By the time they arrived at Newbury Station, Sherlock and John had lapsed into silence. Sherlock had decided to leave John be for the time being and had simply watched as John sat across from him and texted the inn to send a driver. As they grabbed their bags and headed to the front of the station, Sherlock followed behind, but before they got to the car, John stopped and turned to Sherlock.

"Let me do the talking, ok?" John said, his first words in half an hour, and Sherlock opened his mouth to object. But upon catching John's glare, he simply nodded.

The driver was waiting for them, and after they were loaded in, he began to drive them through a series of roundabouts and out of town.

"You here for a wedding?" he asked from the front seat, looking at them in his rearview mirror.

"No, just getting out of town to go fishing," John replied. "We're only here for a night."

The driver nodded and didn't say anything further. They soon were driving alongside a river lined with tall trees, and eventually the driver slowed and pulled into a drive marked with a sign "The Green Dragon Inn." The historic brick inn was nestled in a copse of yew trees and had several old buildings that looked out over rolling green hills. A series of trails connected the grounds with the river and the hills beyond.

They stepped out into a sunny and warm afternoon, grabbed their bags and headed in through the main doors of the old inn. As soon as the woman behind the front counter saw them, her face lit up in a huge smile.

"John! Sherlock! I was so delighted to hear you were coming," she said as she came from behind the counter and gave John a big hug, patting his cheek. She then turned to Sherlock and grabbed his hand in both of hers. "It's such a pleasure to see you both again, although I'm disappointed you're only staying for one night. I wish it could be longer. I want to hear all about the doings in London."

She dropped Sherlock's hand and then headed back to her reservation book on the counter.

"And I wish you would have called earlier, John. I would have given you one of the cottages as before, but we've got two weddings and both of them are taken." She looked up at John. "So sorry, all I've got left is the King."

John was biting both his lips, his eyebrows up near his hairline.

"Ah, yes. Nice to see you again as well, Mrs. Barnes. But I called asking for two rooms, actually, not one. Did you get the message?"

"Oh, yes, it's right here. You asked for a couple's room."

"No, I asked for a couple of rooms."

"Oh," the woman said, looking again at her note. "Oh! I see. But why would you want…?"

She looked back and forth between John and Sherlock, who were both looking back at her expectantly, and then she seemed to see something in their body language that made her cheeks flush.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't know," she said quietly to John. "But I only have the one room available, and that's only because we had a cancellation."

John closed his eyes temporarily and then opened them and smiled.

"That's all right, Mrs. Barnes. We'll manage. Do you mind if we go right up?"

"Of course, of course, let me get your keys."

As she turned around and walked into the office behind her, Sherlock turned to John.

"Why —?"

John held up his hand for Sherlock to stop, and Sherlock turned forward again and waited impatiently. Mrs. Barnes returned with the keys, and as she gave them to John, she held his hand and leaned in and whispered.

"So sorry to hear about you and Sherlock, dear, but we'll talk about it later," and then she patted his hand and straightened up. "Let me know if you need anything."

John smiled again and grabbed his bag and headed up the stairs. Sherlock followed, and with each step up the stairs, pieces fell into place. As John set down his bag to get the key into the lock, Sherlock walked up and stood right next to him, almost leaning into the door.

"She wasn't just assuming that we are a couple the way that everyone always does," Sherlock said, but John just swore under his breath at the lock as he tried to turn the key. Sherlock continued. "Last time we were here, apparently, we shared the cottage. I've seen your tattoo many times, by your own admission, so I've often seen you shirtless. I told you of my childhood and my plans to own bees, so we've shared secrets. You said that you left, and the implication was that you left me not just Baker Street. You turn fuchsia every time we talk about anything personal between us. I have lists about you in my archive that it now becomes apparent correspond with sexual preferences."

John kicked the door in frustration and tried the key again and it finally turned. He threw it open and grabbed his bag, walking through the door and ignoring Sherlock.

"We were lovers, weren't we," Sherlock said from the doorway. "When you moved back in."

John threw his bag on the bed and finally turned towards Sherlock, furious.

"Ok, cut the crap, Sherlock! I'm done with it. Just drop the fucking act. You can put on your disguises and turn on the charm and pull this shit on everyone else, but this is me, and it's not going to work. Not any more."

"John," Sherlock said and came into the room and shut the door, dropping his bag on the floor. He walked right up to John and grabbed him by the shoulders. John put his hands on his hips and refused to look at him.

"John look at me," he said, but John looked at the floor and shook his head.

"Look at me!" Sherlock nearly yelled, and John relented and tilted up his face. In it, Sherlock could see years of betrayal, all the crimes of a past Sherlock might never remember but would always regret.

"John, listen to me. I saw the video of the wedding. I heard the words that I said at the end. I vowed that I would always be there, for all three of you. I told you that it was my first and last vow, but now I am making you another solemn promise. The next thing I tell you is the absolute, unmitigated truth."

Sherlock took in a deep breath.

"I. Don't. Remember."

John looked into Sherlock's eyes. He looked back and forth between them, then he looked all around Sherlock's face, searching. And slowly something changed. Comprehension began to dawn in his eyes. He wobbled slightly on his feet and his breathing became more and more rapid. The anger seemed to slowly change into something akin to horror, and he backed away, out of Sherlock's reach, and brought his hand up to his mouth.

"Oh my god," he said and then turned away. "Oh Jesus."

John turned to a chair that was behind him and sat down. He stared blankly into the room, breathing in and out heavily. Sherlock sat down at the foot of the bed and watched his best friend finally come to terms with the full breadth and depth of the situation. He didn't know what to do. He had a million questions, so much he wanted to know, so many things about his past, about their past. He could spend months just relearning all of the things he once knew. But right now, in this moment, all he could do was sit and watch helplessly as John accepted the stark reality of truth.

Finally, John looked up at Sherlock.

"So you really don't remember?"

"That's what I've been trying to tell you."

"I mean, about us?"

Sherlock saw the look of deep sadness on John's face at this, and it made his heart squeeze in his chest.

"I'm truly sorry," Sherlock said.

John reached up and rubbed his temple for a moment then looked back at Sherlock.

"Then yes," he said firmly. "We were lovers. For the better part of a year."

Sherlock just sat and blinked. Lovers. For a year. With John. They had lived together and eaten dinners and drank tea and John had worn his ridiculous sweaters and then they had slept together and had sex together and shared intimacies. Not just physical intimacies, but emotional intimacies. They had told each other secrets, shared stories of their childhoods, talked about their dreams, talked about the future. They had taken care of John's daughter together. They must have been as much of a family as Sherlock had ever come close to in his adult life.

And Sherlock could not remember any of it.

He fell back on the matress and looked up at the canopy of the four poster bed. He brought his hands up to his face, covering his eyes. He had basically had a daughter. And he couldn't remember. How was this possible? Why did John leave? How could he have let John leave? He knew himself better than that, he would have done anything in his power to keep them together if it had come to that. Anything. He would not make a vow like that lightly, and the one he had made at the wedding was a vow for life, he knew that he meant it wholeheartedly at the time. He knew instinctively that if he had cared that much, he would not have hesitated to kill to keep them together and safe, if it came to that. He was bound to the two of them — the three of them, Mary, too. What could he have done to break up his family?

He rolled over on his side and pulled his legs up on the bed, curling into the fetal position. This was a nightmare. Maybe it all really was a nightmare. Maybe he would wake up. He remembered the Dream when he was in the hospital, how peaceful it was, this hazy place where nothing was real and everything was vaguely pastel coloured. He could imagine now why he took drugs again after John left. Anything is better than this deep sense of loss that was beginning to pull him under.

He felt the bed sink behind him as John sat down.

"It didn't happen right away," John said quietly, his voice rough. "I was shot at the same time Mary was killed, and so I was having to recover both physically and emotionally." John paused, but just the fact that he was there, sitting next to Sherlock and talking, was enough to keep Sherlock just out of reach from whatever unimaginable horror was threatening to drown him.

"I was in bad shape," John continued. "But you took care of me."

Sherlock sniffed. "That seems difficult to believe," he said with his face still in his hands.

"Yeah, it does," John said, and then Sherlock could feel John lying down behind him, his head on the pillows. "But you were really good at it. Surprisingly good at it. Obsessive, really. And you were great with Sherri. She absolutely adored you. She'd follow you around the flat like a little puppy. We called her your shadow because she was always right behind you."

Sherlock felt John's hand then as it came to rest on his shoulder, a small warmth of contact.

"And you are always so odd that I never really thought about it when things started to happen between us. One night we slept in the same bed and then just kept sleeping in the same bed, and it just sort of … happened, like it was just another odd Sherlock thing. I almost didn't even notice what was happening until all of the sudden one day I woke up and you were there next to me like you had been for months and I realised I was happy. I honestly didn't think I would ever be happy again after Mary died, but I was."

John fell silent again, and Sherlock began to feel some of the effects of all this on his body. His chest hurt tremendously, as if he had been hit with a hammer, or something was squeezing his guts from the inside, and he couldn't understand it. His head was also starting to hurt, one of the frequent headaches he suffered these days coming on. He should take some of the medicine that his surgeon had given him for the pain, although he hated it because it dulled his thinking. But maybe this was one of those times that that wouldn't be such a bad thing.

"I'm sorry I didn't believe you," John said quietly.

Sherlock turned over in bed and curled up on his other side, this time with his face buried in the crease between John's rib cage and the mattress. He could feel the warmth of John's body on his face, and the comfort of it made his shoulders slump as his muscles relaxed.

"You have no reason to be sorry, John," he mumbled into John's side and then took a breath. "You have every reason to…"

But it was too late. The distinct scent of John filled his lungs and he was immediately transported back to his bed in 221b Baker Street and they were naked under the duvet and John's head was resting on his shoulder and they were talking about music and Sherlock was kissing John's hair and watching John's face as he described the dreams he had as a child of wanting to play piano and how he now wanted Sherri to play violin and Sherlock was content. No, he was more than content. He didn't ever want anything else other than this endlessly fascinating man in his arms, this ordinary, remarkable, patient, emotional, fierce, dangerous, loyal, infinitely tolerant man with his lovely, loveable, funny daughter.

Sherlock took in a sudden breath and his body jolted, and he felt John's hand come down on his head, resting gently and rubbing his hair.

"You ok?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head.

John sat up and scooted down on the bed, then he lay down with his face about a foot away from Sherlock's. Sherlock resisted the temptation to hide his face again, and John took the opportunity to study him.

"You should probably eat something," John said after a moment. "We managed to skip lunch."

Sherlock couldn't help but give a small smile.

"That's my John. Always thinking about food."

"I think they're still serving tea if you want to go downstairs," John said and then gave his own small smile. He watched Sherlock again for a few moments then sighed. "Are we really going to do this today? Carry on with this case?"

At that, Sherlock groaned and turned onto his back, closing his eyes and resting his hand over his scar, gently rubbing his head.

"I suppose so. We're already here." Sherlock breathed in and out slowly, then looked back at John, who had propped himself up on his elbow. True to form, John was already adjusting to his new reality, a man accustomed to normalising the chaos that seemed to dominate Sherlock's life. His face was relaxed, and if anything he only looked slightly worried.

As for Sherlock, the image of them naked in bed was having a hard time dislodging from his mind. He rubbed his head a little harder.

"This is going to be difficult," he said finally.

"When has life with you been anything but?" John replied.

"Touché."

Sherlock slowly sat up and, after the head rush passed, stood from the bed, supporting himself with one of the bed posts. He adjusted his shirt to make sure he was presentable, and then turned to John, who was lying on the bed watching him.

"Fortunately, we're British, and there's nothing that can't be solved by a cup of tea," Sherlock said and stood up straighter. "Would you care to join me, Dr. Watson?"