John went about the flat completely oblivious to his outburst. As far as he was aware, Sherlock had urgent business to attend to and had to dash out. He wasn't particularly surprised. Sherlock was rarely stationary unless he was in one of his moods.
After leaving in a hurry, Sherlock wandered the back alleys of London trying to clear his head. He wasn't going anywhere. He certainly wasn't running away. No, never running away. Just putting some distance between himself and the problem.
The thought of John not loving him hurt worse than John not remembering him. Sherlock pulled his collar up against the wind and turned down an alley he knew would dump him closer to Lacuna.
Once there, Sherlock pushed his way in. He pointedly ignored the other patients and went straight to the receptionist.
"Miss Svevo," Sherlock called. The young woman was nowhere to be seen. Not to be hindered by one careless woman's blunder, Sherlock pushed his way through the door into the first examination room.
"Dr Mierzwiak," Sherlock said, poking his head into the first room. There was no answer. He continued on in a similar fashion calling into the second and third rooms.
Finally, Howard Mierzwiak emerged from the fifth and final room in the hall.
"What on earth-" he began, but halted when he saw who it was. "Sir I told you what it was you wanted to know. Get the hell out of my offices!"
Sherlock made no sign of moving. "Mary Svevo. You know, doctor, the girl you're shagging who isn't your wife?" Sherlock tilted his head and his eyes practically forced all of Howard's attention. "I am assuming she is back in that fifth room just so you can erase from her memory all remnants of your adultery. Am I right?"
Dr Mierzwiak didn't answer. Sherlock would tell just from his face that he did indeed have the receptionist back in room five.
"How would our wife like to hear of this? I can have a car sent to get her immediately, no matter where she is." Sherlock grinned at the shorter man, teeth out and eyes alight, begging for Howard to challenge him.
"No. Don't call her," Howard said, "I'll tell you what you need. Just let my personal life out of this, won't you?"
"I have no interest in the stupid mundanities of a man as foolish in relationships as you. What I was to know is the cause and subsequent result of a subject who has had a flash of memory due to outside stimuli, but does not recall that memory a mere hours later."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"A subject, when pushed, remembered for a brief moment before complaining of a headache. The subject then proceeded to sleep for longer than their personal average. Upon awakening, the subject had no memory of the outburst of memory, the headache, or the thing that your procedure erased. What does that mean? The flash and then reverting back to the same stage of memory loss. Will the subject be hurt?"
Dr Mierzwiak shook his head. "Hurt? No. He'll be a little groggy like you said, but it seems he slept with no problems and awoke with no lasting mental damage. It means that it may be much easier to trigger he subject now, though. That flash could have been the brain's own defence mechanism. Spitting out information quickly and then reverting back to the state of the procedure."
"He is not hurt? His memory is not irreparably damaged and I can continue seeking triggers?"
Dr Mierzwiak thought for a moment. "I would hold back for another day after before attempting to bring the memory back again. Any sooner could risk damage to the long and short term memory sections of the brain."
"Yes, but that flash of memory, did it hurt him?" Sherlock wanted physically force the man into coherent answers.
"No. It didn't hurt him more than just a bad headache."
Sherlock stopped in his pacing. "He's going to be fine."
"Yes, yes. That little lapse isn't going to permanently damage his memory."
"Good."
Sherlock turned and left, still pointedly ignoring the desolate faces that were waiting for the doctor to soothe their woes. He hailed a cab back to 221B.
Sherlock pushed the door open and called out, "John! I'm back. Sorry I-"
He cut off and stopped walking. Mary was pulling back from leaning on John and giving Sherlock a "fuck you" sort of look. John was turned around looking at Sherlock and couldn't see the loathing in Mary's face.
"Sorry, Sherlock. Glad you're back," John said. He turned from his position on the sofa to sit properly. "Sherlock this is Mary. I don't know if I've ever properly introduced you two."
Mary dropped the scowl and pulled up a face all sunshine. She waved at Sherlock.
"Hello, Sherlock," Mary said brightly, "It's great to meet you. I've heard so much about you, both from John and the news."
The corner of Sherlock's mouth curved upwards. Silly girl.
"Really, Mary?" Sherlock feigned surprise, "What has John been telling you? All bad I hope."
Sherlock winked at John. From where John was standing, the wink was not lost on Mary. Her jaw gave a tick, but otherwise didn't betray anything. John, god love him, took the wink all in stride just as he did everything Sherlock did.
Mary over exaggerated her enthusiasm for Sherlock's work.
"You're just so brilliant," she gushed, "all that running around you do with guns and abusing those around you. And the cases you solve without any credit. You use that like it give you a right to be horrible to everyone. I mean, you're just so smart. I wish average dull people like me could understand the magnitude of your perfection."
John looked at her, and Mary thought that her outburst was probably too obvious.
"Do you not like Sherlock?" John asked.
"Not particularly, no." Mary wasn't going to lie to John. She's fight for him, but not lie. There was more to their relationship than that.
"Miss Morstan is under the impression that you do not appreciate her, John," Sherlock supplied.
John turned to Mary and looked at her uncertainly. "Is that true?"
Mary shook her head, "No John, I don't think you treat me badly at all. You're so sweet and lovely." She walked over to him and wound one arm around his waist.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but stayed silent.
"I've been good to you, haven't I?" John looked unsure, seeking confirmation that he had indeed done good by Mary.
"Of course. I've never thought anything different."
"Really?" Sherlock interjected, "You've never wondered why he won't kiss you or why he prefers to spend his time in the company of a sociopath rather than with you?"
"He spends more time with you because you live together," Mary retorted.
"I always go out with you," John said. He was still looking at Mary, blue eyes searching her face for reassurance.
Mary nodded. She leaned up and kissed John. It was chaste, quick, and John didn't open up to her the way Sherlock knew he opened up to little kisses. That knowledge made him smile. Sherlock could see that Mary knew something was wrong as well. Her pride kept her mouth shut tight.
"I've got some things I need to work on at home for class and stuff. I'll see you later." Mary grabbed her jacket and purse and left.
"What was that for?" John asked.
"It's true. You should ask her in private sometime if that fact that you don't kiss her keeps her up at night. I can tell you it does just by looking at her and then watching the way you two interact. I wouldn't be surprised if her sister has already talked to her about you. No doubt the sister thinks you're gay."
"I'm not gay," John said.
"Wrong."
"Sherlock, I'm not actually gay."
"Whatever label you choose to put on it, you do in fact find men attractive."
"No, I find women attractive."
"No, John!" Sherlock moved forwards and invaded John's personal space, "You have yourself deluded into denying your sexuality because of the homophobia of your father and those around you while in the military. Even at medical school there was the undercurrent of us and them. Obscure John Watson wasn't about to brand himself a them, so you dated women. Many in fact and far more women than your peers. This earned you a reputation that solidified your us status."
Sherlock waited for John's reaction. None came. John stood still and silent and completely in control of himself.
"Do not think that you can just observe and suddenly understand everything about me. Do not presume to know my life just because you are cleverer than me."
Sherlock wanted to tell John that he knew these things because John had told him. They had spent multiple night sitting up in bed and just talking. Sherlock enjoying John's proximity and the face that John was so willing to share intimate details of his life. Sherlock couldn't forget those nights if he tried. It was such a turn of events that John should be the one to delete things.
As it was, Sherlock merely inclined his head in defeat and left John to seethe in the sitting room alone.
Not a single sound was heard from behind Sherlock's bedroom door. He wanted to emerge and play the violin again, but thought that, under the circumstances, a loss of sleep would not be welcome.
The next morning, John left early for work. He wrote a note telling Sherlock he would be home late because he was getting dinner with Mary. What he didn't write on the note was that he needed to clean up the mess Sherlock had made of his relationship. Sherlock understood that anyway.
It was a testament to how much John was still the same when Sherlock could predict what restaurant John would take Mary for an apology dinner.
Later that night, Sherlock wandered down Highgate Road at a respectable distance from John and Mary. He knew John was taking her to Bull & Last. It was just nice enough to be decent and it was just casual enough to not be overbearing. John often frequented it as a make-up spot.
The corner of Sherlock's mouth perked up; At least his tastes haven't changed.
John showed Mary in, holding the door like a gentleman and keeping one hand at the small of her back. She thanked him and Sherlock scowled at the smile John carried. It was a confident smile, possessive.
They took a table towards the back of the restaurant and Sherlock insisted on being seated five tables away despite the protests from the maître d' that a window seat would certainly be far more to his liking.
Sherlock was shielded by two other patrons and behind John. He watched over the edge of his menu and met Mary's eyes. She startled a bit and glared, letting Sherlock know he wasn't welcome.
John noticed the change and Sherlock saw him lean forwards and take her hand.
Asking if something is wrong, Sherlock thought. How considerate of him.
Mary was shaking her head and was back to smiling adoringly at John. No matter how much Sherlock disliked her, he saw the way Mary looked at John. She loved him. For a brief moment, Sherlock wondered if he used to look at John like that. Even before they were married. Could people tell even then that Sherlock was so infatuated with someone as unassuming as John?
Mary turned her hand around and took John's in it. They ordered like that and talked and smiled like that, keeping their fingers knitted on the table so that anyone who walked by could see how happy they were.
Sherlock didn't want to look. He didn't want to see if John wore the same adoring look for Mary that used to wear for Sherlock.
Sherlock had to waive a waiter away three times before the kid understood and just left him alone. He wasn't there to eat, why was that so difficult for people to understand?
John and Mary, however, were heartily enjoying their food. They kept the conversation going and Sherlock read Mary's lips in order to follow. There wasn't much that John was talking about that Sherlock didn't' already know.
He could tell from what Mary was saying that they were talking about James Bond. John loved Bond. Sherlock knew that John's first celebrity crush was Timothy Dalton. He could tell that Mary shared John's love of Bond and they were eagerly swapping favourite scenes from the franchise.
The longer Sherlock sat and watched them, the more upset he got. He was angry with Mary, angry with John, sad for every reason in between. He shoved these thoughts down and stood. The date had gone on long enough.
John looked up as something rested heavily on his uninjured shoulder. Sherlock had his hand there and was smiling.
"John, great to see you here. And Mary. How nice to see you again," Sherlock beamed. For John, he could be cordial.
Mary merely nodded in Sherlock's general direction, unwilling to fully acknowledge his presence. Sherlock grabbed a chair and pulled it up to their table, turning a deaf ear to John's protests.
John leaned over and whisper-shouted in Sherlock's ear, "I am on a date. With my girlfriend. Not my girlfriend and my flatmate. Just us. You need to leave, Sherlock."
Sherlock made no efforts to stifle his volume. "I'm not going to leave. You often make efforts to get me to eat. Here I am ready to eat out with you and you are turning me away. Not much concern when it inconveniences you."
"No," John protested, "Sherlock you know that's not fair. You could just as easily go and have a sandwich at home or some toast and jam. You didn't need to come here and interrupt my plans. I'm sure you would be more than able to buy yourself take away."
"I wanted company."
"You never want company." John shook his head. He was clearly ready to plead if that is what it took for Sherlock to grant him and Mary some privacy.
"I wanted your company," Sherlock clarified.
John paused a second and Mary was horrified that he may be considering letting Sherlock stay. He was considering it. Damn him, but John couldn't help it.
Sherlock pressed again. "I have difficulty finding people who will keep my company. Forgive me for wanting to spent time with the only person who won't turn me away. I suppose I had misinterpreted our friendship."
Sherlock knew John had no room for further argument. Not only because John was incapable of shutting down his empathy, but also because Sherlock had called John his friend. It was the first time Sherlock had verbalised the position of friendship and John was surprised by the word. Sherlock didn't seem like the one for friends.
In fact, from what John could tell Sherlock had no friends at all. He never went down to the pub to meet people, he never went out with mates to a party, he was never invited anywhere by the Yarders. John had initially thought it strange that a man so talented and clever would not have any friends to speak of.
John turned to Mary and gave her a questioning look. She began to protest, but Sherlock jumped in before she would start.
"Thank you so much! The meal is on me. It has been such a long time since I've been out to eat." Sherlock folded a napkin in his lap and waved over a waiter.
John mouthed I'm sorry to Mary. It was met with ice.
Sherlock was pleasant at least. John was grateful for that. Once Mary's ice melted, the dinner turned out to be pleasant enough. John was trying to mediate between the two of them. Neither could help the slip of insult, but both behaved for the most part.
After dinner, Sherlock hailed a cab.
"Coming, John?" he asked pointedly.
"I was going to take Mary back to hers first and then go home."
"Nonsense. Miss Morstan is capable of getting herself home. And I'm sure she wouldn't want you to pay the extra cab fare just to walk her to her door."
Mary was already in the cab shooting daggers in Sherlock's direction.
John turned to her and asked, "Is it ok if I just go with him?"
Mary nodded and left without a word.
John had the feeling he had just done something very wrong. Pushing the thought to the back of his mind, He climbed into Sherlock's cab and they turned for home.
That night, Sherlock played again. John wandered out to listen. The melody was soothing; it rose and fell with John's breathing. Soon, the doctor was asleep in his armchair, cuppa forgotten beside him. Still Sherlock played. He gently carried into the piece he had played John on their wedding day. Sherlock avoided playing it as often as he wanted to. He was still not entirely trusting of John's memory. While John was sleeping, though, Sherlock liked to tell him of his past life.
While drawing gorgeous melodies from the instrument, Sherlock thought of their wedding, their wedding night, and honeymoon; all of it. Every second was perfect because it made John that much more his. He had told John as much while they were still in the midst of it. John had just smiled and said he felt the same way.
Sherlock continued playing as John slept.
John didn't work the next day and Sherlock insisted on dragging him to St. Bart's morgue.
"Your medical knowledge is invaluable to my experiment," Sherlock had insisted.
When he walked through the doors, the familiar face of Molly Hooped blanched.
"Sh-Sherlock?" she said, "I thought you weren't going to come back. I mean I thought I'd never see you again."
Molly set down the petri dish she had been holding in favour of wrapping Sherlock up in a hug. John thought it odd that Sherlock allowed himself to be hugged.
Molly was wiping tears from her eyes and was more than a little flustered.
"Sherlock I'm just so happy to see you," Molly gushed again. She gave John an uncertain smile. From behind John, Sherlock wave a clearly negative gesture at Molly. He hoped she understood that John had no memory and had gotten a card saying as much just as Mycroft had.
Molly nodded slightly with her eyes, knowing that Sherlock would pick up on such a small gesture.
"How do you do Doctor Watson?" Molly offered her hand and John shook it gladly.
"I'm well. How did you know my name?"
Molly's quick thinking produced, "I read a lot of body tags. I like to put names to faces. You are excellent at autopsies."
John smiled, graciously accepting the praise.
"I don't often do them," John pointed out.
"Yes, but I've seen some of your past work. It is quite impressive."
John wasn't sure how he felt about Molly seeing his past work. He decided that it was harmless and to stop being so bloody paranoid.
Molly ran over to Sherlock as the man attempted to steal as severed hand.
"Oh no, John," Molly interjected, "That table of things is Sherlock's. We put things there that he can use rather than worrying about his walking in unannounced and stealing body parts."
"Makes sense," John agreed. He knew how Sherlock could get. There was a severed foot currently in the fridge. John had no doubts that, if able, he would bring a severed head back for his experiments.
Sherlock was still talking to Molly when John wandered over to a body and pulled gloves on. He began studying Molly's work. It was precise, obviously done with careful care.
"Nice sutures," John commented.
"Thanks," Molly blushed. "So why did you stop in today?"
"I need a hand," Sherlock said putting on his best winning smile.
"Sure," Molly replied, "What can I help you with?"
"No, I need a literal hand."
"Oh," Molly's face fell, but she recovered quickly. "I don't think I can do that for you."
"Why not?" Sherlock's expression changed to that of a rejected puppy.
John had to do a double take. He had never seen Sherlock be so expressive. He hoped it was genuinely for Molly and not just Sherlock mucking about. He had yet to see Sherlock put his excellent acting skills to use, but John suspected that a great mimic like Sherlock would have no problem fitting into the West End standard.
John watched the two of them go back and forth, a sparring he had a feeling had been done many times. In the end, Sherlock walked out of the morgue with a left hand all in plastic wrap and concealed in an unassuming brown paper bag.
"You can't get on the tube with that," John said.
"Can't I? You should see the things that I've managed on there. I once harpooned a pig and had to take the bloody harpoon on the tube because none of the cabs would take me. The harpoon and I were covered in pig's blood. It made for quite a story that I'm sure each person that was in the car with me indulges in frequently."
John looked caught between stunned, exasperated, and about to burst out laughing. Sherlock was allowed on the tube with the severed hand.
John was made the lab assistant for the evening. He fetched flasks and carefully measured an unlabelled acid for god knows what. Sherlock was entirely in his element and John couldn't help but stare. He was attracted to the mad man. John wasn't quite ready to admit that, but it was there. Just under the surface.
John sat in bed and listened to the now nightly tradition of Sherlock's violin. He shut his eyes to the flow and started losing himself in the melody. It was the perfect time for a sexuality crisis. John considered Sherlock to be an attractive man, but only within the limits of one guy to his mate. Not anything outside that. He didn't want to consider the possibility of being attracted to Sherlock as something more.
The music cradled his thoughts and was trying to pull him to sleep. John resisted it though. He still had yet to go downstairs and have his nightly tea. It was a ritual that cost him sleep, but he had no intention of stopping. John enjoyed their nightly…whatever it was that they had set up. He would miss it if suddenly this was no longer an assured occurrence.
So rather than being rocked to sleep, John slid out of bed and padded downstairs. He made tea and sat to listen for one more night.