John had started by just opening his eyes. He hadn't moved, blinked occasionally, and didn't follow anything with his eyes. He'd shut his eyes and went back to sleep.

Within a few hours, there had been improvement. He would keep his eyes open a little bit longer and start to focus on things in the room.

At the 24-hour mark, Sherlock heard John say his first word since the incident.

"H-Hoss-ptal" He'd said.

It was evident that he didn't remember a thing and that was distressing to Sherlock. He tried to detach himself from the feelings but everything seemed to be jumbling together in his mind palace.

What if he doesn't remember me ever? What if he has permanent brain damage? What the hell kind of a drug did those dealers give to John? Sherlock's brain continued to race on. He hadn't left John's side in those 24 hours other than to use the bathroom. He would be lying if he's said he wasn't tired, but then, it's just transport…

How precious did the transport seem now! How fragile it all seemed to be…

Sherlock's thoughts drifted to the night before. He'd already run through the series of events repeatedly in his brain. He wanted to delete it but he couldn't do that because it was all too important. There had to be something that he overlooked about this drug cartel or maybe a clue that was left in the house where he found John.

John. John. John.

He looked up from John's hands to his face and the consulting detective felt the same wave of fear and panic he had the night before. Instead of worrying that his blogger might not survive, Sherlock worried that he might not remember. The memories of the events leading up to him forgetting were ingrained in his mind.

It's my fault. He told himself.

He was catastrophizing. If John never remembered their adventures… if he knew that the cause for his memory loss was his fault, would he ever forgive the detective? Would they ever solve another crime together again?

Sherlock didn't realize that his breathing had started to quicken until he heard a soft click as the door to John's room opened and closed.

"Been a long night, then?" Greg asked as he strode in the room, putting his hands in his pockets. Sherlock looked awful… he thought. He noted the messy hair, untucked shirt, and the dark circles under his eyes.

Sherlock didn't respond. He was staring right at John's face and were those…tears? Greg had seen Sherlock do a lot of things, but crying was not on that list.

"Hey… Sherlock. Are you ok?" Greg asked with growing concern as he took a couple more steps into the room.

It was then that he noticed the hitch in Sherlock's breathing.

"Sherlock. Hey – Sherlock, can you hear me?" Greg had run a hand into Sherlock's line of sight but he seemed to be focused on something else, somewhere else.

The intrusion into his line of sight caused Sherlock to momentarily come back to reality.

"I need some air" was his clipped retort.

"Ok." Greg responded quickly as the detective flew up from his chair, grabbed his Belstaff and headed briskly out the door. Greg struggled to keep up.

Sherlock took the stairs down to the main level of the hospital, practically running over nurses and doctors who got in his way. When he finally got outside, he walked into an empty garden park designed for patients to get some fresh air. It was spring; flowers were just starting to bloom. However, today was cloudy, dreary, and a bit of chill was in the air.

He found an empty bench and sat in it, almost immediately folding in on himself. His hands went to his hair and he wanted to pull all of his hairs out. It would feel like he was pulling each individual thought out of his head that he was having. Of course, there were about 150,000 hairs on average on a human's scalp. Sherlock wasn't sure if he was having only 150,000 thoughts. He was sure there were many more and the topic of each thought was one soldier/doctor/blogger/friend who lay unconscious in a room above them.

Greg stood next to the detective, not really sure what he should do in the situation, but knew that Sherlock was struggling to cope with John's condition. Sherlock hardly ever displayed his feelings to anyone other than John.

Before John came into his life, Greg had been on call on a night when Sherlock first overdosed. He remembered grimacing and shaking his head when he saw the young man passed out in a filthy apartment. How do they get into this? He's too damn young. He recalls thinking to himself. Lestrade had been the first to arrive on scene – he'd only been a block away when the call came in – and he immediately started to administer first aid – clearing airways, checking for a pulse, getting Sherlock onto his side. The paramedics had arrived only minutes later, saving the life of the young man. Greg had spent some time in the apartment after the boy was whisked away to gather information about him. He found his wallet, which included his ID, some bankcards, and an insurance card. He looked around the flat trying to decipher what the boy's occupation was. Maybe he was a student? There were lots of books lying open on his tables. Newspapers were scattered all over the floor and pictures were hanging on his wall. He noticed that all of the police reports from the papers were in a pile; some reports had been circled or crossed out. The pictures on the wall looked as if someone had been spying on the people in the photos. The people in the photos were doing ordinary things – walking dogs, grocery shopping, and buying coffee. He suddenly recognized one of the women in a photo hanging about the couch.

"Blimey…" he muttered. He realized the woman was a wanted criminal. She was a suspected drug smuggler, but nobody at the Yard had been able to locate her since her connection was discovered about 3 weeks ago.

Greg reopened the boy's wallet and looked at the name.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes" he read. "Who the hell are you?" he asked aloud.

He continued his search around the flat, finding the drugs William must've used and what appeared to be science experiments in the kitchen. There were vials and Bunsen burners and Erlenmeyer flasks, fluids and droppers and other such paraphernalia one typically doesn't find in a kitchen. Rather, they would be found in some sort of laboratory.

Greg meandered around the flat for a few more minutes before deciding he was going to get to the hospital and figure out whom this William Holmes was.

A day later, he had entered the emergency room, stating his name and business, showing his badge to the nurse behind the receptionist's desk. She led him back to a private room where the boy had been placed.

He lay unconscious looking more and more like a teen than a young adult. The boy's wallet had said that he had just turned 21 years old. Greg wondered briefly how he had gotten his own room at this hospital, but dismissed the idea and chalked it up to the boy having wealthy parents. Wonder where those poor blokes are…

Greg didn't have to wait for long until the boy came round. It seemed that no members of his family had been able to arrive yet, so the DI decided to stay and make sure he got his wallet.

"Hey there, mate. How ya feeling?" Greg asked.

The boy coughed and responded with a dismissive, "Who the hell are you?"

Great…

"My name's Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. I was the one that found you last night. Want to explain why I found cocaine in your apartment tonight?" he reached into his pocket and had pulled out a clear plastic bag that had the drug paraphernalia in it, dangling it in front of William.

The boy rolled his eyes and scoffed. "Isn't it obvious?" he scoffed. "For a detective, you're not so bright after all."

"Listen," started the inspector, "you could get in a lot of trouble here. Do some serious jail time. But I may be willing to drop the charges and clear your name on a couple of conditions…" he couldn't believe he had said what he'd said….

"What conditions are those, detective inspector?" spat out William.

"I want you to tell me how you got those pictures that are up on your walls in your apartment. Any information that you have about a wanted criminal should be shared with the police. I want you to tell me who you know, how you know them, and any other connections you might have."

William didn't even blink. "What's the other condition?"

"You gotta get clean, mate. No more o' this shit." He said, gesturing to the bed.

William sat and stared off into the distance, seemingly lost in thought for a few minutes.

"So you want me to help you solve the case with the smuggler?" William finally asked, breaking the silence.

"Yes, and any other cases you know about." Added Greg.

"Fine. It's a deal. But- I may need access to a laboratory." William put out his hand and Greg shook it, unsure that they had agreed to the same thing.

Greg now chuckled at the memory to himself. He remembered handing the man his wallet and saying, "It's nice to meet you William. Do you have a nickname? Will or Billy?"

The boy scoffed again. "It's Sherlock. Please."

Greg had been surprised that Sherlock had chosen one of his middle names as his preferred name. It was such a strange and different name… but as he got to know the man over the course of the next several years, he felt the name suited him.

Greg looked at the man in front of him now. He felt a surge of what could only be described as a fatherly affection. The brilliant consulting detective was a mess. Greg hadn't seen him this disheveled since he first met him. Sherlock was prone to anxiety attacks when he was younger, which was part of what drove him to use drugs. Greg shuddered at the memory. He recalled now how, on several occasions, he would just sit with the detective and help him calm his breathing when he became overwhelmed. Sherlock probably would never admit to anyone how often he got overwhelmed.

Greg knew. He saw it. He knew Sherlock's agitation and poor treatment of others was just a way of him coping with social anxiety. Him and John had both agreed that the man was probably on the spectrum, but very high functioning for sure. John had made him… better. John was patient and worked with him and explained things in a way that got through to him. The two people Sherlock let in were John and Greg, and Greg he let in even less when John was around.

But now he knew it was his turn to help him.

"Sherlock. You want to talk about how you're feeling?" he started.

There was no response. Sherlock's grip in his hair tightened and he continued to stare at the ground.

"I can't help if you don't tell me what's wrong." He continued.

Still nothing.

"Listen, it's not your fault. John wouldn't blame you for this. He knows what kind of trouble he's getting into when he runs about with you and – "

"You can't know that." Muttered Sherlock.

"What?"

Sherlock glared up at his friend and pulled his hands from his hair.

"You can't know that. You can't know that he wouldn't blame me. Why shouldn't he? We never split up; he'd insisted that night that we shouldn't split up and I told him that we'd be fine and I was wrong. John is always right. He's right so often it's practically boring. Why haven't I learnt to listen by now?"

"You can't know the future Sherlock. You had no reason to believe that things would've worked out like they did. Also, you're stubborn. You don't like it when anyone or anything gets in the way of your plans." He paused a moment. "I can know that John wouldn't blame you. Because he's John Watson, best friend of Sherlock Holmes. Anybody who's going to be your best friend knows they're in for a bit of trouble here and there. John's a soldier, Sherlock. He doesn't run away in the face of danger. He can take care of himself, and he knows that when he's running about with you that he's running straight into danger. It's his decision to get into trouble with you."

A heavy pause filled the air.

"What if he never remembers, Greg?" Sherlock was looking away from his mentor and up at the hospital in front of them, almost as if he was looking straight into John's room.

Another pregnant pause passed without a word.

Finally Greg said, "How could he ever forget?"

Sherlock started to cry then. It started with hot, silent tears that he frantically tried to wipe away. But soon, a sob escaped from him as Greg sat down next to Sherlock and put his arm around his shoulders. He alternated between rubbing his back in soothing circles and giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. God, it killed him to see Sherlock so vulnerable. The man usually seemed so in control. But, the few who really knew him, knew that wasn't exactly true. Sherlock wept for what felt like an eternity. Eventually, chilly raindrops began to softly pitter-patter on the ground.

How appropriate… thought Greg.

"Come on mate, we better get inside. Looks like a storm's rolling in."

Sherlock began to calm his breathing and the tears and sobs subsided. A roll of thunder rumbled in the distance. Sherlock anxiously rubbed his hands against his legs as Greg stood up next to him.

"Greg?"

"Yeah."

"…Thank you."

"Anytime, Sherlock."