The next day, Sherlock made breakfast. He made bacon and eggs and baked beans and fried bread and mushrooms and sausages and coffee. It didn't work very well, but John ate the mush thankfully enough. They ate in silence; there was nothing to say. Sherlock couldn't predict anything that John did; his every action was a surprise. Despite this, the new John was boring, too. He knew nothing about Sherlock. All he did was ask questions about the flat and Molly. Boring.

They were watching Eastenders, one on the chair, one on the sofa. Sherlock had to try very hard to refrain from shouting at the television (he'd noticed this irritated the new John). Then John came out with it.

"It's very odd, suddenly sharing a flat with a stranger." Sherlock stared at him blankly for a few seconds. Then,

"You did it once before."

"God knows why," muttered John, too low for Sherlock to hear. Then, "So do I have a job?"

"Yes, you work at the doctors." John raised his eyebrows.

"Really? I'm a little over qualified for that, if I say so myself."

"You needed the money. And there was an attractive woman working there." John said nothing for a while.

"Didn't know I was that kind of person," he said eventually.

"No." Cockney arguing continued in the background.

"So, uh, don't you bring in much money, if I had to go and work there?"

"Depends whether I'm on a case or not."

"Ah, I forgot. Detective Sherlock Holmes."

"Indeed."

"Got a case at the moment?"

"No."

"Pity." Sherlock looked at John in disbelief. What was wrong with him? John sighed.

"Look, I'm sorry. It's just strange, being here and... And I have a headache. I'm going to bed." Sherlock made a non-committal grunt. John turned and walked back to his bedroom. That was when Sherlock noticed. Although John hadn't the slightest injury, he limped on his left leg. Sherlock grinned.

"I honestly don't remember!" Gasped John, as they chased a taxi through London, "I don't even recognise London! What the hell are we doing?"

"Jogging," wheezed Sherlock.

"Jogging! This is running! I can't-"

"Your memory," Sherlock managed to finish.

"Well it's not working," snapped John.

"No," said Sherlock, collapsing against a wall, "but your limp has gone."

"My limp? Sherlock, you're being ridiculous."

"You limped before. Entirely gone now."

"And?"

"The old John Watson is coming back."

Mycroft was at a loss. That his brother should fall susceptible to feelings was unthinkable. But there it was , clear as day. He'd loved John. Sherlock was a fool, he thought to himself crossly, emotions were not an advantage. He'd learnt that the hard way...

"For God's sake, John you're not even trying!" roared Sherlock.

"I am!" shouted John, tears of frustration forming in his eyes, "I've been in a coma!"

"Can't you remember anything?" asked Sherlock bitterly, "None of the cases?"

"No."

"Study in Pink?"

"No."
"Hound of the Baskervilles?"

"No." They were both stood up now, eyeing each other angrily.

"The Red-headed League," said Sherlock softly.

"No. It doesn't ring a bell."

"Does this?" asked Sherlock and kissed him. It was brief and sweet, and Sherlock suddenly felt very dizzy. He broke it off, and stared into John's eyes, his arms around his waist. John gasped, shocked.

"Have we done that before? I think I remember..." Sherlock watched John carefully, trying to gauge his reaction. John shook his head, scattering his fringe over his forehead.

"No. Even if we did... kiss... I'm a different person now, you understand?"
"Quite."
"Look, I've got to go." Sherlock picked up his violin from behind the sofa, and fully immersed himself in the music. John thought he recognised the tune, then gave out and walked into the rain. Sherlock continued to play. It was the song he'd composed when Irene Adler had left him.