John was in the hospital for two weeks. The nurse, Mary, looked after him, and he came to look forward to her visits. She was pretty and John was attracted to her, feeling his skin tingle when she changed his drips and pillows. They had an instant friendly banter and she often stayed longer than was necessary. Sherlock had refused to leave John for the first couple of days –catching a few hours sleep each night in the chair in the corner. Finally Mycroft had stepped in and got Sherlock a room next door to John's where he could have his own bed until John was well enough for them to return to the flat. After all – it was an exclusive private hospital, apparently used by the intelligence services, so Mycroft had plenty of influence. Gradually, he'd put on weight and rebuilt muscle through daily physiotherapy and an intravenous drip of extra nutrients. They'd scanned his brain to see if the drugs he'd been given had caused any physical damage, and fortunately he was all-clear on that front. His amnesia of the last six months however, was a mystery. The doctors couldn't understand any reason for it and put it down to a 'blocking reaction,' John was traumatised by the events and so his brain had shut them away. Either that, or he'd had a reaction to one of the drugs that had caused him to hallucinate what he thought had happened and so had blocked out what was actually going on. While he was still not as strong as he was before, he was getting there and felt more positive than he had done in a long while.

Then the memories returned.

At first they came in dreams, flashes of images that had him wake in panic, and then longer blocks of time came back to him during his waking moments always catching him by surprise.

Mary had just come into check on him in the evening the first time it happened, he opened his mouth to greet her and then –

'Jonny Jonny Jonny boy'

The voice felt like a knife attacking his ears. A hand slapped the right side of his face, 'left handed attacker' he thought, combined with the Irish accent he knew for certain who it was. He opened his eyes. The room was bue and small, a TV screen on the wall the only feature. Two thuggish men held him upright by his biceps, squeezing the life out of his arms. He lunged towards the man in front of him, the man with the voice...why did he feel drunk? 'BASTARD!' He slurred, but the man only laughed, his thin eyebrows shooting up his forehead. The huge men each side of him pulled him back and he earned a punch in the gut for his trouble. He wheezed.

'I like one that fights' The Irish man drawled. 'It'll be a better show for Sherlock if his pet is angry.' He stroked the side of John's face, John tried to squirm away but Moriarty grabbed his other cheek, squeezing both of them in his hands. 'So pretty' He sighed 'Better hope Sherlock plays his cards right, or you won't be staying that way.'

John spat in his face.

Moriarty seemed to have been expecting it, and calmly pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. He wiped his face.

'For that, you'll get an extra shot of the little treat I've cooked up for you later.' He hissed.

'Now, to the game!'Moriarty spun round theatrically

The TV screen was filled with Sherlock's face.

That was the last he saw before realising he was back in the hospital room. Someone was screaming, and it took him a few seconds to realise that the noise was being emitted from his own throat. Tears poured down his face. His heart raced and he was shaking.

'Oh my god.' His breath came in ragged sobs 'Oh my god.'

Someone was sat next to him rubbing his back.

'It's alright John, try to calm down. It's just a flashback.'

It was Mary, he was ok.

He took a minute to regain his composure, controlling his breathing carefully. He wiped his face on the blankets, hiding his face in shame.

'Sorry.' He turned to look at her, 'I just saw...I'm such an idiot.'

'You are most certainly not. It's a perfectly normal reaction to an abnormal situation. Don't be too hard on yourself.' Her reply reminded John why he liked her; she was sensible and had a realist view of things.

'Thanks.'

After a while she stood up from his bed.

'Do you want something to help you sleep? Or do you think you'll be ok?'

He shook his head.

'I don't want to sleep; I don't want to see...that again. I don't want to remember.' He paused 'and...Can you not tell anyone, about this?'

'John.' She hesitated 'I can't not. I have to write it on your notes, it's important in letting us know what's going on, what with your brain...'

He'd expected as much.

'Can you not tell Sherlock then?'

He didn't want to worry Sherlock any more than he had to, the man had obviously been deeply affected by the past six months and he didn't want to drag things up for him again.

'Not tell me what?'

Sherlock had appeared in the doorway, between the armed guards that still stood outside. He was evidently just back from a trip to Baker Street, his red cheeks and chapped lips a clue as to the bitter cold outside. He had a bag of John's clothes he'd gone to collect and he dropped them in the corner of the room.

'Go on, what is it?' Sherlock asked.

John's shoulder's dropped, there would be no keeping this from the detective.

'I...started to... I remembered something.'