When John came down an hour later, Sherlock didn't seem to move from his spot on the couch during all this time. John thought that maybe detective had fallen asleep, but when he started making himself breakfast, he felt the other man's gaze on his back. For a moment he wondered if Sherlock had actually eaten anything but then decided it should be none of his concern – Sherlock was an adult and John was just his flatmate.
He also didn't share the results of a phone call to his therapist. According to her 'meeting Sherlock somehow cured him' and John had no idea what to think about this. Detective's story about adrenaline sounded credible but still, that feeling of missing something wouldn't leave him. And there was no one else he could talk to about it. He tried calling Harry, but when she finally answered (after eighth attempt), she was totally drunk and not really able to converse.
But what made John actually freeze in astonishment was the realisation that unconsciously, while preparing his late breakfast and lost in thoughts, he made two cups of coffee. He didn't even remember how Sherlock takes his, but there it stood before him – two sugars, no milk – and he knew it was how Sherlock liked it. For a moment he stood with a cup over the sink and seriously considered spilling it there.
"It's ridiculous," he muttered to himself.
In the end he put it on the coffee table in front of his flatmate, who now was reading a newspaper (John didn't hear him change his position on the couch – what planet was this man from?). Without any word of comment, John sat in his armchair and started eating his toasts. He was looking at Sherlock furtively, curious what would he do about the coffee.
At first consulting detective looked at it for a few seconds with a bit of surprise on his face, then he reached for it. He took a sip and closed his eyes, as though the coffee burned out his throat. In a swift movement, he put the cup back and left to a room John guessed was his bedroom. John didn't understand what had just happened. What had he done wrong?
John sighed loudly. He hadn't moved from his place in the armchair when he finished eating. His head hurt but he didn't like taking painkillers, so he decided to ignore the pain and just don't do anything that may worsen it. He had absolutely nothing to do, nowhere to go. The only thing left was figuring out those lost months. He felt the need to understand what there really was between Sherlock and him.
In the hospital Sherlock said they were friends. Well, they must have been. There was no way John would put up with detective's arrogance and selfishness unless there was some connection. They have lived together for months and when you share a flat with someone even little things about them can drive you over the edge. And in case of Sherlock those weren't just little things.
John could not ignore the fact there was another option. Could it be that they'd been together? They'd been flatmates, no one else even had to even know about it... Well, while being a teenager John had considered the option of being bisexual. He never had any issues about homosexuals and he always appreciated handsome looks of other man. Still, never found himself actually interested in any male so he decided that he's just tolerant and straight. Could it be that in his late thirties...? Well, he may not remember Sherlock as a person but this short period of time spent with him since 'the awakening' was enough to assess his looks and John needed to admit that his flatmate was really nice thing to look at. Dark curls (John's hand twitched when he imagined how it feels to touch them), pale skin, svelte and graceful body— and those hypnotising eyes. John wouldn't call him stereotyped handsome, nevertheless he couldn't really find any other word than beautiful— despite how awkward it sounded even to himself. And according to his own blog, he had had some sort of crush on this man's brain. John may have lost his memories but he knew himself. And he knew that he never was a person to easily praise others and he can read between the lines of his own blog entries. There was also that one thing he really tried not to think about. When he was with Sherlock, when he was meeting his gaze, something inside his chest actually ached. He couldn't name the feeling. Was it some kind of guilt about forgetting his friend? What had he failed to remember? Could it be—
John Watson wasn't certain of anything anymore and his future was a complete unknown, but still, surrounded by blank pages, he couldn't ignore the feeling of being somehow bonded to Sherlock Holmes and it turned out to be the only thing he could cling to.
He actually jumped when he heard unfamiliar voice coming from the door.
"Excuse me, Doctor Watson, is Sherlock home?"
The intruder was wearing expensive suit and seemed not disturbed at all by the fact that he just forced himself into somebody's flat. He was smiling at John while leaning casually on his umbrella. John spotted a manila folder in his right hand.
"If you want to kidnap John to make your offer again, you're going to be disappointed. He has lost his memories, not himself."
John didn't notice Sherlock entering the room. He had never heard detective's voice being so sharp before.
"You really do love to be dramatic, Sherlock. I don't have any offers for John... today."
John inhaled angrily. This guy with umbrella was as arrogant as Sherlock. They were both talking casually about him like John wasn't there. And did Sherlock really say something about kidnapping him..?
"Hello, nice to meet you," the ex-army doctor finally spoke up, trying to sound as sarcastic as he was capable of.
Sherlock shook his head as though he actually realized he'd done something wrong.
"John, this is my brother, Mycroft."
Brother? Well, that explained the shared arrogance.
"What is the reason for honouring us with your visit, brother?" Sherlock buoyantly crossed his arms on his chest, his blue dressing gown swinging around him. He was clearly not pleased by the appearance of his sibling.
"I just thought you'd be interested in the newest information about the man who mutilated Doctor Watson," Mycroft waved with the manila folder in his hand. Sherlock's gaze sharpened.
"Thank you," those two simple words sounded like foreign language coming out from detective's mouth. He took the folder out of his brother's hand.
"Anything else you want? I hope not. I won't be offering you tea so if you don't have any other business here, I'd like you to leave." Sherlock was never polite type, but that seemed to outgrow even himself. Mycroft smiled crookedly.
"Good bye, Doctor Watson," Mycroft bowed a little, still leaning on his umbrella. "Good luck, little brother."
Both Holmes' walked out of the room leaving John alone and with an awful headache. He decided to finally take his prescribed tramadol and take a nap. It was all too much for his wrecked head.
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Yay, an update! Just as I promised! I'm quite smug that I actually apply to that every-2-days-update rule I've given myself :) I caught a cold just recently and do not really feel good, but fortunately I had this part ready for you earlier.
Hope you still enjoy reading the story as much as I do writing it. Thank you for the newest reviews. They're always making me extremely happy :
