In case it didn't make sense, in my fic, Sherlock was only gone for one year getting rid of Moriarty's web. He came back to live in 221C. Sherlock tells John they've lived near each other for a while to not creep him out. He's changed a bit.
Sherlock looked at the clock next to John's bed. Perfect. This time of morning would be best to get the information from Harriet. He carefully shifted out of his partner's arms and tiptoed to the closed door. John just barely moved, letting out a breath of air, and then going back to sleep. Sherlock smiled; he wanted John to get at least some sleep. He'd learned that although he didn't really need it, people like John did, so he tried to not disturb him.
The flat was so quiet at night. Sherlock wished he could fill it with violin music, but Harriet said it reminded her of Clara, so he stopped. But he itched for it sometimes, like now. The streetlights illuminated the windows just enough that he could have composed. Sherlock stood in front of them for a moment, looking outside. It was dark, but London never truly rested. He remembered chases through those shadowy streets, lit by only streetlamps. He shook his head. That was a long time ago. He had other things he needed to take care of.
Harriet was asleep on the couch, clutching a picture of her and Clara that John had saved from before he went to war. Sherlock gazed at her, wondering how she could be still so in love with someone after years of being without them. And then he answered his own question, wondering how he could have asked it in the first place. She looked unhappy, Sherlock realized. She had that same look on her face that he carried with him the past year.
Sherlock, with great care, shook the sleeping woman. "Hmph," she mumbled.
"I need to ask you a few things. And please keep quiet. John's still asleep, and if you wake him, I will be less than pleased."
Harriet stretched, her limbs extending past the couch's arms. "Jesus, man. What the hell could you possibly want at 4 am? Riddle me that."
"It's not a riddle," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "And I want to ask you about the letters John sent you the past two years."
She nodded. "Alright. If you want to see the real things, my flat isn't far from here."
"I know, we went to your flat after you got kidnapped, remember?"
"Whatever, Sherlock." She stood up. "Well? Are we going to get a cab or what?" Sherlock thought about it for less than a second before following her out of the flat, quietly closing the door behind them.
John knew something wasn't right when he woke up in the middle of the night without a warm body curled up against him. Namely, a thin, pale as marble body that was surprisingly angled. Sherlock wasn't there.
It made him sad for a moment, unexplainably sad, but he shook himself out of it. Sherlock had probably gone out for a walk in the London night. He always said it reminded him, and John never pressed farther than that.
As long as he was up, John decided to make himself a cuppa, since it usually helped any sort of problem. He slipped on one of Sherlock's dressing gowns, not finding one of his own in the dark. (Of course, there was another reason, but John refused to think about it.) When he left their room, he looked around the sitting room and found his sister was gone as well. Where would those two go together?
John flitted about the kitchen, boiling water, grabbing a mug, and picking out the soothing tea he'd bought a month ago but used only a few times. After steeping the tea for longer than was probably necessary, he sat down in his chair, taking small sips. If John looked around the flat from this position, he thought he could hear whispers, voices echoing from the corners of the room.
Many people had been in the flat, his tired mind thought. Many different women, one with a snarky tone, a man that had been infernally nasty to both John and...someone else. A kind man, one that had only come in for business and once for a...drugs bust? No, that couldn't have been it. Another man with a posh voice, who'd had intelligent yet very childish arguments with...that someone. It wasn't John, he knew that much. But the drugs bust, where had that come from?
"You look around this flat and you won't find anything most people would call recreational."
"John, you should probably stop talking now."
John looked him over, up and down. "No. Really?"
"Oh, shut up." He made it sound like one word, with just a little extra emphasis. SHUtup.
When had John shared this flat? And with a person he'd thought such things about?
"Ugh! Everybody shut up! Don't move, don't think, don't breathe! Anderson, turn around, your face puts me off."
"What? Why do I have to turn around?" an indignant man asked.
"Just do it," another man sighed. When the first man didn't do as asked, he said, considerably more agitated, "Do it!"
The man in the center of the room banged his head against the wall. "Think, think, who do we trust without knowing who they are?"
John wanted to ask him to stop, since it looked like he was hurting himself.
Who was this person? Beautiful, he knew that much. But nothing else identified him.
"I'll get in using my brother's ID. I give him twenty minutes before he realizes I've broken in." He sent a devilish look to John's side of the Jeep. "Baskerville hasn't met me yet. I should give them the pleasure."
Ugh, the images. They moved almost too fast for John to see.
"You liked pulling rank, didn't you?" he asked. "Captain Watson."
John smiled at him, but didn't answer until the lieutenant was out of earshot. "Yes, actually, I did." He didn't say: "I actually like helping you."
"Bored, John!" Every time he said the word, a gunshot sounded and a bullet entered the wall. Somehow, a yellow smiley face had been painted on it in John's absence. "Bored!" "Bored!" "Bored!"
"Is that my gun?!" John asked, covering his ears.
"Who else's could it be? I don't believe Mrs. Hudson has one stored among her herbal soothers."
John laughed aloud. He knew about her 'herbal soothers' and found it highly unlikely a gun would be found near them. John looked sideways to see the smiley face on the wall. Who had put it there? He remembered seeing it when he looked at the flat, and Mrs. Hudson seemed to not know how it had come about either. Nothing added up. "Damn."
Sherlock stood awkwardly in the doorway to Harriet's flat, waiting to be let in. This was John's sister, and he was loathe to upset her. "Geez, Sherly, come on in. The letters are over here." He stepped cautiously in, making sure not to disturb anything that could be evidence. Something was wrong, and had been since everyone he knew forgot the last two years.
"So, Johnny sent this first one in October. Normal then, boring, he sounded kind of depressed. Clara was long gone by then." Sherlock took the notebook paper from her hands. Notebook paper. John used it because he couldn't write in a straight line. The writing was too blocky and structured to be John's normal handwriting (Sherlock had seen it many times), so he wasn't feeling like himself. Feeling like he had to fit his life into the dull picture frame that was civilian life. He felt trapped, sad, and he slept terribly.
"This next one is from early November. He talked about not being able to find a job, and there's a weird sentence in there about the gun he hid in his bedside table." Sherlock took the paper from her. The writing was even more structured, John was trying to stay in control more. It almost hurt to deduce this letter.
"Alright, now here's when it gets strange. Mid-November, he sounds far more hopeful and mentions someone named Sherlock Holmes. But he doesn't remember you. That's so unnatural, because Johnny remembers everyone he meets, and you are pretty hard to forget."
"Thank you," Sherlock nodded. He stared at the letter. Printer paper. Slanted writing. New pen, flowing ink. Probably a Pilot G2.07. Sherlock enjoyed those pens. John was happy. Sherlock wondered how that could have happened so fast, and why.
And then reality set in. Normally it wouldn't have taken this long.
John had lost the memories of the past two years, and he was Sherlock's boyfriend, and Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Donovan, and Anderson had a similar pattern. Harriet hadn't directly known him, and her memories were perfectly intact. So this had to do with Sherlock. And who would do this? Sherlock could count on one hand.
Moriarty, before death, or Mycroft.
Sherlock didn't know whether Mycroft would do such a thing, however. Erase the memories of John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and Donovan? The only people that even remotely cared about him? Donovan, well, she didn't really care, but Lestrade? Mrs. Hudson? John?
Sherlock decided then that he would do anything to solve this puzzle. He wanted the one person he'd ever loved back in his life the way he used to be. Sherlock knew it was selfish, somewhere in a forgotten corner of his mind palace, but chose to ignore it. This was all he had, and he was going to get it back.
John woke up to two sets of footsteps coming up the stairs. He'd fallen asleep in his chair; his tea went cold long before, and he was still wearing Sherlock's dressing gown. The lighter, smaller-sounding steps were most likely Harry's, while the more purposeful, harder footfalls were probably Sherlock's. He wondered if at least Harry would apologize for leaving him in the middle of the night, taking his partner, and not telling him where they went. He doubted it.
As John heard the steps reach the door to 221B, he faked being asleep. If he confronted them now, no one would get to sleep. And Sherlock needed sleep more than anyone else. When the door opened, it opened almost soundlessly, Harry clomping to the couch and dropped, beginning to breathe slowly and slightly snore. Sherlock crept toward John, stopping right in front of him. John forced his breathing to relax, as he always needed it to when he was around the detective.
Sherlock didn't do anything John could hear for a few seconds, and then he felt the genius' hand brush his hair away from his forehead. "It'll be alright soon," he nearly inaudibly whispered. "You'll be mine again when the game is won. Nothing else will keep you away from me." Sherlock leaned down to press a gentle kiss to John's forehead. "I promise I'll fix this."
Suddenly, the footsteps fell away, leaving the sitting room, and John. He waited until all was silent again before moving. Standing up, he walked as softly as he could back to his and Sherlock's bedroom. When John peeked through the door, Sherlock was sprawled across the bed, leaving just enough space for John to crawl back into his arms. He situated himself carefully, making sure the detective was still sleeping. As John looked at the bright red numbers on the alarm clock, he hoped work wouldn't be too difficult. He wasn't exactly young enough anymore to pull all-nighters. But he'd endure a hundred all-nighters for Sherlock.
"Let's not do this every night," he breathed.
Sherlock didn't respond, but John didn't expect him to.
"Goodnight, darling," John mouthed, drifting off with just that effort. Although, it was almost morning then.
Thanks to the lovely Guest reviewer last chapter!