The first stage was the most terrifying. John continued to be unresponsive to any sort of stimuli. After a couple of days I managed to get him to start eating (liquids only, with a spoon pressed against his lips-it was a rather painstaking process) but that was the extent of his responses. He would sleep, eyes slowly falling shut until he would suddenly slump over on the couch. The most unpleasant part of all of this was that John's unresponsiveness meant he would soil his own pants. Luckily, I'd foreseen this problem before it first happened and had taken precautions. Still. It hadn't been the most sanitary of experiences.

A few days after John first showed up on the doorstep, Mycroft stopped by to visit. He had brought some supplies to help out. He took one look at John, though, and I knew I wasn't going to like what he was about to say.

"He needs professional help, Sherlock."

I glowered at him as I pressed a spoon patiently against John's lips. "I'm taking care of this, Mycroft."

"I understand that, but you can't do this on your own," Mycroft said with a sigh, setting down the supplies. I glanced over at them. Nutrient rich liquids, adult diapers... It was all there. Good. I fought with John for a moment to release the spoon from between his teeth before replying to Mycroft.

"Yes, I can. And I will."

"Sherlock..."

My eyes snapped up to Mycroft with a glare. "I'm not letting any so-called professional do the job that is mine and mine alone to do."

Mycroft gritted his teeth. "You do realize that you're playing right into Moriarty's hands this way? He knew you'd be stubborn like this."

"Yes, well, good for him. He knows me well. Better than you do, obviously," I replied testily, turning my attention back to feeding John. Mycroft was silent for a moment and I could easily feel his stare flicking between myself and John.

"I suppose you'll be wanting me to hunt him down," he said finally.

"If you wouldn't mind."

To my relief, Mycroft didn't say another word as he left the flat. I set the spoon down and brushed a hand through John's hair, which I had cut back to its familiar length.

"John," I murmured. Ever since he'd come home, it had just been so hard. No reactions, no sign that the John I knew and remembered was there. Getting him to eat had been a small victory, the thrill of which had worn off quickly. It was a blessing that I was used to not sleeping much because now I was spending all of my time making sure John was all right. Even when he slept I couldn't get myself to relax enough to leave his side.

My fingers still in his hair, I reached out with my other hand to grasp his. The warmth from his hands was somewhat comforting: a reminder that he was at least still alive. I squeezed them ever so gently.

A flicker of movement and I looked up. John's gaze had shifted to look at me. I stared back at him, trying to convey through the gaze how much I needed him to come back. It was pointless and ridiculous and I knew that. But a lot of things I had been doing for John for years now were done only for sentiment.

And then something in John's eyes changed. A slight squinting followed by a widening and pupils dilating. I blinked and continued to stare. Were my eyes playing tricks on me? Wishful thinking? My heart jumped to my throat John's hands turned over and grasped mine back.

He recognized me.

Nasty taste.

Feel better, though.

Deal with it.

Long fingers in hair.

Feels nice.

Warm hand.

Warm hand tightens.

Pale man nice eyes warm touch.

I like him.

Wait.

Pale man nice eyes warm touch.

I know him.

Sherlock.

A/N: Holy moley. Okay. This is a lot more popular than I anticipated. All you bajillions of people who've put this story on alert/favorited it/reviewed, you all are beautiful. Honestly. I've never had a story explode so much so quickly. *wonders if I should blame the slash...* Thank you. I hope this lives up to your expectations.

I love reviewers and I live for constructive criticism!