White lights blossomed overhead, and a machine next to the bed beeped steadily. John groggily opened his eyes, and tried to sit up.

"How are you?" A face above him slowly came into focus. Anderson.

"Bit of a lump." John said, rubbing the back of his head. It was the same thing he had said when Sherlock...

No, he mustn't think of Sherlock. Why was it that every time John thought of him he felt sad?

"Where's...Mycroft? How is he?" John asked, pushing Sherlock from his mind. "What happened? How did I get here?"

"We found you three in Sherrinford, after receiving a distress call from Mycroft. You passed out."

"Two, you mean." John corrected him.

"Sorry?" Anderson asked, surprised.

"You found us two in Sherrinford. There was just Mycroft and I." John clarified. Sherlock never entered the room. Sherlock wasn't there.

"No, we found you, Mycroft, and Sherlock in there." Anderson repeated, frowning.

John shook his head. Why didn't they get it? Sherlock wasn't dead because Sherlock was never at Sherrinford.

But if he wasn't at Sherrinford, where was he?

Who was he thinking about again? Everything was all muddled. Why was he so upset?

"I don't think I understand." John muttered quietly, more to himself than to Anderson.

"You've just gone through a trauma, and may have suffered a mild concussion. Get some rest, it'll all be clearer in the morning." Anderson reassured him, pushing him down on the pillow. He turned and left as John drifted off to sleep.

ooOoo

"Are you ready?" Donovan asked, looking concerned for the first time in her life. John frowned, she had always despised him, and now she was worried about him. It was all very confusing.

John swallowed and nodded. What's-His-Name Lestrade came out and led him into an interrogation room.

"So, John." Lestrade put his hands on the table as Donovan closed the door. "What happened?"

Nothing happened. Something happened, but John wasn't sure what it was.

"I know this is hard for you." Lestrade touched him on the shoulder. "But we need the statement. Tell me what happened."

"I'm sorry, I can't." John answered quietly. "I don't...Lestrade, I don't remember what happened."

"It's okay, you're probably still in shock."

He wasn't in shock. He just didn't remember. "No, it's not that, Detective Inspector. I mean, I literally don't remember what happened after Mycroft and I walked in the room."

"According to Mycroft, his sister told Sherlock to shoot either him or you. Is this correct?" Lestrade asked gently.

"Who's Sherlock?" John shook his head.

Lestrade chuckled. "Sherlock! You know, Sherlock!"

John blinked a few times. "No, I really don't know."

He stopped smiling, a concerned look on his face. "Your flatmate? Your colleague? Your best friend?"

"I live by myself." John stated blandly. "I work with Molly Hooper at Barts. I'm a doctor. And my best friend is Mike Stamford."

There was an unreadable expression on Lestrade's face. "I think we're all done for today. I've got everything I need. Thank you." John abruptly stood up and walked off.

"He doesn't remember Sherlock." Lestrade muttered to himself, gathering his papers. "John Watson doesn't know who his best friend was."

Author Note:

Wow! Really took a lot of turns and twists there. I realize this may be a bit confusing for some of you, so let me summarize. Essentially what happened in the past few chapters was that with the help of denial and a concussion, John was able to rewrite Sherlock completely out of his memories to protect himself from the trauma of the truth. I honestly have no idea where this story is going to go, so I think I'll write up a couple more chapters and see where the plot takes me. I hope you guys have as much fun reading it as I do writing it!

-Irene xx