time, or took long and aimless walks. In desperation he took to doing pointless chores, and spent the better part of two days cleaning the upholstery.

He knew that he should be doing something, but he couldn't seem to figure out what it was. Nothing he did triggered his memories, and Sherlock (who seemed to be the only person who might have helped him with this) seemed to be the sort of person who only used his flat as a base and spent the rest of the time doing more interesting things.

In vain John had tried to discover more about his flat-mate but the flat revealed little and John was above breaking into the man's bedroom. On the rare occasions Sherlock was home, any questions John had were avoided, ignored, or answered in monosyllable.

"So what do you do?" John had asked.

"Consultant."

"For what industry?"

Sherlock had shrugged and started typing at his laptop, cutting the conversation off.

John wasn't a fool; he knew that Sherlock was hiding something. John must have known about Sherlock's life, and must have liked him enough to be in a situation to get blown up together. Yet now John had no memories, Sherlock had turned himself into a ghost. Sherlock didn't eat at home, didn't work at home, and certainly spent no more time than was necessary there. He didn't make a mess of the rooms because he wasn't there long enough to do anything. The man seemed to have no hobbies, no interests, and no likes or dislikes.

John also knew that Sherlock was becoming an obsession, though he justified himself that he little else to do with his time.

In desperation he asked Mrs. Hudson. He sat on her sofa while Michael Buble played in the background ("You bought me that CD for my birthday John, though you probably don't remember," she informed him.)

"He wasn't like this before, was he?" There was no need for John to clarify who he was talking about. Mrs. Hudson pulled the conflicted face she was wont to do when asked about Sherlock.

"No, he wasn't," she quavered.

"Then why has he changed?"

Mrs. Hudson wrung her hands. "I don't know John. No one does. He's driving everyone mad. If you knew him -" she caught herself, "- if you remembered I mean, you'd know how out of character all this was. He's trying to hide everything about himself from you. And he's not any happier for it either – he misses you. You were his only friend, and now he doesn't even have you."

"Only friend?" echoed John. He'd assumed that Sherlock was staying with friends or a girlfriend for the long periods he was away from home. He said as much and Mrs. Hudson laughed.

"Girlfriend? Heavens no."

John altered tact with the ease of someone with a lesbian sister. "Boyfriend then?"

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "No John. I think you are the only person he's ever truly liked."

John was a war veteran who had recently been in an explosion and ended up with retrograde amnesia. Short of going on the run to a country where they couldn't ship him back to Britain, the only way he could escape counselling was to offer up his own death certificate as proof of ineligibility to attend.

But to the medical profession's surprise, John actually welcomed the idea of seeing a counsellor. It might help him figure out exactly what had happened. His interest was further piqued when he was told he would be seeing the counsellor he had initially visited on his return from Afghanistan. She would not only help him get his memories back – but she would actually know something of what had happened to him in that time.

Naturally, nothing was ever that simple.

Ella seemed a competent therapist. He had hoped for a blow by blow account of his previous sessions, followed by practical advice and/or offers of hypnosis to help him regain his memories. All she wanted to do was discuss feelings. He sat in her office arms crossed, staring at the floor like a child who was trying to hide their disappointment at an unsatisfactory Christmas present.

Had any memories returned? No.

Was he in any pain? Not especially.

Was he having nightmares? No.

How did he feel about losing his memories? Confused. Angry. Curious. What anyone normal would feel.

"Then perhaps we should work on addressing those feelings..." Ella said as she scribbled notes on her pad; 'John is physically and mentally closed off.'

"I'm not closed off," he snapped, and watched as she added 'trust issues.'

He sighed and rubbed his face with his hands. "I don't want to work on addressing those feelings. I've lost four months of my life! Those are normal feelings that anyone would have and I want to be feeling them. This isn't what I came here for."

"Then what did you come here for?" asked Ella gently.

John paused and when he spoke he was unable to hide the disappointment in his voice. "I've been here before. I met you. You knew me. I was... hoping something would be familiar."

Ella frowned. "And is anything familiar?"

John looked around and shrugged in defeat. He'd got lost finding his way to the office. And he wasn't sure he'd be able to recognise Ella in the street if he bumped into her tomorrow – let alone recognised her from previous sessions. "No."

He leaned forward. "Can't you describe how I seemed before? Just a hint. It's like...like I know that the last two months were really important and yet I can't understand why – or why he doesn't want me to remember."

Ella's pen almost blurred in her keenness to write down notes. "That's very interesting," she murmured. Annoyingly she held the pad away from him. "You lost four months of your memory yet you seem almost unconcerned with the first two months."

John cursed himself for making himself sound so desperate. "I got shot, then I got sick, then I came home," he muttered. "It can't have been that fun to remember. I mean – yeah – I want them back too. But it feels like there's more to it than that."

"You also seem to connect your flat-mate to those memories. As if you believe he is personally preventing you from remembering."

John winced. "It sounds stupid but I know that this is somehow connected with him. Even if he can't give me the memories back, he could at least explain what happened. But it's like he doesn't want to. Did I ever mention him?"

Ella looked apologetic. "I'm afraid that you ended your sessions exactly two months after your return from Afghanistan. Something happened that made you feel like you didn't need them anymore. I tried to arrange a final session, but you declined."

John huffed. "So you don't know what happened? I never said *anything* about Sherlock Holmes?"

"Well," said Ella softly. "I read a little of your blog. But I stopped when your sessions stopped. I didn't want to you think I was chasing you."

"My blog?" John asked with a start. "What blog?"

Ella looked at him wide eyed. "I assumed you knew," she said. "I encouraged you to keep it and write about what happened in your life."

John had to restrain himself from leaping up out of his chair. Hope surged in his stomach - it felt as though he were on the hunt and closing down on his prey. He asked for the address (well, demanded, but he at least pretended to be polite). Ella wrote the website address down on her business card agonisingly slowly, but before she handed it over she paused and spoke gently.

"John, just to give you a friendly piece of advice, don't let this desire to find out about that time turn into an obsession. Four months is nothing in the grand scheme of things – certainly not worth wasting your life away on. Just...promise me you'll think about the future as well as the past. Try and live a bit."

She waited until he met her eyes before she handed over the card.

"I'll try," he said.

A/N: Please let me know what you think (I promise I won't go into a author!panic this time.)

Also, though I'm sure you are already aware, there really is an official John Watson tie in blog. Check it out if you haven't aready.