John walks into the main room and lets out a giant yawn, scratching the back of his head sleepily. He finds Sherlock already there, not unusual, getting carried away on John's laptop, again not unusual. Sherlock had learned to decipher John's password again. John had always thought about changing it, but he knew it would be of no use. Sherlock would just figure it out all over again. Plus, back when they were in a proper relationship, it was a strangely intimate thing, both of them knowing a password that nobody else in the world knew about.

Still, there were private things on that laptop. "Sherlock, what have I told you about using your own laptop?" He walks into the kitchen, still much too tired to take the piece of technology out of Sherlock's hands.

"In my bedroom," Sherlock responds without taking his eyes off the screen. "I couldn't be bothered to go fetch it."

John rolls his eyes and starts to prepare some tea. "Breakfast, then?"

"Not hungry."

"Of course." This was their daily routine. Rather domestic, John had to admit, and much like before the accident. It was a comforting thought, and John had to be glad that Sherlock hadn't changed much aside from the fact that he was missing a good chunk of his life story. John had seen much worse, actually. Back in the army he dealt with a patient who had fallen off a cliff and hardly survived. One of his best mates, actually, someone who used to be peppy and optimistic. Upon losing his memories-and a leg, he fell into a dark depression and ended up offing himself before his discharge.

John sets a plate of eggs next to Sherlock anyways. And to his surprise, he witnesses Sherlock look up from his work and reach over for a fork. Perhaps for once Sherlock would be able to eat without John pestering him about it.

But alas the world does not revolve around John and his happiness, for Sherlock's phone goes off. The detective immediately drops the silverware to read a text. It takes all but seconds before he's up on his feet and nearly dancing around the house. "It's Lestrade," he informs John. "Serial murder. Looks like suicide but there's no way it can be. Isn't it fantastic?"

"Shouldn't you eat first?"

"Who can eat at a time like this?"

John sighs, but puts up a defeated smile. At least Sherlock is happy. In the end, that's all that really matters to John.


"And the murderer?" Lestrade asks, standing over the dead body like it's no big deal.

Sherlock doesn't hesitate to respond whatsoever. "Six feet two, large working hands, heavy duty boots at least ten years old, slightly scruffy beard, and standing right there."

Lestrade and John turn their heads to where Sherlock is pointing, among a patch of spectators, to a bulky looking man who fits Sherlock's description perfectly. They exchange awed glances, and then witness the suspect make a run for it.

John and Sherlock are on his tail in a flash.

"The nerve of him coming back to the crime scene," John huffs as they turn the corner.

"They do that sometimes," Sherlock remarks, speeding up a bit. "Reverse psychology. Police usually don't suspect the spectators."

The chase the suspect into a dark series of alleyways, and that's when John's legs start to give out. He curses inwardly to himself as his distance behind Sherlock intensifies. Sherlock is still speeding up, his longer legs able to take larger strides than John however athletic he might be.

Sherlock turns a sharp corner, but the tunnel is too dark and John doesn't even notice, instead running straight ahead. And it isn't until he can't hear Sherlock's footsteps anymore that he realizes he's completely lost. He stops in his tracks and calls out Sherlock's name, but gets no reply. Of course not. If he was pursuing the suspect, Sherlock wouldn't waste an ounce of his breath trying to find John.

That didn't stop John from trying, though. He runs back and forth through the labyrinth of tunnels shouting out Sherlock's name and getting nothing but his own voice echoing off the walls. He knows that if he had memorized London in the way Sherlock had he wouldn't be standing there looking all sorts of confused, but he hadn't, so he could do nothing but wander. He was beginning to wonder if he should give up and just try to find his way back home to wait for Sherlock there.

But then he hears a shot. The sound of a gun being fired. And Sherlock didn't carry guns.

Panicking, John screams out "Sherlock!" with more enthusiasm than ever before, and makes no hesitation to start off running towards the bang.

He turns the corner to find Sherlock slumped against the wall, and for a moment, John's whole life flashes before his eyes as if he's dying. "Oh god," he mumbles to himself. "oh dear lord, Jesus, no, fuck, please no," as he stumbles towards the shadowy figure of the man he loves.

"John," Sherlock breathes out as John approaches him. "John, what are you waiting for? He's getting away!"

To hell with that, John thought to himself, kneeling in front of Sherlock and nearly ripping the coat off him. "Are you okay?" he asks frantically. "Are you shot? Did he shoot you? Oh god. Where did he shoot you?"

"I haven't been shot, look at me. We got into a row. We struggled, I fell and hit my head a bit. He shot at me but it missed, he has lousy aim. Go chase after him, John! Or for God's sake help me up and I'll finish the matter myself."

"You hit your head!" John cried out in horror, as if the thought of Sherlock hitting his head was a more concerning matter than getting shot. "You hit your head!" he repeated, as if repetition would make anything better. Suddenly all John could think about was Sherlock's head and the memories stored it in. What if he lost it all again? All the progress they had made, what if Sherlock just forgot it all again? John wasn't sure he could have bared it.

"Yes yes, I'm fine," Sherlock tries to say, but is cut off by John's panicked questions.

"What's your name?"

"I said I-."

"Do you know who you are?"

"Look-,"

"Do you know what day it is? How many fingers am I holding up? What's my name?"

"John," Sherlock sighs in exasperation, grabbing John's forearms firmly. "John, look at me, I'm fine. I'm fine, no need to get so hot over it."

John shook his head. "No," he says. "No. I have to make a big deal out of this. You could have died! You've got to be more careful, Sherlock! We've made so much progress, and it's like you're okay with throwing everything we've worked for away!"

"I'm not," Sherlock retorts. "I swear I'm not." He sees John's lips part to say something else, but he instantly clamps a hand over John's mouth to muffle the sounds. "I know how tedious this has been, for the both of us. Why would I deliberately try to waste it all?"

John's response is to breathe a hot puff of air into Sherlock's hand.

They stay like that for a long while, just the two of them in a dark abandoned alleyway where they can hardly see each other's eyes, in the midst of the silence that would have been almost eerily silent if it wasn't for the sound of their mismatched rugged breaths as they both try to calm down. Sherlock's hand hasn't left John's mouth yet, and neither of them seem to mind.

John tries to understand. He knows Sherlock lives for adventure. Sherlock without crimes to solve wasn't a Sherlock at all, and John knows that, but he still can't help but fear for the detective's life. Sherlock is just too careless, and John dreads the day it gets him in a sore spot. John's mind unwillingly flashes towards an illusion, standing over Sherlock's coma-induced body or worse, his grave. He'd already had to bury Sherlock once, he's much rather prefer not doing so a second time.

"Home then," Sherlock breathes, his voice low and demanding.

John only nods in agreement.


"John, my head hurts."

"I'd assume so. Smacking it against a bit of concrete doesn't sound too pleasant."


When they enter the flat, Sherlock starts to remove his coat, only to have John grab it and pull it the rest of the way off. It's a friendly gesture, he's sure, but there's still that element of intimacy associated with it.

"Sit," John says. "I'll fix your head."

Sherlock lets out a bit of a snort. "Good luck with that."

John laughs at that as Sherlock sits. He walks around behind Sherlock and hesitantly raises his fingers. The pads of his appendages gently touch the dark curls on Sherlock's head, but other than that, they stay completely still.

"John?"

Right. Massage. John softly rubs into Sherlock's scalp, the hair beneath his fingers silky smooth and just absolutely perfect. Three months ago Sherlock had wondered aloud if he should cut his hair and John had nearly punched him in the face for even thinking of it. He loved running his fingers through Sherlock's hair, caressing the locks in the most loving way possible. Much like he was doing now.

It feels nice, Sherlock can't deny. He closes his eyes and lets John work, the doctor holding onto his temples and rubbing in slow circular patterns, working into the flesh deliciously. John can feel Sherlock relax beneath his fingertips, feel Sherlock's jaw unclench, hear Sherlock's slow and deliberate exhale. Was he content like this, John wondered? Of course he was. Sherlock wasn't one to feign happiness. If he was displeased with John's actions he would have voiced his opinions loud and clear. And yet here he was practically melting under John's touch.

"Feeling better?" John asks, rubbing the side of Sherlock's head where a giant purple bruise is beginning to finally unveil itself where Sherlock's head met the concrete.

Sherlock lets out a "hmmmm" in response, tilting his head back against John's torso to relax himself even further.

John allows his fingers to trace the outlines of Sherlock's glorious cheekbones, perhaps one of John's favorite things about him. Those cheekbones, high and nearly razor sharp and yet they felt beautiful to John's hands. Looking down he could watch Sherlock's chest rise and fall with each breath slow and deliberate. Oh yes, Sherlock was relaxing. To him it must be heaven. Sherlock had hardly been able to relax an inch since the accident, hardly able to shut his brain off long enough to get a decent amount of sleep each night.

John's hands trail down Sherlock's cheeks slowly down to his neck, stroking the soft flesh of his throat in a way that told the both of them that this wasn't a massage anymore. But it probably didn't matter much. Sherlock's pounding headache was just about gone, and it felt nice. Sherlock felt like he could fall asleep like this.

When John trails his fingers down Sherlock's clavicle, the tips slipping just under the collar of Sherlock's button-down shirt, Sherlock lets out a barely audible sigh of pleasure. He reaches an arm up to grab John's left forearm to steady himself, as if he was afraid he'd fall out of the chair if he didn't. John doesn't seem to mind this action, in fact he seems to encourage it by slipping the fingers of his right hand further down Sherlock's shirt, running over more and more of that hot flesh.

Both of them are silent throughout the ordeal as John calmly strokes up and down Sherlock's chest in the most comforting manner possible. Sherlock seems to be very nearly lost in bliss, his grip on John's left sleeve tightening in some attempt to control himself. His free hand, which had been laying limp at his side the entire time, now rose up to grab John's right wrist, not exactly guiding John's ministrations across his flesh, but just there all the same. John seems to welcome the action.

Sherlock lets out another tiny groan that makes John go nearly weak in the knees. He can't take much more of this. Sherlock's practically orgasmic face, eyes shut tightly, beautifully shaped lips slightly parted, a face that seems so dirty and yet so innocent at the same time. John can't help himself from leaning forward. He presses his lips to Sherlock's forehead, taking in the clean, fresh scent of Sherlock's shampoo. Sherlock doesn't react whatsoever, perhaps too engrossed in the feeling of John's hand on his bare flesh to care at all.

John places a small butterfly-like kiss to the corner of Sherlock's closed eye, and Sherlock twitches a bit in reaction. Not like a bad twitch, though. A sort of good twitch. A sort of "oh god do that again" twitch. But instead, John moves downward, planting a soft kiss to Sherlock's perfect lips. He half-expects it to be awkward and unpleasant, seeing as they're facing in completely different directions, but even upside down their lips seem to be able to interlock like missing pieces of a puzzle.

At first, Sherlock doesn't react to the kiss and John almost wonders if he should pull away, but then Sherlock purses his lips to kiss back and John nearly topples over himself. At first, the kiss is slow and soft, like something a young teenage couple might experience on a first day, innocent and unsure of how far it was okay to go. But then John gets greedy and presses their lips together harder, hungry-more like starved, like they're in a serious relationship, which technically they still are. Sherlock's reaction to this change of pace is to kiss back with equal intensity, much to John's surprise. The grip on John's sleeve is so tight Sherlock's knuckles start to lose their color, not that there was much color in his flesh to begin with.

John slips his right hand out of Sherlock's shirt and Sherlock lets his arm fall back to his side as John's hand cups his soft, pale face. He lifts Sherlock's chin up a bit to kiss at a better, less awkward angle. At this, Sherlock hums against their lips, his voice cracking and practically inaudible, but because there isn't a single sound in the flat besides the sound of lips smacking together, John hears it loud and clear, and it's beautiful.

This is what romance is. John's afraid to ask what this means to Sherlock, but whatever it is, it's a step forward. He didn't want to shoot the gun and assume they were back in a proper relationship since Sherlock hadn't brought up the aspect yet, but regular old flatmates or best friends didn't snog each other like this upside down in the middle of the afternoon.

When they break for air, John rests his forehead against Sherlock's. Sherlock loosens his grip on John's sleeve and lets go completely, leaving both John's arms free to wrap around Sherlock's chest in a tight hug.

John stands up afterwards, retracting all appendages from Sherlock's body, and Sherlock finds himself almost disappointed. John looks down to see Sherlock's completely disheveled body sprawled out across the chair. His head leaned back, eyes still blissfully closed and his eyebrows deliciously furrowed, his mouth hardly open but open nonetheless. His shirt wrinkled and askew, looking as if he had just spent the time rolling over around on his bed. He liked this look, of Sherlock's imperfection. Of course he liked perfect Sherlock too, the Sherlock with all the buttons in the right place, perfectly clean and sharply dressed, but this Sherlock was the Sherlock nobody else but John could see. A completely hot mess.

And oh how it turned John on so much.