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John wasn't sure how he managed it but eventually he fell asleep again that night. He contributed it to complete physical exhaustion because his mind was running wild, preventing sleep for a very long time.
John was completely relived when Sherlock finally went back to sleep. After the kiss, Sherlock had thankfully been silent and had not tried to initiate any more physical affection. When he had begun to snore lightly, John had somehow managed to wiggle out from under him without waking him and making his way back to his own room.
When he got to his room, he collapsed on the bed, face first. He lay there a long time, anguish filling him but not having the strength to cry. John loved Sherlock, genuinely he did. He didn't love him in a romantic way, but he loved him like a friend, like a brother. He cared more deeply for him than anyone else he knew. He wanted Sherlock to be okay, to be well. And Sherlock was most certainly not well. John was fairly optimistic Sherlock could regain his memory but what happened if he did? If Sherlock remembered the abuse he'd suffered at Garret's hands now, what would he do? The only reason Sherlock had been able to get away from his grasp so long was that he had no idea where he was. Now that he did, would he go back to him? John wasn't sure how much help he would be to Sherlock if he had to face that scenario.
John had lay on his bed, mind troubled until light began to come through the window. It must have been just around dawn when he fell back asleep and was woken a few hours later. He had slept deeply, not moving any, causing his muscles to be sore when he woke up. John stretched his muscles and sat up on the bed, not feeling very rested but knowing he had to face the day anyway.
When John opened his bedroom door he heard the sound of cabinets and clattering dishes in the kitchen. Suddenly feeling unease at what Sherlock was doing in the kitchen, he sped up a little. When he got to the kitchen, he found Sherlock furious looking through the cabinets. The thought made John a little sad; Sherlock was obviously looking for something that he couldn't find in his own house. He didn't remember where anything was.
John stepped into the kitchen, taking note of what Sherlock was doing. He wanted to help him in a tactful way, knowing Sherlock wouldn't want to admit, even with memory loss, that he couldn't locate said item. John saw a mug and the sugar in front of Sherlock and made an educated guess. "Morning Sherlock…..why don't you sit down, let me make you some coffee. After all, this is your first morning back. Sit down, relax" John said pleasantly. Sherlock turned around; he seemed to understand what John was doing but he didn't comment on it. He gave a small smile as he sat down at the table. John fixed the coffee the way that Sherlock liked it, making some eggs and toast to go along with it. Sherlock took the coffee and tasted it gently, as if testing it; he smiled when he realized that John made it exactly the way that he liked. He drank the coffee gladly but looked at the food in disdain. "You can have that" Sherlock said, "I'm not much hungry today."
"You need to eat" John said. "You have to eat something." John hoped the tone he used would speak for itself; eat, or you'll have to go back to the hospital. "You don't have to eat it all, but some of it"
Sherlock looked at the food and then back at John. He seemed to be debating on whether or not to argue but he must have decided not to because he grabbed a piece of toast and began to eat it slowly. "You look tired" he commented absently.
John was tired; more tired than a night's rest could cure. "I haven't been sleeping well lately." John said vaguely.
"Nightmares" Sherlock said. It was a statement, not a question.
John nodded. "Yeah….nightmares." Not just his own but Sherlock's as well.
"Me too" Sherlock said. "I have nightmares every night….they wake me up, but I don't remember them"
That was a true blessing, John mused. John wished he could do the same. "I had a different dream last night….I felt like it was real but it couldn't be." Sherlock said.
John hoped it was another memory. "Why couldn't it be real?"
"It was of you….but you had a cane" Sherlock said. "And your leg is fine."
"I didn't used to be" John said. "When we first met I had a limp…..from the war"
Sherlock studied John, trying to figure something out. "Psychosomatic, obviously" he said.
John laughed. Sherlock was still himself sometimes. Of course it should be 'obvious' to Sherlock even with no evidence. "Yes….yes it was" he admitted. "So…what was the dream?"
"I dreamed you and I were at a crime scene in an abandoned house, examining a woman who was wearing the most alarming shade of pink" Sherlock said, scrunching his nose at it.
John laughed. "A study in pink" he said. "Our first case together."
"So it is real….a memory and not a dream" Sherlock mused.,
John nodded. "Yeah…it really happened…..this is good Sherlock. You're starting to remember things" John was both excited and alarmed by the idea.
Sherlock ate his food with mild disgust for a few minutes before he spoke again. "I don't really remember anything well from last night….why am I in different pyjamas?"
John shifted uncomfortably; the memory of last night, the nightmare, the bedwetting, the kiss…..
"You…..had a bit of a bad nightmare last night" John said cryptically. Sherlock was smart enough to figure it out himself. John could see Sherlock's face change uncomfortably as he came to the realization of what had happened. "Did I do anything…..embarrassing?" Sherlock asked. No doubt he knew from the hospital and what he had been told possibly that he had been having these sorts of dreams nearly every night.
John couldn't stop thinking about Sherlock kissing him and how much at unease it had put him. "No….it was no big deal, really Sherlock" John lied, making a show of shoving eggs into his mouth so that he didn't have to say anymore. He had to stop talking to so that he could try to forget it.
…
The rest of the day was spent quietly in the flat; Sherlock seemed to be uneasy, roaming the flat, picking up things and not spending much time with any of them. Books, experiments, papers; Sherlock would pick them up, examining them and then putting them down. John spent most of the time on his laptop, trying to appear busy but Sherlock's unrest made him restless. John tried to get Sherlock to watch telly (ridiculous of course) or to play chess with him but he wouldn't be persuaded. Eventually Sherlock decided on taking a bath and John was glad for a moment of peace; watching Sherlock pacing was exhausting.
John settled onto the couch for some crap telly; after he watched a few programs, though he began to worry. Sherlock had spent a long time in the bath; too long. Sherlock didn't take long baths, didn't bathe just for the enjoyment of it. Something was wrong. John stood up and made his way to the bathroom. "Sherlock….you okay in there?" he asked knocking at the door. There was no response.
"Sherlock…are you okay?" John asked. Still no answer. "If you don't answer, I'm going to have to come in there"
When Sherlock still didn't answer, John became extremely worried. Images of Sherlock passed out or bleeding on the floor came to his mind and he put all his weight on the door, trying to force it open. After quite a lot of slamming into it, he was able to get the door to open. John was thankful to see Sherlock was okay; he was wasn't lying dead on the bathroom floor. He was sitting in the tub, though the closer that John got, the more that he began to sense that Sherlock actually wasn't okay. He should be screaming at John for coming in and invading his privacy; he should be trying to cover himself up. But he wasn't; he wasn't even looking at John. He was staring straight ahead at the tub wall, eyes vacant. John was convinced that he must be having a flashback or something until he turned toward John when John knelt beside the tub. He stared at him, face fallen and his eyes sad.
"Sherlock…..are you alright?" John asked. "I kept calling, but you didn't answer. I started to get worried"
Sherlock stared at him for a moment before answering. "I'm starting to remember" he said. He said it was a slight tremor in his voice, as if it was the worst thing ever.
"But that's a good thing, Sherlock" John said. He couldn't understand why Sherlock was scared. Surely it had to be terrible to have forgotten the past few years like they never happened.
"No its not" Sherlock insisted.
"Why?" John asked. "Don't you want to remember?"
"No!" Sherlock said, his voice cracking. "I'm starting to remember you….this flat….little things we've done. And that's fine….but I don't want to remember the rest."
"The rest?" John asked.
Sherlock pulled at his hair as if John was the stupidest person he knew, which was probably what he was thinking. "If I remember, I have to remember what I did! All those people I hurt! I have to live with that! And…." Sherlock's lip quivered and John knew he was fighting to keep composure. "I have to remember how I was…..attacked."
John wished he hadn't said anything. He felt terrible; of course Sherlock didn't want to remember any of that. "Sherlock….." John started, but Sherlock cut him off.
"I don't want to talk about it….." Sherlock said. "Just leave….." He pulled his knees up and rested his head on them.
John got up and slowly walked to the door. "You can talk to me if you change your mind" he said quietly before leaving the room. He knew Sherlock wouldn't want to be pushed, and really he didn't want to talk about the attack either. He didn't want Sherlock to catch any notion that John already knew who his attacker was or that Sherlock himself already knew his attacker.
…
Sherlock, unsurprisingly, stayed to himself the rest of the day. He stayed in his room, doing what, John didn't know. John made tea as an excuse to get Sherlock to open his bedroom door; Sherlock took the tea and quickly shut the door. John was glad at least that he knew that he wasn't doing something dangerous.
John went to bed early, being tired from the previous night. He left his bedroom door open again, praying Sherlock might not need him tonight. John collapsed on the bed and instantly fell asleep.
When he woke a few hours later to the sound of screaming, he wasn't surprised. He stumbled out of bed and towards Sherlock's room, bracing himself for what he would find. He burst into his room, finding Sherlock lying face down on the bed, gripping the sheets with white knuckles. Sherlock tipped his head back, screaming. "Stop….please stop…..listen to me!" Sherlock continued to scream and John sat down on the bed beside him, shaking him, not expecting it to work. But when John shook him, Sherlock stopped screaming and fell down on the bed, face in the pillow. John paused, waiting for Sherlock to do something else, fearing another flashback. It'd happened the last two times he was sure it would happened again.
Sherlock's body began to shake as he started to cry; he tilted his head so that he was facing John. His face was contorted in anguish, tears streaming down it. "Why? Why did you do it?" he wailed. The tone he used scared John; it wasn't the small, childlike voice he'd had with his flashbacks, but his normal adult voice. It was twisted with so much pain it hurt John to hear it. "I trusted you…..after all this time I trusted you again"
John's stomach rolled uncomfortably; this was not a childhood memory. This was an adult one and John got the distinct impression it might have something to do with his attack. He didn't speak; he had no idea what to say.
"I wanted to trust you…..and this is what you do?" Sherlock wailed. "I said stop…..why didn't you stop?!" Sherlock sobbed "You lied…..lied about it all. You don't love me…..you wouldn't have done this to me again…" At this Sherlock became inconsolable, crying until he started chocking. That was enough to cause Sherlock to snap out of it; he jerked to the side, then sat straight up, coughing and gasping before leaning over the bed and vomiting profusely. He looked up at John shakily, his eyes wide; he was awake. "W-What happened?" Sherlock asked, his voice wobbly.
"You had a nightmare" John said. "You don't remember it?"
Sherlock shook his head and John was relieved. What Sherlock had just said bought up even more questions in his mind; John was almost sure Sherlock was dreaming about the attack. Everything about it from the tone of Sherlock's voice to the fact that he had used the word love haunted John.
"I'm….sorry….'bout the mess" Sherlock said shakily. He looked on the verge of tears. John scooted next to Sherlock. "That doesn't matter, Sherlock. Are you okay? That's what's important to me, whether or not you're okay"
Sherlock's face was grey and sweaty as he stared straight ahead. Completely taking John by surprise, Sherlock leaned over and hugged John, rubbing his face into his shoulder. John was stunned; Sherlock didn't hug him. Ever; he wasn't having a hallucination, he was himself and he was still hugging him. Okay, the answer was definitely not fine….
"I'm so tired…..so tired" Sherlock said his face buried in John. The way that he said tired spoke of more than just physical fatigue; it spoke volumes of the mental fatigue he was experiencing as well. John was beginning to think Sherlock was getting close to remembering everything and it might not be a good thing. John was beginning to wonder if Sherlock might not get better even if he did.
"Can I have some tea?" Sherlock asked quietly.
"Yeah….sure" John said. "You just relax, lay down and I'll clean this mess up and give you some tea, okay?"
Sherlock sat up and nodded slowly. He reluctantly let go of John and lay back on the bed. He looked up at John. "I'm sorry" he said.
John was taken aback; Sherlock never said sorry for anything. "What for?" John asked.
"For being broken"