Richard arose slowly, feeling consciousness press upon him gradually, the deafness of sleep fading away to be replaced by the cooing of pigeons outside and the hum of a vacuum downstairs. Mrs Hudson probably. He'd have to meet her soon enough. Sighing, Richard sat up but frowned as an arm fell from around his shoulders to encircle his waist. Of course, John had slept in his bed yesterday. He'd made the right choice in not trying to move him to another room, John was heavy and Richard most likely would have put his back out, heaving the drunk man along the hallway. He smiled sleepily at John's slumbering was amazing how sleep could change a person's face, bring out a youthful, vulnerable air to them. He shivered suddenly, his thoughts taking a darker path as he imagined John seeing Sherlock like this, so still and quiet, only from death rather than sleep. Sherlock was blurry-faced, but his skin was pale and Richard could just make out a crop of dark hair. He wondered excitedly if it was a memory or just a guess at what Sherlock looked like. A lot of men had dark hair. A lot of men were pale. He sighed, snuggling up to John again, resting his head on his chest. Maybe he could catch another half hour or so, warm and cosy, cuddled up to his friend. Although what they had done yesterday surpassed the normal boundaries of 'friendship'…

But then he heard John groan, and he slipped a little down John's chest as John propped himself up on his elbows, letting out a massive yawn. John looked a lot more agreeable when still hazy from sleep, so Richard nuzzled his neck, smiling against the hot skin. "Morning," he chirped, but no sooner had the words left his lips than John shoved him away, causing Richard to fall off the bed. It wasn't a nice way to greet the morning and he sat there in shock. Had their night really meant so little? His lip quivered and he looked up beseechingly at John. How could he still be so cruel after everything last night?

"Ah, shit, I feel bloody awful," John rubbed his hand across his eyes, wincing at the harsh sunlight. "Close the curtains, will you?"

"I would have thought," Richard said as he crossed the room to shut the heavy curtains. "that you might be nicer to me, seeing as how I was so nice to you, last night."

"Last night? We didn't- we didn't do anything, did we?"

"You were drunk, very drunk," Richard said in an offhand way, but inside, he felt strange, unsure of what he really felt. Was he relieved or not that John didn't remember?

"Yes, yes but what happened? What did we do?"

Richard slid into bed next to him, pleased to note that in John's anxious state, he let Richard get close, wrap his bod around John's. "Not nice being the one who can't remember, is it?"

"Richard, if you give me anymore shit, I swear-"

Richard leapt out of bed, neatly straightening his clothes. "You cried. You got sad." If he'd turned around, he would have seen John tense at the childlike, sing-song tone he was using, but Richard was too focused on wielding this one piece of knowledge he had that John didn't. "Luckily, your friend was there to help you. I think I'll go out today."

"Richard-"

"You mentioned Sherlock." And Richard darted out of the room with a laugh, as John tripped on the bedcovers in his effort to catch up.

Richard was dressed in black chinos, a cream-coloured shirt and a beige cardigan when John joined him, dressed in faded jeans and a ratty black sweater.

"Hi," John set about making them both breakfast, cracking eggs against a bowl. Richard lounged against the counter, waiting for John to say more. He was sick of having to work his way around John's sudden moods, but this was the last straw. After their passion and emotion last night, he wasn't prepared for John to sweep it under the carpet as he did everything else.

"I'm sorry for snapping at you, Richard. I had a headache, I was disorientated but that was no excuse for my behaviour."

Richard didn't goad the man who was brandishing an egg whisk, and he was finally placated by John's apology. "That's alright. You weren't…bad or anything. I mean last night. I don't mean, I-"

"Rich, slow down. Pass the butter, please. I'm making scrambled eggs, I hope that's ok."

"It's fine. What I mean to say is- you didn't say anything incriminating. About Sherlock."

"Ah,"

"You just said you missed him, and stuff,"

John huffed out a breath, pausing in the act of whisking the eggs. "Ok. Well, that's true, I do miss him. Every day."

"That's natural. Um, John, I'm sorry I mocked you for not being able to remember. I've lost years if my life and it feels horrible, I wouldn't wish it on anyone, not even my worst enemy."

John nodded silently, his brown eyes thoughtful. When he spoke, it was in careful, deliberate tones, as if one wrong word could be the undoing of them. "Although I suppose you don't remember who your worst enemy is, do you?"

Richard shrugged, picking up the bowl and pouring the contents onto a frying pan. As he fried the eggs and the aroma began to fill the room, John tensed, looking dazed.

"John, are you ok?"

"Richard, this is a stupid question but- how do you know how to make scrambled eggs? I don't understand- you can't remember anything of your life but you can make breakfast."

"I guess it's just the amnesia. The doctors said to me that some people get amnesia so bad they can't even walk or talk, they have to learn their life all over again. But it's different for me. I- I look in the mirror and I see a stranger. I walk along certain streets and it feels right or wrong, or unfamiliar but it's only feelings. I could probably meet my mother and not know who she is. But I can talk and function and I know things- I don't know how I know them, but things are just there. I feel- John, to be honest, I don't feel like a children's TV presenter. I don't think I even like kids, but I am, and that's what they told me, the doctors."

"Lots of people who work with kids don't like kids. Roald Dahl hated kids. What do you feel like?"

"I don't know, that's the thing! I need a job, John. I'm just leeching off you, you're working hard to support us both and I'm doing nothing. I'm going to get a job, I don't know what I'll do but as long as I'm helping you-" Richard was surprised to feel John hug him. He could barely concentrate on the eggs, he was so surprised he leant back, enjoying the contact, the strong arms enveloping him.

"I'm sorry, Rich. I know I keep being so bloody unpleasant, but it's just so much, you know? Stress. And grief, I suppose. I guess I'm snapping at you because I expect the worst from you, but you've been so good…I'll tell you about Sherlock. Tonight. Promise."

Richard was surprised but flattered John trusted him with this. He hid his shock by ladling out the eggs onto two plates, although he couldn't help the small smile on his lips.

As they ate in the living room with their plates on their knees, Richard tried to envision John sitting just like this, talking and smiling with another man, Sherlock, as they shovelled in mouthfuls of mushy egg, smothered in ketchup. The thought made him grow cold, so he settled for enjoying the meal with John, awaiting the conversation that would take place later. Tonight.