Richard glanced up as John entered the room again

"Was just sorting your room out. Wanna have a look?" At John's eager expression, Richard quickly agreed. He followed John up to the room without question.

The room was a generous size but seemed no bigger than a box room, a storage room. The size had been greatly diminished by the collection of cardboard boxes littering the floor, in various sizes, all marked with permanent marker and all sealed up with brown masking tape. Richard placed his duffel bag on one, a box entitled "CLOTHES" and sat on the bed. The bedsprings creaked embarrassingly and a cloud of dust rose up from the duvet cover. He fought the urge to sneeze.

"Sorry about that, I'll clean it later. Or right now if you want. You don't have asthma, do you?"

"Don't worry about it, I'll clean it later. I've changed the sheets, blankets and pillows but it could do with a dusting. You've been very good to me. I'll just unpack, yeah?"

"Mm, ok. Well, I'm going you put the kettle on, make some tea. Do you want some?"

"Thanks."

"Ok, I'll call you when it's ready." John bustled out of the room, noisily sidestepping the maze of boxes.

When Richard could no longer hear John's footsteps on the stairs, he sank back onto the stiff bed with a sigh. Everything about this room showed it hadn't been used in a long time, and Richard could only assume that the boxes contained possessions belonging to John's deceased friend. On closer inspection, many of the boxes bore the label "CASE NOTES", with a few saying "PERSONAL ITEMS" and one small, battered box informing the reader it contained "DISGUISES". It was after Jim had hung up his few, bland outfits in the musty-smelling wardrobe that he realised he recognised the handwriting. The flutter of hope he felt at his memories perhaps coming back was soon crushed as he finally placed where he'd seen the writing before. When John had written on that tissue when he first visited Richard in hospital. He held back another sigh. His mind was blank and empty, no memories of friends and fun to fill it, no experience, nothing. Except one memory. Of one hug. Richard sighed, stirring the thick layer of dust with his foot-he may as well be a mannequin for all the personality he had.

John came up, handing Richard a new toothbrush and an opened packet of disposable razor blades.

"That should tide you over until I can buy more. Use my shaving cream, I don't mind. Remember," John said. "If there's anything you need, I'm just in the other room. Lying in an unfamiliar bed, living with strangers, I can understand that it would be overwhelming but I'm here to help. But…best not to disrupt our landlady tonight."

Richard worriedly gnawed at his lip, not even aware he was doing it. "But what will I do about the rent? Will she kick me out?"

John hesitated, watching Richard run his thumb along the bristles of the toothbrush. "I…haven't exactly told her yet."

"WHAT? John!" Richard couldn't believe John could be so irresponsible. "This is like the three little bears- 'who's been sleeping in my bed!' She'll go spare if she finds out you're getting tenants for her!"

"No, no, Mrs Hudson is very understanding." John sat down next to Richard, the bed dipping under their combined weight. Suddenly, they were so close, thighs touching and Richard swallowed, avoiding John's eyes. Thinking back to his inference that he and John had a romantic history, being so physically close to John was making him nervous. Was this their chemistry, or was he making up things that weren't there? Richard wet his lips, trying to look coolly seductive while John blustered through excuses on keeping their landlady in the dark.

"It's just, she's elderly and quite, um, frail so I didn't want to surprise her. Her last tenant died. I just don't want her to feel rushed. Tell you what, first thing tomorrow, I'll talk to her privately, and later on, she'll meet you. She doesn't come up here so much anymore- so she won't…intrude on our lives. I barely even see her these days." John eased out a breath, his shoulders slumped as if he rested the world's weight on them. Richard wanted to curl an arm around him, just let him know that he didn't have to go through this, the business with Mrs Hudson, his grieving process, alone. Richard flushed with guilt, thinking that he was also contributing to John's stress. He had to help.

"Do you-? If you need anything, I mean, to talk, a friend, I can-"

"I just miss him," John looked so bleak, so old and tired at that moment that Richard's eyes burned with tears. The bald emotion in John's voice was naked and vulnerable, he was exposing his soul for Richard's viewing. "I miss him, and I miss my friend Greg, and I miss…Mrs Hudson," On the last name, his voice broke and his face crumpled, he turned away and Richard was looking at his back, the wet, sniffling sounds muffled.

"John…" Because that was all he could say. How could he help when he didn't even know the full story? Once again, he felt impeded by his own faulty memory and the anger at that gave him strength, made him grab John by the shoulders and pull him to his chest. John willingly buried his face in Richard's neck, gasping out shaky sobs, occasionally trying to speak in a wavering tone. he clung on so tight and Richard felt a little disgusted with himself when a part of him was thrilled at this contact. Being treated like he was made of spun glass in the hospital meant that this, being roughly seized, soaking up tears, was what he craved. Right now, he was being needed. He was vital and relevant to this one man, the only person in the world right now who was looking out for him and spending time with him. And that, Richard decided, was the best feeling of all.

It had been strange sleeping in John's friend's bed. The sheets and blankets were new, crisp and clean and they rustled with every movement of Richard's body. He hadn't wanted to wear his itchy hospital pyjamas so had worn a pair of boxer shorts to bed. He hoped John wouldn't mind but John had been quire insistent that Richard consider 221B his own home. He could get used to that.

After John's tears had subsided last night, he'd left, quickly, muttering a quick apology and a thank you for Richard listening to his troubles. Richard couldn't help feeling disappointed, he felt like that conversation had changed things and he was expecting things to adjust accordingly. He wasn't idiotic enough to assume John now regarded him as a good friend, but he had trusted him enough to weep on his shoulder- surely that counted for something? He hoped John wasn't going to go back to the prickly, guarded man he'd been when he'd first visited him at Bart's.

Richard didn't have work, so he woke up at noon, groggy but happy and lazy, still basking in the warmth of his bed. He could hear faint sounds of construction in the distance, a drill and a repetitive hammering but it wasn't close enough to be a nuisance. Nevertheless, he had fully awakened by now and so he padded, barefoot to the bathroom and set about his ablutions.

Not long later, feeling washed and refreshed, Richard dressed himself in a plain white t-shirt and black jogging bottoms. He really had to buy some new clothes but there was the problem of having no money. He had to get a job but what company would be mad enough to hire a man with no memory of his experience working? Richard knew he'd been a presenter, maybe he could ask John if there was a way to get in touch with his manager?

He made himself some toast and a cup of tea, and went to eat it in the living room. John didn't seem to be in, and Richard found a post-it note stuck to the coffee table which confirmed this. Apparently, John had gone to work. Great. His second day here and John wouldn't even be around. He took a mutinous bite of his toast. Look like he just had the skull for company. But at that moment, he heard a clattering. He cocked his head. There it was again. Ah- the door. He wolfed down his toast and ran down the stairs. He hoped it wasn't the Mrs Hudson John spoke of so fondly, he wasn't sure if John had had a chance to talk to her yet. But he opened the door wide, excited to speak to someone new. Even if it was a sales rep or something.

A man smiled benignly down at him, one hand clutching a briefcase and the other holding a tightly furled umbrella to his side. "Hello, Mr Brook, may I come in?"