Slightly short chapter, I think, but one of my favourites so far. Sorry the update took so long - internet troubles. I'm behind on my writing, so the next chapter may be a while away... hopefully this will be enough to keep you interested ;)

For the first time in a while, the flat was silent. Save for the occasional squeak of a chair, or the clearing of a throat, not a word was exchanged between the two men. The air was still, but it was not a peaceful silence, and Sherlock was itching for something to be said. His teeth bore down on the inside of his bottom lip, gnawing relentlessly, and his fingers drummed out a compulsive rhythm on the leather arm rest. Punctuated only by the sounds of John idly turning the page of his newspaper, this was the soundtrack that had descended on Baker Street after Dr Franklin had departed. In some ways, Sherlock wished he would have stayed a little longer. Not for the pleasure of his company, but to save him from this need of conversation. John seemed perfectly happy, however, eyes skimming the latest news with interest. It was almost like before, Sherlock mused. John in his chair, newspaper in hand, looking for the latest cases they could fixate over and Sherlock perched in front of him, impatient and waiting. Only one thing was missing, it seemed.

"Would you like some tea?" Sherlock blurted, his voice shockingly loud in the silence. Startled, John looked up in alarm and Sherlock closed his mouth quickly. "It's fine if you don't." he amended, fingers working into the fabric of his trousers.

"Actually, I-"

"I just thought you might be thirsty, you haven't had a drink yet, not since at the hospital I doubt. Sorry, I shouldn't have mentioned the hospital, pretend I didn't say that."

"Yes, that'd be-"

"Or any food, for that matter. Are you hungry?"

"Sherlock." John voice cut through Sherlock's firmly. The detective glanced at him in shock, fully prepared to encounter anger, but saw only amusement dancing on John's face. His lips were curved into a small smile, and the newspaper was folded on his lap.

"Sorry." Sherlock replied, "I'm just a little…" he trailed off, eyes flickering past space around John's head - never quite meeting his gaze.

"I know," John supplied, and Sherlock felt a surge of gratitude towards him. Thank you for understanding, he thought, thankyouthankyouthankyou. "Tea would be lovely." Sherlock moved towards the kitchen, long legs making short work of the journey, and John heard the calming sound of the kettle boiling and drinks being prepared. He settled back into his chair – no, the chair, not his chair, and stretched his leg out in front of him, sighing as the muscles relaxed into the warmth the fire was emitting. With a small sigh, his gaze wandered around the flat, taking in the neat stacks of books and sparkling windows. Someone obviously took good care of the place.

Sherlock hopped around the kitchen, arms moving in double speed as he grabbed 2 mugs (John's favourite, of course, the army one with the crest on the front) and started splashing milk into both of them. His foot tapped impatiently on the floor as the kettle took it's time to heat up, and he was hit again with a strong sense of nostalgia as the sight of John sat comfortably in his chair crossed his vision. Blinking away a surplus surge of joy, he threw in 2 teabags and haphazardly filled them with water. No sugar for John, two sugars for himself. Giving them both a quick stir, grasping the handles and taking a deep, calming breath, he wandered back over to the fireplace and placed John's cup on the table beside him. Glancing up, John nodded in thanks.

"Uh, I probably should have said, I don't take-"

"I know," Sherlock replied. "No sugar." He sat down opposite, taking a scorching sip, and relaxed back into the soft leather.

"It's good." John remarked, licking his lips.

"Thanks." They returned to their business, the silence noticeably more relaxed now that both were in the presence of a hot beverage. John watched the curls of steam rising steadily from the mug that rested on his knee, as they twisted and faded into the air. He stared at the dark liquid, radiating heat from its porcelain prison, and cast his eyes to the design on the side. It was a crest of some kind, red with angry twists of green and ornate gold. It depicted a snake twisted around a pole, surrounded by a wreath and topped with a golden crown, embellished with a Latin phrase below it. John frowned, holding it up to eye height. Above the surface, he could see Sherlock look up at him sharply and place his own mug hastily on the table, fingers twisting together anxiously. He paid no attention, and instead focussed again on the Latin. In Arduis Fidelis, it read, and something in the back of John's mind gave a painful twinge. Swallowing hard, he racked his brains for some connection to the phrase, filtering through the mass of information dumped haphazardly in his conscience.

"Faithful in Adversity," he mumbled, mind working on autopilot as it pulled the translation from deep in the no man's land of John's memories. He saw Sherlock give a sharp jerk of his head, followed by a feeble attempt to gain John's attention. Sherlock clapped his hands together, forcing himself to smile widely.

"Are you hungry, John?" He didn't answer. Instead he squeezed shut his eyes, almost willing the memory to take over. Curiosity burned in his stomach, and it was a moment before John felt the familiar rush of the past taking over.

"John, don't-" Sherlock started, leaning forward in his chair. His eyes were wide and wild with nerves.

For John, he was no longer in Baker Street. He'd let the images wash over him, flashing across his eye lids in rapid concession: shots of sandy land that he immediately recognised as the battle field, cramped living quarters full of big, burly men and the searing heat of the Afghanistan sun. None of this was new, though. He'd been through it all with Franklin. What he really wanted, what John craved, was something new and exciting - just one new memory, even a small one, fitting into place and proving to himself that he was getting better. Come on, John thought at himself, nothing to give me? After a moment's hesitation, his brain responded in kind with an onslaught of images, fast and furious. John's eyes clenched against them, flickering rapidly under his closed lids. Still nothing of interest. More scenery (London now, mixed with flashbacks of Afghan) with softly spoken snippets of conversation to go with them.

Welcome to the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, Captain Watson….Grenade! Get down!...Seen a lot of violent deaths, then?...Want to see some more?

John slammed on the breaks, halting the images with a surprised huff of breath. He rewound the mental film, pausing on a still of…well, exactly where he was now. John, looking younger and much healthier than he did now, sat in the same chair, with the same stick by his side. John moved to the side of the picture, noticing the coat-clad figure just behind him. It was Sherlock. Standing tall in a long, black coat and tightly fitting shirt, John could hear the echoes of his voice. You're an army doctor, they sang and John flinched as his brain twanged with pain and…something else as well. Something akin to pain, but not nearly as horrendous – something thoroughly addictive. John shook it off, focussing on Sherlock. Without so much as a prod, the image moved on, fading back into the darkness, only to be replaced with a series of shots of 2 men – always the same two, but in different settings and different situations. John frowned, the cup in his hand completely forgotten. It was him, he realised with a start. And… Sherlock Holmes. Together. The images continued to fly by, each one so similar to the other, and John had a hard time catching his breath. Stolen glances, one staring intently at the other, John reaching out to grab Sherlock's arm, Sherlock reaching out to grip John's wrist, racing through London hand in hand, sitting in Baker Street (tea in hand) smiles on their faces, eyes only for each other - his throat closed up and he forced out a cough to clear it, his brain aching with the force of emotions tumbling through him. Anger, pain, joy and – John coughed again. It was that feeling again. The same he got when they made eye contact, or brushed hands accidently or trailed off and just stared at each other. And, frankly, John was getting extremely nervous about it. It blazed trails of fire through his insides, squeezing at his heart and chest and making him short of breath. Hot bursts of pain radiated through his skull, and he dropped his cup of tea with a rattling intake of breath. From somewhere beyond his internal torment, he heard Sherlock give a surprised cry and felt him lunge to ground beside him.

"John!" the voice was muffled, almost as if he'd been submerged, but the anguish in Sherlock's voice was like a hook in John's throat – he was yanked from the memory abruptly, his brain being silenced by the insistent shaking at his shoulders. He opened his eyes, hands shaking. His breath came in short rasps, and he was greeted with a pair of large, deep blue eyes staring straight through him.

"I'm okay," John sighed, both in reassurance of himself and in reply to Sherlock's shout. Sherlock stared at him doubtfully, mind racing.

"Are you sure? I'm sorry, I shouldn't have given you the mug, but it's one of your favourites and I-"

"What were we, Sherlock?" John interrupted, voice cutting through Sherlock's sharp and to the point. The detective froze, eyes widening.

"What do you mean?" he asked, his voice hoarse and slightly deeper than usual.

"I mean what I said," John replied, temper flaring. He was sick of this – sick of being left out of everything, deemed too weak and volatile to know anything. He'd proven himself, though – he could find things out on his own. He was strong enough. "What were we Sherlock? Or, actually, should I call you Mr Holmes? Because I definitely don't know you right now, but I get the feeling it was very different before." The strange emotion was gone now, completely dissipated along with the memories. The imprint of it, though, still lingered on John's mind and he found it fuelling his anger.

"John, don't- I don't know what to say." Sherlock said, trying to mask the fear that was evident in his voice.

"Just tell me, because I sure as fuck can't remember." Sherlock winced at the curse – swearing-John was not something he wanted to encounter right now. He thought for a moment, sitting back on his haunches and placing the fallen cup to the side. A tea-coloured stain was mottling the carpet, but that was the least of Sherlock's worries. After a moment, he spoke, but his voice was taut and barely controlled.

"We were friends."

"I don't believe you."

"John-"

"No, I don't believe you. Why don't I believe you?" John's voice rose an octave and he watched as Sherlock's face, pale and drawn, tightened discreetly.

"I don't know what to tell you, John." He said through gritted teeth. In that moment, John could've punched him.

"The truth, maybe?"

"That was the truth. We were friends - are friends. We were friends." He repeated, eyes pleading with John to just drop it.

John shook his head, a sardonic smile ghosting over his lips. He was skirting around the question, John realised – so, Sherlock didn't want to share. That was fine by him. He'd only just met the man, anyway.

"Okay. Okay, I need-" John drew in a deep breath, puffing out his cheeks on releasing it. "I need some air." Sherlock pressed his lips together, brow knitted together in frustration and concern. He'd made a mess of things again. But there was no way he could give John a straight answer. Friends is good – friends is enough, he thought, but his heart sank in his chest as John got steadily to his feet and strode out of the room. His stick lay abandoned on the floor beside his chair, knocked over by Sherlock in his haste to tend to John. Sherlock stared at it, hands resting empty and cold in his lap.