Almost a week passed with no unusual occurrences. No arguments, no Mycroft dropping by, and no 'Guardian Angel'. In the mornings, John had his locum work, in the afternoons he'd show Richard around London, they'd see a show or visit a gallery, or simply go to a park and people-watch and talk. Evenings were spent in the warm flat, watching television, balancing their dinners on their knees, or talking. Always talking, about films, music, crime, current affairs. Anything that popped into their heads. Richard always felt like his smile was triggered by John's presence.
And nights were spent in bed. This was the one thing they didn't talk about, and Richard would be lying if it didn't frustrate him. They'd go to bed at roughly the same time, and when the bedroom door had closed, that friendly banter between them evaporated, to be replaced by wordless lust, that inflamed the senses and ate up the hours. Maybe it was because he had no memory of sex, but Richard didn't think he could desire someone this much. It was like his objectives shifted, he'd think of nothing else but sex and touch and John. And nothing was ever enough. They hadn't had full-on sex, they'd kissed and humped but for some reason, John seemed reluctant to move it forward. Richard tried to pretend it didn't bother him, but a part of him wondered if it was too much commitment for John. Or perhaps John was worried about the health risks? Richard hadn't been tested, for all he knew, he could be infected with everything from STDs to a zombie virus. He knew with complete certainty that he should discuss this with John. Unfortunately, he also knew with complete certainty that he wasn't going to bring it up until John mentioned it.
Why? Well, the thought nauseated him, that he could have had other sexual partners besides John. Somebody he didn't love and care about, someone who didn't have a smile that made him melt, and the gentle yet firm touch of a doctor. It wasn't right, it was like the romantic comedies he enjoyed making John watch. The object of interest would be in a serious relationship with someone completely unsuitable, before finding true love. Richard felt lucky that he had no memory of the bitter break-ups and loss of love that he'd probably experienced, in his past. It had to be the only thing about his amnesia that he liked.
Richard turned on his side, gazing lovingly at John's sleeping form. He realised (from things John had said) that John didn't consider himself to be that attractive, and Richard found that ludicrous. How could someone be so kind and brave and special and not see it? How could John look in the mirror and see greying hairs and wrinkles, where Richard saw beautiful eyes and a smile that made his knees weak?
He stretched, coming into contact with the warm, still body of his lover, but before he could consider waking John up for morning kisses, he heard a sound downstairs, the creaking of floorboards and the thud of a door being shut. Red signs flashing in his head, Richard was on his feet, a dressing gown thrown over him, and down the stairs as fast as his slipper-clad feet could manage. His fear was redundant; the intruder turned out to be none other than old Mrs Hudson, doing a bit of morning spring-cleaning before John could get up.
"Hello, Mrs Hudson," Richard said stiffly, not liking the way her hand flew to her collar when she saw him. Miserable hag, she'd had it in for him since the moment he'd come.
"Mr…Brook. Hello. I trust you slept well?"
God, she was never this formal to John. Richard supposed she saw him as usurping the late Sherlock Holmes. Well, he was here now, she'd have to like it.
"Very well, thanks. It was cold last night but John kept me warm." It was a subtle dig and they both knew it.
"A package came. For you." She pointed at it, innocently resting on John's armchair. Apparently, she couldn't bother to pick it up and hand it to him. Richard snorted, and crossed the room to take it.
"I'll go then," she murmured.
Richard opened the parcel in the bathroom. He didn't know who would send him gifts apart from his blonde stalker…or maybe Mycroft. In case it was the former, he couldn't risk John seeing it. So, balanced on crossed legs on the toilet seat, he cut open the package with a knife.
He blinked. It was a mobile phone. Small, shiny and black, it was his. It was for him. When he switched it on, he was surprised to see it already had a screensaver set. A photograph of Richard himself, in some strange glass cubicle, wearing…
"What the hell?"
The crown jewels. It had to be a costume. Sceptre and all, the jewels shone in the light. But they couldn't be real. Richard stared hard, until at last he twigged- of course! He was an actor- well, he used to be- this was obviously from a show. He racked his brains, trying to remember. Nothing. His mind was as empty and uncluttered as normal.
Richard shifted his new phone from hand to hand. Why had nobody got in touch? How long had he been here, at Baker Street, with John? And nobody had got in touch? Friends, family, co-workers. But…what if they'd tried to get in touch, at the hospital? They wouldn't know he was here, would they? Richard cast his eyes suspiciously around the room. A bubble popped on the bar of soap on the sink. John would want him to have visitors. He always tried so hard to make Richard happy. But then again, a sly voice said in his head. He hates you going out by yourself, doesn't he? He never helped you get a job. He's never introduced you to his friends…
"He introduced me to Lestrade," Richard said aloud, feeling stupid for talking to himself.
And Lestrade hates you. Mrs Hudson hates you. John-
"Loves me! I think. I…"
"Rich- are you in here?" John hammered on the door, and Richard sprang up, feeling guilty. "Rich, open up, I'm dying for the loo!"
Richard stuffed his phone and the remnants of the package into the deep dressing-gown pockets and wordlessly unlocked the door. John swept past him and Richard slipped out, feeling more confused than ever.
Hours later, the questions were still hounding Richard, clattering over any task he tried to do, distracting him so much, he decided to simply sit and wait for John to return from work. He hadn't given the mobile phone a second glance, apart from transferring it from his dressing gown to his jeans. It was burning a hole in his pocket but he didn't dare put it down. It could get lost. Or found.
Finally, when John came in, bustling around with shopping bags and the kettle, grumbling about work to possibly Richard or maybe himself, Richard had decided to confront him. His stomach lurched, but he unsteadily got to his feet, following John to the kitchen.
"John,"
"I forgot to buy milk. Could you just run down to Mrs Hudson and ask her if she's planning to go out later? She could get us some."
"John,"
"Hang on, we've still got that powdered milk. It's over there, to your right."
Richard turned, and inspected it. "It's all in clumps, and it's got some brown bits. I think someone must have used a spoon with coffee on it. John, why haven't any of my friends rang?"
John paled, and Richard suspected it wasn't concern over the powdered milk's wellbeing that affected his colouring.
"You- friends?" John frowned, his mouth trembling uncertainly between speech and silence. Eventually, his brows returned to their placid position and he smiled sadly. "I'm sorry, honey, but nobody's rung. If they did, I'd tell you. There's been a reporter or two, but I told them to clear off. I'm really sorry, Richard."
Far from assuaging his worries, Richard felt more uneasy at John's sympathetic reply. It was too sweet, and nice. And…honey. When had John ever called him honey? Suddenly, Richard felt all-too aware of the situation. The wall at his back, John at the knife drawer, a stranger in the kitchen. Unwanted and unwelcome, the memory of John, at the pool, swished through his brain. Maybe they hadn't been hugging.
"Are you lonely, Richard?" John asked, his eyes soft with concern. In a baggy jumper, clutching a mug of bitter tea, he looked friendly and approachable. But still…
"It's me and you, John. Every day. Me and you. I think it's natural to be lonely sometimes." Richard whispered, slowly walking backwards to the door.
"I can help you make friends. I'll help you. Let me help you." John moved forward at the same time Richard leaped back.
"Actually, I think I'll take a walk, see ya!"
