The days until Richard's dismissal date dragged by. John spent the time sleeping, working at the clinic (Sarah had been very understanding after Sherlock's death but there was no chance of them ever rekindling their half-hearted relationship) and staring at the blank page of his blog with its flickering cursor. Mycroft hadn't contacted him again. John had visited Richard a couple of times. He'd bring him a few papers, and tell him what was going on in the outside world. He didn't mention himself, Sherlock or Richard's real identity. It was like the last year had never happened.

"They gave me new clothes," was what Richard said, after they'd bid each other awkward hellos on the day of his dismissal. John raked an eye over Richard's shirt and jeans, his doctor's eye taking in the sallow skin and taut bones pulling on thin, unhealthy skin.

"I know, I look terrible, right?"

"Not at all. You look better than last time. You weren't wearing Levi jeans though."

"Oh really?" Richard grinned at him. "What was I wearing last time?"

God, he looked like him when he smiled. It was as if Moriarty was back in the mental controls of this frail body. "You wore a suit," he forced out, smoothing out wrinkles in his jumper nervously. Richard was oblivious to his unease, he playfully grasped one of John's hands, tugging on it.

"A suit? Was it nice?"

"Uh, I couldn't possibly say. It was Westwood, I think. But you wouldn't want it now. All the blood and…probably wouldn't fit you anymore."

"Yeah, the doctors say I've lost a lot of weight. To be expected, I suppose."

"Did they give you any advice on exercise? You've been lying in a bed for a year, there would be muscle atrophy to think of."

"They gave me instructions, said I should ease into it. And I shouldn't force my memories, I should let them come naturally."

"They're probably right. I'll get us a taxi. " Fortunately, one arrived almost immediately, and John gratefully clambered into it. "Hi, 221B Baker Street, please." Richard slumped down beside him, an unattractive scowl in place.

"But it's so frustrating! I don't want to wait! I have no idea who I am! I have to just take everybody at their word! It's the worst."

"You remind me of someone when you do that."

"Do what?"

"When you get all melodramatic. Richard, listen to me. Sometimes, the truth doesn't set you free. Sometimes, it's the memories, memories of pain, of failure, that keep you from achieving anything. Some people would love to be in your position." John said, as gently as he could, speaking quietly so the taxi driver couldn't hear. Richard's dark eyes held his own.

"Are you one of those people?" the brunette asked. John found he couldn't answer him, so he cleared his throat and turned to look out the window. Richard let out a small sigh and copied him, with his own window.

The rest of the ride was uneventful, but John found a confidence seeping into him with every turn, brake and acceleration of the cab. Perhaps it was his apathy that sustained him, a sane man with many things to live for would be terrified of having this man under his roof, but everything John had believed in had turned to dust. His best friend was dead. There had been times when John had even wondered if he and Sherlock could become more than friends, but that conversation had never reached the air. I always thought there'd be time, John thought, but then time ran out on us…

"Oi, dreamy. This is it, 221B, right?" John was jolted out of his reverie by the cab driver nasal voice, and he scrambled to get up, ignoring the way Richard was looking at him in curiosity. John muttered thanks, shoved a few notes at him and left without receiving the change. Seeing that familiar, black painted door with its smart knocker, he felt a wave of nausea rolling in his stomach. Whenever he went out, to visit Sherlock's grave or to meet Lestrade when the detective inspector's texts got too insistent, it was always a relief to come back home. Sherlock's body may be lying in a wooden box under six feet of sod, but this was where he had lived and the flat still showed that.

But now John was bringing someone else in. someone who might question these ways, might ruin this one safe place. I won't let him. He's already won in so many ways; I won't let him take this too.

"Wow. Looks nice. Can't be cheap."

"That's what I said when I first saw it," John told him with a laugh. He opened the door, feeling a bit better. "Welcome to your new home."

Richard's own thought were ticking over in his brain while John cheerfully sauntered through the cosy London flat. Richard didn't have much with him, just a small bag with a few changes of clothes and that morning's Metro. He hefted his duffel bag over his shoulder, humming quietly as he followed John up the stairs.

He wasn't sure what to make of John. The man had been nothing but courteous, aside from the odd snarky comment, and he had already done so much for Richard. But there was something else about him, a prickliness to his personality that didn't seem to be present when John was with other people. Richard had observed John being perfectly pleasant with the doctors, but as soon as his eyes fell on Richard, there was a coolness in them that made Richard shiver, just a bit. He'd wondered if maybe he'd done something in the past to offend John, and John was only helping him because nobody else would. But Richard knew he didn't have any way to see if that was true, except asking John. Or waiting for his memories to return. And there was something else to John, a sadness. The few instances where Richard had seen John laugh had been surprising, because the man would often lapse into brooding silences, only infrequently interspersed with some forced small talk. Richard got the impression that this grim, solemn John hadn't always been this way.

They had reached a door and John swung it open, stepping through. Richard followed and as his eyes took in the room, he gaped.

"Uh, yes, sorry, it's a bit…messy…" John straightened a few things here and there but seemed resigned to the fact that the room looked like a bomb had hit it.

"Yeah…just a bit…" Richard muttered, stepping over a book. He picked it up, flicking through the pages. Forensic Developments In The Modern Age. "It's lived in. That's what it is. Lived in."

"It's a pigsty," John flung himself on the sofa, kicking a folder off it. "But it's home, you know?"

"You've got a- God, you've got a skull!"

"Yes," John jumped up and joined Richard. "Not mine. Never did find out its name. Seems remiss now. Always meant to, never remembered to ask."

"It's creepy. And a riding crop…?" Richard felt a blush crawling up his face and neck as he nudged the thing with his foot and he wished he'd never said anything. A subtle glance told him John was experiencing the same flush.

"Not used for- that purpose. Or riding a horse, funnily enough. It belonged to my friend, he used it for work. Oh crap, that sounds wrong. But trust me, there was no- funny business going on."

"No funny business, ok, I believe you. When can I meet this friend, he sounds like a laugh!"

John's face fell and Richard wished he could take back the words, for the second time that day. "He died. And all I have left…is this." He gestured around at the collective mess, and without warning, seized what looked to be a dagger off the floor. Richard winced but the blonde man just stabbed it viciously into the mantelpiece, into the centre of a stack of letters.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. It's never easy, losing a friend."

Richard thought John muttered "Well, I say friend," but it could have been something else.

"John, I understand what you're going for. You lost your friend and I…lost my memories."

John tapped his mouth thoughtfully, although the look in his eyes was a warning. "There's just one flaw in your little comparison, Brook. I'd gladly give up my memories if it meant Sh- my friend was back." He left the room without a word. Richard sighed.

"I'm completely alone." he whispered. The grinning skull ignored him.