A/N: I wasn't able to update yesterday, so you all get two chapters today. We're almost at the end :)

Living with Sherlock wasn't anything unusual. Before the accident, he would end up sleeping on Greg's sofa every other week after being evicted from his flat. Greg had become used to his random conversations about planned experiments and odd places to store body parts.

Living with Sherlock in his brother's house was rather odd, especially since the place reminded him of a museum that had been closed for private viewings. The first day he tiptoed around, afraid to touch anything. Sherlock had ended that with a sarcastic remark. Greg's observation of Mycroft's tolerance for Sherlock's mess didn't hurt either.

Living with a Sherlock who didn't remember him, in either his official capacity or the more personal one, was even more bizarre. He had expected that Sherlock would avoid him, mostly because of what he had revealed, but as usual Sherlock surprised him.

Sherlock had taken to following him around like a puppy when he wasn't at work, watching him as though he could deduce the best method for getting his memory back that way.

"Who do you follow when I'm not here?" Greg asked one evening, three days after they had arrived. Sherlock was perched in a chair by the fire, watching Greg as the older man scanned his notes for his latest case.

"No one, obviously," Sherlock replied in his 'you-are-an-idiot' tone. "Mycroft, John, and you all work during the day. Who would I follow?"

"The housekeeper?" Greg tried.

Sherlock snorted. "Boring. As if I don't have better things to do than deduce her petty affair with the gardener."

Greg decided to ignore the latter part of that sentence. "What 'better things' do you have to do?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "If you assumed that I have been staying here all day whilst you were all gone, then I lament the state of our police department."

"Oi," Greg protested, before his brain caught up with the implications of that sentence. "Sherlock, you don't mean what I think you mean, do you?"

Sherlock, of course, ignored him. "I've been going about London to see if anything sparks a memory, a recent one preferably."

"You've been wandering across London on your own?" Greg gaped. "Christ Sherlock, do you even know how many criminals that you've forgotten you helped arrest?"

"What would you have me do Greg?" Sherlock asked, rising from his chair to pace. "I can't just sit here and wait for something to happen. My mind is like an engine…"

"Tearing itself to pieces, yeah, got that the first time," Greg interrupted.

Sherlock looked like he was going to say something, before changing his mind. "Can I look?"

"What?" Greg was completely confused now.

"At the case file Lestrade," Sherlock sighed. "I may not remember assisting you, but I am still capable of deducing."

Greg bit his lip, conflicted. On the one hand, Sherlock's help would be nice, even with his caustic comments about Greg's team, and he would more than likely be able to identify the murderer without leaving the room. On the other hand, he wasn't sure if Sherlock should be working so soon after he was hurt. John had allowed him up from the bed this morning, but who knew how long Sherlock had actually rested. Maybe it would be better to avoid taxing him unnecessarily. Although, this could be exactly what he needs to use to make a deal with Sherlock.

"Sherlock," Greg said carefully, "If I let you help with this case, and bring you back some cold cases to work on, will you promise to stop leaving here unsupervised? I know you aren't a child, but I'm worried. Just because you don't remember the criminals doesn't mean they don't remember you."

Sherlock considered Greg's proposition. He would be trapped in Mycroft's house if he accepted, but he would more than likely be trapped anyway. Greg appeared to be worried when he heard that Sherlock was roaming London on his own, not only because of the criminals but also because of his wounds, which were still healing and rather painful. If he took up Greg's offer, at least he would have something interesting to do all day. Perhaps the work would help bring back memories.

"Very well Lestrade," Sherlock replied. "I promise not to leave the house without informing one of you in exchange for cases to work on."

Greg nodded and handed over the case file in his hand. Sherlock took it eagerly, rapidly scanning all of the information and occasionally asking a random question. Finally, he snapped the file shut and threw it back to Greg.

"It was the sister," he said. "She was jealous that her younger sister got the man she wanted, so she worked to break up their marriage. The younger sister took a lover, and when her husband found out he killed them, sending the ears as a message. They were meant for the middle sister, but the man wrote down the wrong address, which is how they ended up in the eldest's hands."

Greg shook his head. Ten minutes with the case file and he solves a case that has been puzzling Scotland Yard for several days. "Ok Sherlock, explain."

The rest of the night passed easily. Sherlock explained his deductions, allowing Greg to fill out the proper papers for the arrest when he went in tomorrow. After that, Greg claimed fatigue and turned in, although he was anything but tired.

Being around a Sherlock who didn't remember him was odd, but seeing him solve cases like he used to hurt more than Greg thought it would. How was it that his brilliant mind would let him solve cases still, but would keep back two years' worth of memories?

It hurt to think about, but for a moment he felt like he was talking to the real Sherlock, the one who remembered him. Meeting his eyes, instead of seeing the customary warmth and veiled longing, he only saw interest in the case and polite curiosity. Sherlock didn't remember him; maybe he never would. What would he do then?

"Thanks for inviting me over Mycroft," John smiled, sitting across from the other man in the sitting room. "Spending time with friends beats going straight back to my flat any day."

"Are we friends John?" Mycroft asked, looking at his glass rather than meet John's eyes.

"I think so," John said amiably, although there was a hint of sadness there. I would be so much more, if you let me.

Mycroft, being a Holmes, was able to catch things most others missed, and so he heard the edge of sadness in John's voice. Hoping he was interpreting it right, Mycroft said, "What if I wanted more?" Instantly, he began to worry about his choice of words. Too forward? Too needy? What if he isn't interested? I could be wrong, it's not impossible, especially where romance is concerned.

John was most definitely interested, and he wasn't going to waste his chance. Standing from his chair, he walked over to stand in front of Mycroft's, waiting until the other man looked up. He gave him a smile as he held out his hand. "I can't say I would object Mycroft."

Using the man's hand in his, John pulled Mycroft up from his seat, sitting his almost forgotten drink on a side table before pulling the man closer. He was taller than John, but the doctor wasn't deterred. He slid a hand up Mycroft's back, relishing in the other man's shiver, before resting it on the back of his head and using it to guide Mycroft's lips to meet his own.

A/N: I usually don't ship Johncroft, but I had to throw that in there.