Hey look! An update on an actual Monday! Albeit a little late on a Monday, but still a Monday.

InvisibleBlade: Sherlock, Mycroft

Me: John, Rory (no, this is not about to turn into a Wholock fic. Sorry. I just couldn't resist adding Rory in.)

Warnings for this chapter: some violence and aggression, lots of angst, and a little bit of John/Mycroft bonding.


Chapter 12 – Who Are You?

Sherlock was aware of several things.

1. His heart rate was far too fast.

2. His temperature had increased.

3. His entire body felt as though it were on fire.

4. This was like no case of cold or flu than he can recall of.

5. It was becoming increasingly harder to breath.

And 6. His mind felt strange. It was as though his mind palace was under some form of attack.

The one thing that Sherlock did miss was the text messages sent to John's phone. For if he hadn't have missed them he would have a far brighter idea of what was going on.

My little brother is gravely ill, isn't he? Shall I send assistance? –MH

Well, well Johnny boy. What have we got here? Is our beloved detective feeling a little out of sorts? –JM

John groaned as his mobile chimed, rather loudly too. He didn't remember turning it up that high. Luckily it didn't wake Sherlock; he was still sound asleep although he appeared distressed and a thin sheen of sweat was forming on his body.

'Oh Sherlock,' John sighed. His mobile chimed again and he swore, turning over to grab it. The first message was from Mycroft, asking if they wanted help. Understandable as he probably had surveillance around and in the entire house.

The second made his stomach drop and his heart stop in his chest. Moriarty. How had Moriarty gotten his number, let alone how he had found where they were and how Sherlock was feeling?

'Stupid, stupid!' he spat. Moriarty probably had people everywhere willing and ready to do his bidding. He wouldn't be surprised if a man or two who worked for Mycroft were under Moriarty's influence somehow.

He dialled Mycroft's number and before the man could even speak John spit out, 'We have a very serious situation and I don't mean Sherlock being ill. Moriarty knows we're here.'

Mycroft swallowed thickly on the other end of the line. 'I don't understand. I have the premises under high surveillance.' He exhaled loudly. 'I'll be there within the hour. How's he holding up?'

'Sherlock's fine. Still sleeping. But there's only so much I can do with the limited supplies I have. We need to get out of here and Sherlock will need to be looked at. I think it's a severe flu, but with the threat of Moriarty I wouldn't put it past him to have done something without us knowing. Sherlock said it himself, he's a spider, and his web reaches very far. I wouldn't be surprised if there was someone who worked for you who had ties to him.' John was fuming. He hadn't been so scared since the last time Moriarty made an appearance; but this time was different.

'Just get here, get us out, fix this,' John hissed, ending the call.

'My?' Sherlock mumbled in his sleep. 'Is that you? I swear if it is I'm hiding your cream donut supply.'

'No, Sherlock, it's John,' he sighed. 'Go back to sleep, okay? Mycroft isn't here.' Yet.

Sherlock opened his eyes and was met with a blurry figure blocking his line of sight.

'My!' he snapped, batting the figure away. 'Go. Or do you want me to threaten your cake supply too?' He groaned, blinking sleepily. 'You're not My.' He suddenly sat bolt upright. 'Who are you?' He prodded the figure, swaying from side to side. 'Who are you?' he repeated, starting to panic. John added hallucinations, confusion, and disorientation to his mental list of symptoms. He laid his hands gently on Sherlock's shoulders and spoke softly.

'It's me, John,' he said. 'Your flatmate, best friend, fiancé. Just, calm down. Everything is going to be alright. I won't hurt you.'

Sherlock flinched away from the blurred figure. 'Don't touch me!' he practically screamed, shoving the figure so hard that it fell onto the floor with a loud thud. 'I haven't got a flatmate let alone a friend or a fiancé. Now get out!'

John rubbed the back of his head as he sat up. Sherlock was stronger than he gave him credit for. He added memory loss to his list of symptoms.

'I'm not leaving, Sherlock,' he said, looking up at him from the floor. 'You're sick, I'm taking care of you, whether you want me to or not. Now–' He stood up and pinned Sherlock to the bed, forcing all his weight on him. 'Stay still and shut the fuck up. Help is on the way, whether you want it or not.'

Sherlock looked up at the stranger with terrified eyes. 'What do you want from me?' he croaked. 'Who the hell are you?'

'My name is John Watson. I was a medic in Afghanistan. I am a soldier, a doctor, but most importantly I am your friend,' he ground out. 'I don't want anything from you, I just want to help. Your mind is clouded, you aren't seeing or remembering properly, and I have help on the way. So please, let me help you.'

'It's not as if you're giving me much choice "John." If that is your name,' Sherlock spat out, struggling beneath the weight of the intruder. 'I swear if you're working for my brother I'll, I'll–' He was cut off as a violent shudder ran through his body. '–I'll kill you,' he muttered as his eyes did a somersault in his skull and everything went pitch black.

'Fuck,' John spat as Sherlock went limp in his hands. 'Why does he always black out?' He released Sherlock's wrists and sat up, grabbing his mobile again. He dialled Mycroft, fuming already.

Mycroft answered the phone, trying to swallow down the panic rising in his chest. 'John. Has he worsened? I'm not far away. Help is coming too.'

'He doesn't remember who I am,' John swallowed, trying to hide his own panic. 'He thought I was you for a minute, then he realised I wasn't you but he didn't remember me. He... He attacked me, and now he's blacked out and... Mycroft what is going on?' He couldn't hide the panic anymore. He choked on his words, trying to speak around the lump in his throat. 'I don't know what to do. Just... Just hurry.'

'I don't know but I intend to find out. Stay calm. I'll get my driver to take a short cut. I won't be long,' Mycroft replied curtly.

'Thank you,' John choked out. God dammit he hated being so emotional. 'Hurry, please. Hurry.' He threw his phone on the bed, not bothering to end the call. He looked down at Sherlock's unconscious form and cried harder.

'What's going on, Sherlock,' he sobbed. 'What's wrong? I don't know. I can't help. I feel useless, not being able to help. I'm a doctor god dammit! I should be able to help but I can't! I can't help. I can't.'

He knelt over Sherlock, stroking a hand through his hair. 'I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.'

Mycroft Holmes hurried through the manor house to Sherlock's old bedroom. He smiled fondly at the childish sign still pinned to the door preventing any 'Mycrofts' from entering. But that happiness was soon wiped away as he saw the pitiful sight that lay before him.

'Ambulance is two minutes away,' Mycroft said softly, not wanting to startle John. John jumped slightly and choked out a sob, wiping his nose on his sleeve. He turned to look at the elder Holmes, tears streaming down his face. He looked at him pitifully, questions swimming in his eyes.

Mycroft walked over to John. 'Can I try something? Sherlock was a sickly child. Always passing out. I learnt a trick to revive him. It might still work.'

'At this point, I'm willing to try anything,' John sniffed. He moved off Sherlock and stood by the bed, wrapping his arms around his chest. Mycroft placed his hand at the base of his little brother's neck with years of expertise and pinched the skin with two fingers. He repeated the action several times and was just about to give up when Sherlock's eyes flew open. John nearly cried in relief. He held himself tighter, not wanting to approach in case Sherlock tried to attack him again.

'Sherlock, can you hear me?' Mycroft asked softly. Sherlock groaned in response.

'Unfortunately,' came the reply a few seconds later.

'Good. Help is on its way.' He stroked Sherlock's hair gently and glanced over to John. John was trembling in relief. He approached slowly, not really scared of Sherlock physically but worried about what he might say.

'Sherlock?' he whispered. 'Sherlock, do you remember me?'

Sherlock frowned and shook his head. 'No. What are you doing in my room?'

'Sherlock, this is John. Surely you remember John? He's here to help you.'

Another shake of the head. 'Who is he My?'

Mycroft sucked in a deep breath. This was worse than he had imagined. 'Someone very important to you.'

Very important, John thought morosely to himself. 'Why can't he remember?' he thought aloud, sniffling.

'I don't know.' Mycroft gripped Sherlock's head in two hands and stared into his eyes. 'Who knows what goes on in that silly mind of his at the best of times?'

It was in that moment that the paramedics finally entered the room. John stood off to the side, not wanting to get in the way. The paramedics approached Sherlock, brushing Mycroft aside to check Sherlock's vitals and reflexes. One shined a bright light in his eyes to check for pupil dilation and the possibility of a concussion. John found it utterly ridiculous. Sherlock had some form of amnesia, not a concussion. What he couldn't figure out was how he got it. They had eaten and drank practically the same things every day, right down to the drug in the coffee. So what had Sherlock done that John hadn't to get him in such a state?

Sherlock was poked and prodded at. He sat there, weak as a kitten, unable to defend himself from the prying and unwanted attention.

One of the medics walked over to John and Mycroft. 'This is like nothing I've seen before. It's as though his body is under attack by some kind of virus. But not only his body his mind too.' He frowned. 'It might be nothing. We're going to have to run a multiple number of tests to get to the bottom of things.'

John swallowed and hugged himself closer. He nodded, afraid to speak, and looked to Mycroft. 'I don't like this,' was written all over his face. Mycroft placed a hand on John's shoulder and squeezed it lightly.

'It'll be ok,' he tried to reassure the almost distraught man. 'I'll give you a lift to the hospital he'll be staying at.'

John nodded and looked down at the floor. 'Thanks,' he swallowed. 'I just... Let me get dressed and I'll meet you in the car.'

'Of course,' Mycroft said in understanding, turning to leave the army doctor in peace. John watched Sherlock be wheeled away and Mycroft followed. He slowly walked over to the wardrobe. He pulled on one of his jumpers and jeans, pulling his shoes on almost in a daze. He didn't even remember leaving the room, let alone the house, and found himself in Mycroft's car as they drove away. He was surprised he hadn't broken yet, but then maybe he already had. He was stoic, detached, unfeeling. He was worried for Sherlock yes, but he felt nothing else.

'John, you know I despise feelings. I really do, but this is my little brother we're talking about. I am not completely heartless. I can see that you care for him, as foolish as that might be. However, I don't blame you. He has a way of either really getting on people's nerves or wriggling into their hearts. Sometimes both.' He exhaled tiredly. 'It's not good to bottle things up when you are not used to doing so. You can cry here if you like. I won't judge you.'

'Sherlock wouldn't want me to,' he almost whispered. 'The last time I did he told me to stop, to not feel guilty, because I was breaking his heart.' He turned to look at Mycroft, his eyes bright despite his best efforts. 'And I would hate to disappoint him yet again.'

'And what about your heart? Hmm? I'm not an idiot, John. Get it out now. You're human, and not one of us Holmes boys. You'll break sooner or later. Best it be here and not in front of my brother,' Mycroft said softly.

'If I crack now I'll crack later. And I'm not going to risk that.' John turned to gaze out the window, watching the scenery pass by in a blur.

'You're far stronger than I thought, John,' Mycroft praised. 'You will tell me, of course, if it gets to be too much.'

'Of course,' John mumbled.

'Do you think this is Moriarty's doing?' John asked. 'I wouldn't put it past him to discover where we were, that must have been easy. But for him to attack Sherlock's mind like this?' He paused. 'What if it's early onset Alzheimer's? Or dementia?' He turned to Mycroft, his eyes shining.

'His mind is the best and most valuable asset Sherlock has. If he loses that he loses himself and... I don't know what I'd do.' The tears came flooding down then and John was powerless to stop them. So much for the so called strength Mycroft said he had. 'I – I would care for him and love him all the same, but how would Sherlock cope? No more cases, no more experiments, no more violin. He would be so bored out of his mind he would probably—' He broke off, choking on his own sobs. Mycroft sighed heavily. He'd known this was coming ever since he had arrived at the Holmes manor house. He brought his arms around to rather awkwardly hug John. It pained him to do so. Mycroft wasn't a particular huggy person, but for John he made an exception.

'We'll work this out. I swear if this is Moriarty's doing I'll–' His voice faltered. He didn't know what he was going to do. John clung to Mycroft, not particularly enjoying the hug but he was glad for it. He sobbed into his shoulder, only mildly concerned about messing up his rather expensive suit.

'If this – if this is Moriarty,' John choked out, 'I'm gonna find him. I'm gonna find him – and I'm gonna kill him.'

'You aren't thinking straight, John. He would most likely get to you before you get to him.' Mycroft swallowed. 'And then who would Sherlock have? His big brother whom he simply hates. I know how I would feel if I lost the man that I lo– Never mind.' He shook his head. 'Leave it to me. I'll be sure to have his head on a stake.'

John nodded and released his grip. He wiped his eyes on the back of his sleeve and sat back in his seat. Mycroft was right. He couldn't be so stupid to go after Moriarty alone. Sherlock would have no one because no one loved him as much as John did. Mrs Hudson loved him like a son but even Sherlock could test her patience at the best of times. And Greg merely tolerated him because he helped out on cases.

He shot a side glance to Mycroft and smirked, remembering the comment about losing the man he loved. So, Mycroft was in love with Greg (if they actually were sleeping together, but he knew better than to doubt Sherlock's intuition). He couldn't wait to tell Sherlock. If he would remember him that was. The tears started again and he brought his knees up to his chest, hugging them as he cried.

'It's best to get it out now.' Mycroft rubbed John's back soothingly. 'I am certain my brother's memory loss is not permanent.'

John hated being so damn emotional. He appeared to have the emotional span of a teenage girl compared to the Holmes brothers. He clutched himself tighter, burying his face in his knees.

'How much farther to the hospital?' he asked, his voice muffled.

'We're literally a minute away,' Mycroft reassured him.

John nodded and pressed his face closer to his knees. His eyes hurt from the pressure but he needed the tears to stop. He needed to be strong for Sherlock, and if he was blubbering mess on the floor it wouldn't do either of them any good.

'We're here,' Mycroft whispered, shaking John's shoulder. John's head snapped up and he processed his surroundings. Once he recognised the familiarity of a hospital he couldn't get out of the car fast enough. He scrambled to get a hold of the door handle, shoving the door open with such force it almost bounced back and hit him in the face. He fell from the car, landing on his hands and knees but pulled himself up quickly and ran for the entrance, heading straight for the receptionist's desk.

'A man was just brought in in an ambulance,' he said quickly, his chest heaving. 'Sherlock Holmes, tall, gangly, thin, mop of dark brown curls. He had what we thought was the flu but it turned into confusion and disorientation and memory loss and I just – Where is he? I need to know if he's ok.'

The nurse didn't answer right away. She was too flabbergasted to answer. John found her idiocy unnecessary and unprofessional and he didn't want to deal with an idiot at the moment.

'WHERE IS HE?!' he screamed at her. 'TELL ME! TELL ME WHERE HE IS!'

The nurse jumped and was about to call security when Mycroft finally appeared and grabbed John around the middle and pulled him behind him.

'Excuse my friend's rather – enthusiastic and rude behaviour. You see, my little brother, his–' He paused, not really want to call them boyfriends (such a juvenile term) but not wanting to call them lovers either. '–romantic partner, was brought in not too long ago. We would greatly appreciate it if you could tell us where he is.'

The nurse swallowed and gave them Sherlock's room after a quick search on the computer. John apologised heavily before following Mycroft to the lift and up to Sherlock's room.

…::-::…

Sherlock Holmes hated this. The confusion, the searing pain, his befuddled mind. And then there was the sense that he was missing something. Something important. He was attached to all sorts of wires and tubes. Bleeping filled his ears and the smell of disinfectant masking death burned at his nostrils. He had a surge of déjà vu pass through him but dismissed it. It was too hot he decided. Why couldn't he stop shaking? Why had Mycroft sent him here? Did his overweight, sorry excuse of a brother hate him so much?

John stopped in the doorway. Sherlock looked almost as bad as he did after the first Moriarty incident. But this was somehow worse because this wasn't a physical ache; it was mental warfare and Sherlock was losing.

Mycroft walked right past him and to Sherlock's bedside. John let them be, let them talk and figure out where Sherlock was mentally. Sherlock wouldn't remember him anyway, and the ache in his chest at the thought nearly doubled him over in pain. He closed the door behind him and stumbled down the hall until his knees gave out and he collapsed in a heap, drawing his knees up close as the tears came once again.

'My?' Sherlock whispered meekly, gazing on at his brother through glazed eyes.

'Oh, little brother.' Mycroft collapsed by his bedside. 'You have to remember. You have to just try.'

'I can't,' he croaked.

'I know,' Mycroft sighed. That's what scared him.

John remained curled on the floor until a nurse passed by and found him.

'Sir? Sir are you alright?' John blinked and looked up, his vision blurry but he could make out the form of the nurse. A male nurse at that if his voice was anything to go by.

'The love of my life doesn't remember me,' he mumbled quietly.

'Oh. Well, we all feel like that so–'

'No, I mean he actually doesn't remember me. All memory of me is gone. Deleted. Just, erased.'

'Oh.' The nurse was stunned. 'Is he here now?'

John nodded. 'His brother is with him.'

'Shouldn't you be there too?'

'What's the point? He won't remember me. He won't appreciate my being there. He quite literally shoved me out of bed this morning because he didn't remember who I was.'

'Has this been going on for a while? The memory lapses?'

'No. It just cropped up this morning. And it was really severe too. Just out of the blue. First he was hot, then he was cold, then he was sick, then he was tired, and when he woke up he didn't remember me.'

'That's... strange.'

'Tell me about it,' John huffed.

'I still think you should be with him. You never know, sometimes if you're wearing something familiar or you smell familiar it might trigger a memory. Scent is a very powerful memory booster.'

John swallowed and nodded, holding out a hand.

'I'm John,' he said, wiping the tears from his eyes to finally see the male nurse.

'Rory,' the nurse smiled. 'So, where is the love of your life? I'll help you back.'

John smiled weakly and pointed down the hall, Rory supporting him along the way.

'John may come in and see you,' Mycroft said softly to his brother. 'Please be nice.' Sherlock simply scowled at his idiotic brother.

Rory opened the door and guided John inside. Even though he wasn't assigned to Sherlock he checked on him anyway.

'Hello Sherlock,' Rory smiled brightly. 'How are you feeling?' John grimaced slightly, expecting Sherlock to lay it on him, especially in such a distressed and confused state.

'How the hell do you think I'm feeling?!' Sherlock snapped. People were such idiots.

'Sherlock,' Mycroft scolded him.

'John explained everything,' Rory said calmly, grabbing Sherlock's chart and reading through it. 'Apparently you woke up with a fever, chills, and nausea. And somehow that turned to memory loss. Interesting.'

John gave Rory a surprised expression. How had he not cracked under Sherlock's tone? Even he had flinched slightly. Rory looked back at him and smirked.

'Got a snappy girl of my own back home,' he grinned. 'Grew up with her, classic love story, blah, blah, blah.'

Sherlock glared at the nurse. 'It would appear you had a fight with her earlier on. Yes. Classic love story,' he drawled.

'What's love without a few fights?' Rory shrugged. 'Life would be boring without them. And it was my fault anyway. I apologised. She'll thank me later.'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 'Aren't you curious to how I knew?'

'The wrinkles on my forehead?' Rory guessed. 'I know who you are, Mr Holmes. I'm not an idiot. I read John's blog, and I've visited your website as well. The Science of Deduction,' he grinned. 'I know your methods based on what John's written. But if you want to tell me what you see go right ahead. I welcome it.' He put Sherlock's chart down and adjusted his stance, crossing his arms as he awaited Sherlock to rattle off his deductions.

Sherlock's lips puckered. Blog? He pushed the thought aside. Too tempted to show off as he is a show off and that is what show offs do.

'Your stance is slightly slumped. It indicates stress. That added onto the fact there are exactly six bloodshot lines in your eyes indicates the stress is recent. You are glancing at the clock. Worried about what time you'll be back. Why are you so keen to get back? Well let's see. You smell strongly of woman's perfume. Therefore it belongs to someone you came in contact with today. Presumably by the strength of it someone you are close to. You have a slight bruise on your wrist. Perhaps where you hit something in frustration. Concluding, Rory Williams: you had a fight with the woman that you... love.' He then proceeded to have an immense coughing fit, struggling to even breathe after his rant. Though he couldn't help but notice the John Watson fellow looking on at him in a dazed amazement.

Rory paused to smell his scrubs before Sherlock launched into his coughing fit. He had been right. About everything. He launched back into hospital mode and tried to clear Sherlock's lungs so he could breathe properly. John ran forward as well, instinct kicking in over his fear of Sherlock not wanting his help. Sherlock gasped for air as both Rory and John examined him. His brother, who was suddenly very pale, was watching him carefully. John started panicking as Sherlock still struggled for breath. Acting purely on impulse he tilted Sherlock's head back, plugged his nose, and blew a large breath of air into his mouth.

You aren't gonna die on me today you pretentious fuck, John swore. Not from struggling to breathe. Not today, not ever.

Sherlock froze as he felt warm lips with a trace of familiarity buzzing through him. He began to breathe with more ease and the lips moved away. John pulled away, breathless. Rory was smirking at him and Mycroft just looked pale.

'What?' John asked.

'Indeed. What was that?' Sherlock questioned, brows knitting together.

'It was... CPR,' John stammered.

Sherlock snorted. 'CPR my arse!' he exclaimed. 'You kissed me!'

'Sherlock, if it was a kiss you would have known,' John scoffed, trying to play off the hurt. 'I gave you CPR because you couldn't breathe. Nothing more.' He looked up at Mycroft, pain in his eyes.

'Sherlock, perhaps you should rest,' Mycroft suggested.

'No!' Sherlock snapped. 'Not until I have talked to... John?' The man's name came out of his lips as a question.

John looked up expectantly. 'Yes,' he whispered. 'Yes, that's me.'

Sherlock nodded. 'I just need some answers. So can everyone just scootch?' He glanced up at John. He had a friendly sort of face even if Sherlock didn't recognise it.

Rory nodded and led Mycroft from the room, leaving Sherlock and John alone. John's heart was pounding much too fast but he took a deep breath to steady himself. He stayed quiet, knowing Sherlock would want to be the first to speak.

'Who are you? I don't mean your name or what your job is. I mean to me. Who are you John Watson?' Sherlock stared at the older man intensely.

'That's going to take some time to answer,' John breathed, staring intently at Sherlock.

Sherlock grabbed the man's wrist. 'Tell me. Now,' he demanded. John gulped at Sherlock's forcefulness. That was one thing he didn't miss when he and Sherlock became friends.

'At first I was your flatmate. A mutual friend, Mike Stamford, introduced us. We became somewhat friends after our first night together and it took us a while to become real friends. But we did. And then–' He paused. Did Sherlock really want to know everything? The tug on his wrist to continue told him yes.

'Then... things developed further. I... I... developed... feelings... for you. But I didn't do anything about it because I know how much you detest sentiment. One night you got high, some homemade drug that made you see fairies. You... you told me you loved me, so I told you the same. We fought, you got sick, I put you to bed and you asked me to stay. So I did. And in the morning... the drug had a rather unexpected side effect.' John gulped again.

'We... Well, to put it mildly, we shagged like rabbits and we professed our love for each other and then we shagged some more.' He paused, waiting for Sherlock's reaction.

Sherlock searched the stranger's face to see if he was lying. He wasn't. He chuckled despite the situation not being even the slightest bit funny. 'That was putting it mildly?'

'For me, yeah,' John smirked. 'Sorry.' Sherlock shook his head and laughed. It hurt to laugh but it felt so good at the same time.

'It's fine.' He loosened his grip on John's wrist, only holding it loosely now. 'It's all fine.'

John almost wept at those words. They were exactly what he'd said to Sherlock that first night at Angelo's. Did Sherlock have some lingering memory? He pushed it aside to continue his story, only slightly noticing Sherlock was still holding onto his wrist.

'Well, after that we went to work on a case. I'm kind of your assistant. There was a triple homicide and all the victims looked like me. Which was more than a bit not good. It was Moriarty, your greatest nemesis, and he was after you again. Going through me once again. The last time he strapped a vest wired with Semtex to me and threatened to blow me up.

'This time you didn't tell me what was going on, but I already knew. A fellow cop told me about the pattern and I knew. You took me home and we shagged again and you were gone when I woke up. You had gone to your brother's, surprising I know, to get me protection but it didn't go as planned. Mycroft had been attacked but he wasn't too damaged. I called you and got you home, trying to... to give you a blow job to distract you, but your emotions got in the way. We had a row, you stormed out, I broke down, and Moriarty showed up. Took me hostage, called you, and you ran back only to get beaten to a pulp by his henchman.' John sniffed and swallowed down the tears.

'They left after that, Moriarty telling you he owed you a fall. I got you to the hospital, you had surgery, and we cried when you regained consciousness. I stayed with you the entire time, never leaving your side except when your brother arrived. I trusted him. Later I... I actually finished that blow job I rudely interrupted at the flat and we got scolded by a nurse.' John smirked at the memory.

'We got you transferred out and we went to a safe house. Your childhood home. We were there for a week before all this happened. And now you're all caught up.' He looked up at Sherlock, not wanting to make any sudden moves in case it caused Sherlock to release his hold on his wrist. The touch was comforting, giving John hope that his Sherlock was still in there.

Sherlock licked his lips in thought. 'What is wrong with me?' he questioned softly. 'I can't remember life past the manor house. I don't feel too good either. The nurses won't tell me.' He scowled. 'People are stupid.'

'I honestly don't know what's wrong with you Sherlock, and that's what kills me,' John sighed. 'I'm a doctor, it's my job to take care of people, but I can't take care of you. And it physically pains me to see you like this.'

Sherlock smirked. 'I can see what the old me saw in you. You're loyal. I like that.' He ran his fingertips along John's wrist, noting the rapid pulse rate. 'You wanted to kiss me before. Didn't you? I could sense it.'

'That isn't the old you, Sherlock, this version of you is,' John frowned. 'I know my Sherlock is in there somewhere, I just need to figure out how to get you back.'

John stumbled on his words at Sherlock's question though. 'I-I-I...' he gulped, nearly choking on the 'yes' that bubbled up from his chest. 'Yes, I did, but I knew you wouldn't want me to so I didn't after giving you CPR and saving your life. You're welcome, by the way.'

'We could always try,' Sherlock mused. 'I can't remember kissing anyone before. I want to know what it feels like. Plus, you're quite handsome when you're not pinning me to a bed.' He blushed bright red. 'I meant earlier. I can remember you... I didn't mean...' He groaned.

'Shush love,' John whispered, pressing a finger to Sherlock's lips. 'I know what you meant.' He turned his wrist so he was palm to palm with Sherlock, not really holding his hand but giving Sherlock the option if he so wished. He removed his finger from Sherlock's lips and plucked a stray curl off his forehead, resting his fingers gingerly on Sherlock's jaw.

'I would love to kiss you again, I really would. But I want you to be sure.' His heart thundered in his chest as he leaned closer. 'Are you sure you want this?'

Sherlock's heart raced alongside John's. 'I'm not sure of anything anymore,' he said in a hushed tone.

'Then let me ask you this: do you want to kiss me?' John asked in a hushed tone as well, his eyes searching Sherlock's. For what he didn't know, but a smile pulled at the corner of his lip as he saw Sherlock's pupils dilate slightly.

Sherlock moaned pitifully. 'Of that I am certain,' he replied.

'Alright then,' John smiled. He leaned closer, the fingers on Sherlock's jaw snaking around to hold the back of his head, tangling in his curls. He was so close now, Sherlock's breath mixing with his own. He closed his eyes and leaned in the rest of the way, their lips connecting in a soft kiss. John's lips were soft, his lips were welcoming, and most of all his lips were home. He groaned and nipped at the lower lip as instinct told him to. His blood rushed south and pooled into his groin. He paused, not terribly used to that feeling.

'Something wrong?' John asked, his eyes hazy from the little love bite. His gaze saw the tent forming between Sherlock's legs and he smiled. 'That's right, you haven't had one of those yet,' he mused. 'Well, I'll say again what I said the first time: I can help you with that.' He smirked but made no move to do anything in case Sherlock blanched.

'John, this is too fast.' Sherlock poked his arousal as though it would just magically disappear. He frowned. 'The kiss was nice though. I don't mean to shut you down.'

'Alright, I understand,' John let go of Sherlock's hair and backed off. 'But that isn't going to go away on its own. You either have to wank it away or think of something utterly disgusting in order to kill it.'

He liked the kiss! John screamed mentally to himself. Maybe my Sherlock is still in there!

Hmm, Sherlock thought, closing his eyes. He shifted through memories. When he hit a particular one where he found a site called tumblr which supported Mystrade he shuddered at the thought of his brother shagging a cop. However, then the memory of discovering Johnlock invaded his mind and of course the fan art. His eyes popped open and he moaned loudly. All he had to do was grab his arousal and he came, much to his embarrassment.

John watched with amazement as Sherlock's entire body shook. In his mind that was the first orgasm of his life, but to John it was a beautiful sight to see.

'How do you feel after that?' he asked, his voice thick with his own arousal. Sherlock wrinkled up his nose. His cheeks were powdered with red.

'Sticky,' he supplied. 'And completely fantastic.'

John smiled. 'Good, that's how you're supposed to feel.' He searched around for a flannel to clean Sherlock. 'As for the sticky part, this should help with that.' He handed him the flannel, not wanting to ask if he could help him clean up.

'Avert your eyes soldier,' Sherlock joked mildly, trying to hide his shyness with humour. John smiled and about-faced, staring at the wall, standing ram-rod straight. His smiled widened when he remembered not too long ago that they had been playing Captain and Soldier.

'It's Captain, actually,' he said to the wall. 'Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.'

Sherlock chuckled as he cleaned himself up. 'Captain it is,' he grinned. It felt right to laugh and joke around with John but that rightness only lasted for a millisecond before he realised that he really didn't know the man at all. He sighed heavily. 'You know, I hate authority. I hope you're not going to be ordering me around. You'll severely regret it if you do.'

'You weren't complaining last night, Private,' John smirked before he realised what he said. 'Oh shit. Sorry, sorry. God, you don't remember that. Fuck. Just... forget that I said that. Don't... don't hate me for saying that. Please.' He ran his hands over his face, still facing the wall, not only because Sherlock hadn't told him it was ok to turn around but also because he didn't want to face the shock and confusion he knew would be on Sherlock's face.

'You can turn around now, John,' Sherlock said in a low, thought-filled voice. His brow was creased in concentration. He let his cobalt blue eyes flicker over to John. 'I'm not the same man, John. I may look like him but I don't have any of his memories. I can't recall anything. Even the details you've informed me of don't fit within my mind.' His eyebrows scrunched together. 'You must have changed him somewhat for him to go from me to a caring man who would partake in such activities. For me love is a foreign concept and you must forgive me for that.'

John swallowed and nodded, slowly turning to face Sherlock.

'You were an arrogant sod for quite some time when we first met, much like you are now.' He smirked despite himself. 'I'm not entirely sure what I did to change you from that into the man you grew into, one who cared about me and loved me, but I think it started after our first case together. I shot the culprit for you, because you were being an idiot and were about to take a damn suicide pill. But I shot him, saved your life, and I think you saw me in a whole new light after that.

'Your mannerisms didn't change much, you still ran experiments in our kitchen and kept body parts in the fridge with our food, but you acted different around me. Of course, you reverted back into your old self when Lestrade or Mycroft was around, but with me it was different. We were actually able to hold conversations about timing, respecting people's privacy no matter what you deduced about them, and a few times I managed to take you out to dinner without it becoming a complete disaster.'

He looked up at Sherlock with tear filled eyes. 'You always said love was a dangerous disadvantage, that sentiment was a chemical defect found in the losing side. But for the past week you've been on the losing side and I don't think you minded all that much. Because you were with me and I made you happy, a better man, and that was all that mattered. So forgive me if I don't give up hope that the Sherlock I fell in love with might come back to me one day.'

Sherlock's heart sank like a stone in his chest. 'I wouldn't want you to.' He shook his scraggly curls. 'You seem like a nice man. A genuinely nice human being. They're quite rare to come across, you know. I don't doubt that we had something, I don't doubt that we could regain what we had. However, I am high in doubt about whether or not I can be enough for you now. You'll get bored of me or your life will move in a new direction. You'll leave like everyone else in my life has chosen to.'

'Sherlock, I have been in your life for the better part of a year. I'm not about to leave you now, not when you need me more than ever.' He risked approaching him and took Sherlock's hand in his and squeezed it lightly. 'You said yourself that I'm loyal, and I am not going to leave you. Not now, not ever.'

Sherlock stared at John's hand with huge eyes. 'John–' He shivered as the coolness of the older man's touch penetrated through his fever. 'I don't feel too well.' His stomach clenched nastily and his breathing stuttered slightly. 'I feel even worse than when they first brought me in. I–' He grunted, shutting his eyes tightly, swallowing down hard on the rising bile.

John released Sherlock's hand and offered him, as the hospitals so eloquently put it, the Barf Bucket, standing by in case Sherlock should need him. Sherlock began to throw up and oh boy did he throw up. It was disgusting. It smelt wretched and left an odd sort of taste in his mouth. Even after he'd stopped his stomach still felt awful.

'Oh love,' John said under his breath, smoothing Sherlock's curls off his clammy forehead. He went to the sink to get a glass of water, trading Sherlock the bucket for it. He opened the door and handed it to Rory, who was surprisingly still there.

'How's he doing?' Rory asked, taking the bucket without question.

'Not so good. But at least we had a somewhat civil conversation.' John closed the door and turned back to Sherlock who looked pale and frail and scared in the hospital bed.

Sherlock sipped at the water. It didn't help his queasiness in the least but it washed the vile taste in his mouth away. His hands were shaking. He felt weak and tired and hot and sick. And the worst part about that was that he couldn't make sense of how he got in this situation in the first place.

John returned to Sherlock's bedside, pulling up a chair to sit. 'I wish there was more I could do,' he said softly. 'But until your tests come back we're both in the dark.'

'I haven't felt this ill since–' He stopped mid sentence, unsure of if he should continue or of how much John knew of his past.

'I'm not completely in the dark about your past, Sherlock,' John said. 'The darkest thing I've learned so far is what your father did to you. I've seen the scars, both physical and mental, but I'm still not going to leave you.' He rested a hand on Sherlock's sheets. 'But I don't want to pressure you into telling me something you're not comfortable talking about.'

Sherlock shifted, taking on a distant and defensive demeanor. He narrowed his eyes. 'Oh, so I told you about the night he chucked me in the cellar and kept me in there over night? My mother and brother were too idiotic to see why I was always sick. They seemed ignorant to the fact that I was forced to sleep in the cold and the damp. Or maybe they weren't ignorant. Maybe they were just indifferent. Yes, maybe they didn't hear my screams at night from where his fists pounded into my flesh. Maybe they didn't notice my tears or maybe they thought I had something silly like hay fever. Did I tell you about the drugs? The crime I got into because I was sick of being cooped up in a house, restricted by rules that my own father broke? Did I? How well did you know me? Do you even know that... that...' Any normal person would be crying heavily by now but Sherlock stayed completely emotionless. The only emotion showing was pure rage.

'I know about the drugs, but as for everything else...' John paused. Sherlock had made his past with his father seem like it was all simply beatings. He hadn't mentioned torture or being forced to sleep in the cellar, sick and scared and alone. He couldn't believe a small boy had had to go through all that, and that he had resorted to drugs and crime in order to escape. But escape he did.

'It's true that I don't know much about you, but that's just how our relationship has worked. You would read everything there was to know about me and I would get minimal information in return. And I was fine with that, I still am, because I know you don't like to talk about your past and I respect that. I don't delve, I don't pry. I just accept you for who you are, flaws and all.'

He stopped and looked at Sherlock, his eyes bright. 'If you want, go ahead and deduce me. I know you want to, and it's comforting for you, so go ahead and lay it on me. I didn't run the first time and I certainly won't run now.'

Sherlock concentrated for a long while, his lips puckered, his face creased. His eyes widened as his mind was filled with blanks and question marks. 'I can't – I don't understand. I can't read you.' He began to panic, his pupils dilated in fear. 'Why is that? I made a perfectly good deduction about that stupid nurse earlier. So why is it, John Watson, that my mind simply refuses to soak in any detail about you but at the same time is screaming at me to touch you, to kiss you? Why?' He yanked his hair down hard.

'Maybe because, deep down, you remember everything about me. You just have to dig in your mind palace to find it.' He grasped Sherlock's wrists and eased them from his hair. 'As far as the touching and kissing bit, that's probably because, once again, my memory is still in there and you miss my touch and my lips on yours. I certainly miss your touch and kisses. You're a fantastic kisser, by the way.' He gave Sherlock a small smile.

Sherlock laughed lightly and hummed. 'You're not terribly bad yourself.' He gazed upon John with the curiosity of a small child. 'May I?' he asked, reaching a hand towards John's scruffy mop of blonde hair.

'Please,' John smiled. 'Go right ahead.' John's hair was rough and course in Sherlock's hands. He twirled his fingers through it and smiled.

'Did he do this?' he asked sincerely, noting the way John practically purred.

'Yes, you did,' John hummed, leaning into Sherlock's touch. Sherlock moved his fingers about so they were carefully gliding over John's cheeks.

What about this?' he questioned.

John closed his eyes and purred. 'Sometimes, yes.'

'Interesting,' Sherlock supplied. 'Was he rough with you? Or gentle?' He ran his fingers to the underside of John's jaw.

'Both, depending on the situation,' John answered honestly.

'Not too rough I hope,' Sherlock whispered softly. 'You're a very pretty man.'

'No, not too rough,' John hummed. 'Although you did particularly enjoy spanking me once.'

Sherlock flushed a deep red. 'Really?' He paused in thought. 'Hardly surprising though.'

'Why's that?'

Sherlock laughed bitterly. 'Like father like son.'

John froze. 'That's not true.' He scowled. 'You never intentionally hurt me, not for pleasure. Everything was consensual, never against my will.' He grabbed Sherlock's face, running his thumbs across his cheeks.

'You are not your father, Sherlock. You never were and you never will be.'

Sherlock melted into John's touch. He glanced up at John, nodding. 'Does Mycroft know about my father? Have you told him? Or have I told him? Not that he'd particularly care either way.'

'As far as I know, Mycroft doesn't know. You didn't tell him, and it isn't my place to tell him. And you shouldn't underestimate your brother. He cares for you, whether he shows it or not.'

'My brother does not care. My brother has never cared,' Sherlock grunted.

'Your brother was the one who took care of us when Moriarty threatened us. He visited you in the hospital, at your request I might add. And when this memory loss hit he was at the house in less than an hour, an ambulance following behind him.' He forced Sherlock to look at him. 'You might not remember any of it, but your brother was there for you in your time of need. He even let me cry on his shoulder on the way here today. He may not show it often enough, but your brother does care.'

'Then why did he leave me alone?' Sherlock said in a small voice. 'He left to become the government and he never came back. Father was even more irate with Mycroft out of the picture. Whatever he does now won't make up for that.'

'I'm afraid I can't answer that,' John said morosely. He brushed Sherlock's hair from his forehead, petting him soothingly. 'But he's here now, and so am I. And I'll take care of you to the best of my ability. I promise.'

Sherlock's lips quivered into a small smile. 'For that I am forever grateful.' John smiled softly back. He continued to stroke Sherlock's hair, his other hand reaching for one of Sherlock's.

'I'll stay as long as you want me to. I'm not going to leave you, and even if you want me to I'm going to stay. I made a promise to you, a promise of always and forever, for all eternity. And I don't intend on breaking that promise anytime soon.'

Sherlock snorted. 'You make our relationship sound like a marriage.'

'We... We're actually engaged,' John said softly.

Sherlock sank deeper into the hospital bed. 'My head's spinning with all this information,' he groaned loudly.

'Okay, I'll stop,' John sighed. He let go of Sherlock's hand and stopped petting his hair. It took a lot of willpower to do so. 'Is there... Can I get you anything? Make you more comfortable?'

'Sleep,' he smiled gently. 'I just need some sleep.'

'Okay,' John smiled softly. 'I'll... I'll stay here, if you don't mind. Would you like your brother? Never mind. I know you don't.'

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in bed. 'I don't like it when people watch me sleep.'

'Oh,' John frowned, dropping his gaze. 'What if... what if I just turned my back and didn't look at you? Or can I not be in the room at all?'

'John.' Sherlock's voice was strained. 'I'm not going anywhere and I just want some peace. Besides you kind of look like shit. Get a coffee or something. Eat.'

'You haven't changed a bit,' John smiled. 'Okay. You rest, I'll eat.' He was torn between kissing him on the forehead or leaving awkwardly. He was caught between the two so he just sort of stood there awkwardly with his lips pursed.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 'Why are you looking so perplexed?'

'I... I don't know if it's alright if I can give you comforting kisses anymore,' John answered honestly. 'The last time this happened I gave you small kisses before I left to get food, but now–'

'Now you don't know whether I'm going to bite your head off or not about things like this.' Sherlock exhaled. 'You could of course try it out. I give you permission.'

John approached slowly, reaching out for one of Sherlock's hands. The touch calmed him, and he reached out to stroke Sherlock's face with his fingertips. He licked his lips as he leaned in closer, his heart pounding in anticipation and fear. He slowly brought his lips to Sherlock's in a soft kiss and instantly melted against the man, his lips warm and familiar. The kiss was soft but chaste and left Sherlock feeling hot, flustered, and even more confused.

John broke the kiss and rested his forehead against Sherlock's. 'So... Um... Yeah,' he stammered awkwardly. 'I'll eat, you sleep. Ok?'

'Right, er, yeah,' Sherlock muttered under his breath with just as equal awkwardness.

'Is there– Can I– Do– I'll just... go,' John stammered, trying not to rush out the door and slam it behind him. He propped himself against it, trying to steady his breathing. He shooed Rory away, explaining that Sherlock just wanted to rest, and where was Mycroft?

'The café,' Rory explained. 'He only left a few minutes ago so you should be able to find him.'

'A tall ginger man in a suit? Yeah, he'll be pretty easy to find,' John smiled. 'Thanks.' Rory nodded and walked away, but he would probably be back to check on Sherlock, possibly even try to get himself on the duty roster for him.

John pushed himself off the door and walked to the lift, going to the first level to get some food. Mycroft was already there, and they ate and drank in a peaceful yet awkward and strained silence.

Mycroft was the one to break the silence. 'You're not telling me something,' he stated. 'Tell me.'

'What's to tell?' John said morosely, stabbing his fork into his oatmeal rather harshly. 'We talked, I told him who I was to him, it was heated, it was awkward, it was fine.'

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. 'Fine?' He leant back in his chair. 'What did you discuss? It's important that you tell me. We could be missing an important part to the puzzle. Now is not the time for your loyalty to my baby brother. Loyalty might get him killed.'

'He doesn't remember life past the manor house,' John sighed. 'He remembers you leaving to become the government, he remembers your parents, but he doesn't remember 221B or Mrs Hudson or the cases or even me. However, when I asked him to deduce me he couldn't. I was just a big blank to him.'

John looked up at Mycroft and sighed. 'And if you must know he allowed me to kiss him, twice.'

Mycroft's eyes widened uncharacteristically. 'He talked about mother and father and me?' he said, his voice unsteady. 'That is most unusual. The kissing not so much. If he was attached to you romantically before all this then it's likely his subconscious is remembering you.'

'He mostly talked about... your father,' John said, not wanting to give anything away in case Mycroft really didn't know. 'And I made the same assumption about his subconscious as well. He said that his mind was screaming at him to touch me, kiss me, but he couldn't remember anything about me that would explain why.'

Mycroft paled and licked his lips. 'What exactly did he say about our father?'

'I... I'd rather not say. He told me in confidence, both before this all happened and a few moments ago. And if you knew–' John broke off, actually managing to bend his fork it was so cheaply made. 'Did you? Did you know what your father did to him, put him through his entire childhood? And you did nothing?'

'How much does he remember?' Mycroft asked, his voice like venom. Mycroft Holmes was not the type of man to cry but in that moment a single tear rocketed down his cheek.

'Everything, Mycroft,' John spat. 'He remembers everything. Constantly being sick, and cold, and alone. The fear, the pain, the never knowing if he would survive the night. And then when you and your mother did nothing to help, that he remembers with absolute clarity.'

'Then he hasn't told you everything,' Mycroft whispered, lower lip trembling, entire body shaking, on the verge of more tears that were threatening to fall.

'Well then what am I missing Mycroft?' John demanded, his anger blinding him from seeing Mycroft's emotions. 'Because he made it pretty clear that you two were ignorant of everything he was going through. So, tell me, what am I missing that will make this all okay?'

'Sherlock wasn't the only one that my father hurt!' Mycroft exclaimed, flying to his feet so that he was now looming over John. 'He hurt us all. Me, Sherlock, and my mother. We weren't ignorant, we were powerless. I was seven when he started getting nasty – a boy! When I was old enough to understand what was going on, what power he held over us all, I tried to stop him. He was bigger than me, stronger, and when I started standing up for myself he just knocked me back down and he would pound his fists into my chest. He didn't care how badly he hurt us, he didn't care for anything.' He began pounding his fists into the table with brute force. His knuckles turned red raw as he continued to hit it. Tears were rolling down his face. He wasn't crying because he was weak. He was crying because he'd been strong for far too long.

John flinched back. He had his suspicions that their father had harmed them all, but what surprised him was Mycroft's emotions. He'd never seen him cry before, let alone yell in anguish. John was torn between giving the man a hug or being so utterly angry at him for not doing anything after he'd escaped. Why didn't he report his father for child abuse or domestic violence?

In the end he stood up and led Mycroft from the café, sitting him down on a bench and rubbing his back soothingly.

'I'm sorry, I didn't know,' he said softly. 'But after you left, why didn't you report him for the domestic violence or child abuse? Why didn't you do something?'

'I was young and scared without any power. Father was a powerful man. He had many contacts. He said that he would make my life misery if I didn't leave things the hell alone.' Mycroft's face crumpled. 'And so for the first three years I did. I knew I was an idiot, that I should have sought out help. He still terrified me. However, I then came into a far higher power than my father. My contacts reached further than his did. I came back and I made sure he was severely punished. I had him imprisoned for life. I told my mother and Sherlock that he died via heart attack, not that they particularly cared. However by this time the damage had been done and Sherlock was a changed person.'

'So... your father isn't dead?' John asked. 'Sherlock... I told him I wanted to hunt down whoever hurt him, make him feel the pain Sherlock had felt. But he told me he was dead, but he appreciated the offer. And even now, I still want to hunt that fucker down and make him pay, for what he did to your family, but it seems you've done that already. To an extent.'

John paused, his heart beating rapidly in his chest. He wasn't sure what else to say. What did one say in situations like this? He felt as clueless as Sherlock did in normal social situations. His hand never stilled in rubbing Mycroft's back, the motion comforting for them both.

Mycroft's phone gave out a shrill ring, interrupting the emotional moment. 'Excuse me. The work never stops in my line of duty.' He smiled apologetically at John, raising the phone to his ear and answering.

'He's escaped–'

Those were the only words Mycroft needed to hear. He knew who 'he' was. His heart shuddered in his chest and his skin crawled with fear and anger. 'How?' he questioned.

'We don't know. It would seem he had outside contacts still.'

'I see.' His voice trembled. 'And who was on security when he escaped?'

'Jenkins.'

'Ensure that he is fired,' Mycroft snarled down the phone. 'He no longer works for me. Do you understand?'

'Yes sir.'

Mycroft hung the phone up and ran a hand along his tired and warn features. 'Oh John,' he sighed in a terribly defeated tone of voice. 'Our troubles have only just begun.'


So apparently I didn't edit this completely before I sent it to my RP partner to read over, so I had to edit it all over again before I posted this. 22 pages of editing the transcript thing I use for this. Gah. I'm an idiot. Oh well. I'll do my best to get out again next Monday. Try to get an earlier start too. And I'll make sure my chapter is properly edited before I try to post it.

Have a nice week! See you next Monday.

TSA + IB