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: No author panic this time! Although I'll give you fair warning that I'm terribly, terribly sorry for what I'm going to do to you in this chapter.
Two months passed and without being entirely sure how it happened, John had a proper girlfriend. They went on dates, he met her parents, her friends started invited them places as a couple...and he thanked, well, God, that she was a young and funky vicar who was completely cool with the sex-before-marriage thing.
She definitely wasn't an average vicar. Although she was religious (she said prayers every night in a childlike way that John had never seen anyone do outside of American sitcoms) she seemed far more focused on doing good than the trappings of religion. She had outright disdain for the religious cliques churches created, and in her own words she was an expert at dodging the flower-arranging brigade and avoiding the 'if we pay enough money can we just skip the church-going before the ceremony?' couples.
He found himself going to Sunday services regularly for the first time in, well, ever. He suddenly went from being practically friendless to knowing half the troubled youths, reformed convicts, and elderly widows in London. People asked him 'how's your young lady doing?'
And then Evie asked him to move in with her.
"Isn't it a bit sudden?" he stammered. It was Wednesday morning (her lie-in day, since Sunday was off the cards) and they were eating buttery toast in bed.
"John, you spend more nights here than you do at your flat," she yawned. "You don't have to, it just seemed to make sense considering I'm living alone in a three bedroom house and you're struggling to afford a flat-share."
"Won't your parishioners be scandalised? The Bishop?"
"Probably, but parishioners love a bit of scandal. They'll all come to gawp at their hussy of a vicar and that'll get bums on pews and up the collection plate money. The Bishop would let me preach naked if it got the money coming in."
John chucked and kissed her shoulder. "That's all I am to you? A way of increasing the collection plate takings..."
"Not just that. All the kids at the youth-group think you're brilliant. No less than three of my troubled teenagers want you to mentor them. Plus Turpin likes you."
"So you're inviting me to move in because the dog likes me?"
She pretended to just remember herself. "Me? Oh yes, I like you too."
"Just like...?"
She kissed him. "Make me some more toast and we'll see."
John agreed to move in, but he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something wrong in doing so. When he confessed this feeling to Evie she was annoyingly understanding about it.
"It makes sense, you have unfinished business there. Maybe you should take some time to think it over..."
John couldn't help but think that if she'd acted like a normal girlfriend and taken his worry to be lack of commitment to the relationship, it would have been easier. He could have told himself that he was being stupid, that it had almost been a longer length of time since the accident than he had originally forgotten, and that he had to move on.
In the end, he did it himself. He spent a weekend and the flat waiting for Sherlock to appear, planning what he was going to say, and trying to think of a way to explain something that he didn't need to explain, but felt he should.
The thousand and one explanations didn't do any good, because Sherlock didn't turn up at any point. Nor did he answer his phone.
"He's away working too much of late," said Mrs. Hudson mournfully. "Nowadays I only see him darting up or down the stairs at odd times of the day and night. Mind you, you haven't exactly been a homebody yourself..." she added.
John blushed and set about using one of his pre-planned explanations to tell her that he would be moving out at the end of the month. It was a painful conversation. Then he rushed to make her a cup of tea, because the women looked genuinely distressed.
"Oh things shouldn't end like this," she sniffed, "I know none of this is your fault John, you wanted to understand and he won't let you. And he won't let me tell you anything either!"
John resisted the temptation to yank at his hair in frustration. "Tell me what? What's so terrible that Sherlock's sworn everyone to secrecy? Please Mrs. Hudson..."
"Oh John," she reached over and patted his cheek. "That's the thing. It's not terrible – you were happy. Or at least as happy as you could be being Sherlock's friend. But I owe Sherlock – he got me out of a bit of difficulty once, and he had to break a few rules to do it. I'm still not sure whether he'll ever be allowed back into Florida..."
"Can't you give me a clue?" asked John desperately. "Just somewhere to look. My blog – that's gone. There has to be someone who I could go to?"
Mrs. Hudson bit her lip. "Well I suppose I could give you a small hint," she said. John was reminded of his Aunty letting him win at Trivial Pursuits as a boy.
He indicated that this would be very welcome.
"There's a detective at Scotland Yard. Lestrade his name is. He might be able to tell you something." Her eyes darted around as if someone was listening in. "But for god's sake don't tell anyone I told you."
John thanked her and left, feeling as though he'd done something illegal like a drug deal in her flat. Once upstairs he checked the tube route to Scotland Yard and headed off straight away, fighting down the irrational concern that something might happen to Lestrade before he got to him.
Lestrade was alive and well when John reached him, but he had a look on his face that said all too clearly that he wished John was anywhere but there. He had found the man's office with little difficulty (in fact, he'd thought it would be harder to infiltrate Scotland Yard) and was now standing in Lestrade's office. Lestrade was a harried looking man who seemed to be grey before his time, but despite his awkwardness with John, he didn't look unhappy to see him.
"Hi," he said. "Good to see you up and about. It's been a while hasn't it?"
"I don't know," said John flatly. "You tell me."
Lestrade winced. "Sorry. Yeah. I thought you might come here eventually, when you found out Sherlock took your blog down. Who was it who told you to see me? Mrs. Hudson?"
John ignored that last bit. "So he did that then? How?"
"Sherlock's got friends and family who could delete the entire internet, never mind a blog. But knowing Sherlock he probably just guessed your passwords. In my experience the only way to secure a password around Sherlock is by using two words picked at random from the dictionary along with three numbers picked from a hat. Changing them every full moon." He winced. "Even then, I'm not a hundred percent sure it's safe."
John groaned and scrubbed his face with his hands, ending with a semi-hysterical giggle. "What the hell did I get myself involved in with this guy?"
Lestrade winced again. "I'm sorry mate, I'd love to tell you. But Sherlock's threatened to never help me with a case again if I tell you anything. Frankly that's punishing himself as much as it is me, but I can't take the risk he's serious."
Lestrade must have caught John's expression of disbelief and hysteria because he held up one hand entreatingly.
"However," he said slowly. "He didn't say I couldn't pass you on to someone who would dearly love to piss him off by telling you everything they know." Lestrade paused. "Actually he did. But if you happen to bump into a detective by the name of Sally Donovan who happens to sit at the desk near the window then that's not my fault."
He winked, and John rose to shake his hand.
"Don't thank me yet," warned Lestrade.
Sally Donovan's expression of wicked delight upon seeing John was something to behold. She was eating a cheese sandwich during what seemed to be her lunch hour, but happily chucked it away in favour of taking him down the pub.
"You're going to need it," she warned.
Ten minutes later they were at an inferior Weatherspoons with chips and burgers on order and a pint in his hand and a diet coke in hers.
"I'm surprised you lasted as long as you did," she said. "I can barely stand him for half an hour at a time. You stuck out two months."
To his immense relief, John was free to listen as Sally Donovan (god bless her) sketched out everything she knew about the two months of his life he had shared with Sherlock Holmes.
Some parts she didn't know. She didn't know how he'd met the man, or how they'd come to share a flat, but she was able to sketch out some of the bizarre adventures he'd found himself involved in.
"And then," she finished, "you got blown up and lost your memory. No one knows all the details of that, except him. But I'll tell you this, whatever happened, I'll bet any money that he was to blame."
They were forced to stop while their food was delivered to the table, and Sally didn't speak again until she'd doused her chips in ketchup.
"So, any memories flooding back?" she asked.
John shrugged. "It doesn't seem to work like that. It's like the difference between reading a guide-book and visiting a country. I know about it but I haven't experienced anything."
He took a thoughtful bite of his burger. "Even so, none of what you said is so bad. None of its worth hiding from me..."
"Yeah well," Sally said sardonically, "I don't know everything. But I know him – and I reckon that he's done something so bad that he'll do anything to make you forget. My advice? Cut and run – because he's got contacts way up the ladder – and if he wants you out of the way then amnesia is nothin' to what he could do."
John pushed away his plate. He suddenly didn't feel hungry anymore. Sally seemed keen on speculating about Sherlock's supposed crimes. Rape. Abuse. Maybe he'd kidnapped John and had him under Stockholm Syndrome. Maybe John had witnessed Sherlock murdering someone. It wasn't until she noticed him desperately downing his third pint that she realised that she wasn't being helpful.
"I'm just trying to show you," she said kindly. "It's best that whatever it is, you never find out."
A/N: I know, I'm sorry. If it's any consolation, this will be the last Sherlock!Lite chapter. Also the last one without hints of slash. And finally, FINALLY, you'll start getting some answers. Reviews are love!