Author's Note:

Yeah...so this actually happened...the next chapter...just...yeah... Thanks to everyone who is reviewing!

Jackson caught Sherlock the best he could, stumbling back several steps in order to support the man's weight. "Right. Wonderful." He glanced at Mycroft for a long moment.

"Oh, good Lord." Mycroft moved forward and helped the doctor move Sherlock back on to the bed. "This is great. He would go and do something like this." Once Sherlock was comfortable he fell into the chair beside the bed and steepled his hands under his chin. "You can go. I'll wait until he wakes up." Jackson hesitantly nodded before leaving the room.

He slept for a few hours. With a groan he woke up slowly. He was groggy at first, and it took him a moment to realize he was still in a hospital. He shifted to see who was seated next to him. It was the man who had rushed in and said they were brothers. He frowned, still unable to make a connection of any sort. "Are we really brothers?" He asked, still staring at the older man intently but unable to recollect anything.

Mycroft slowly moved his gaze to Sherlock, taking him in before nodding slowly. "Yes. I am your older brother, Mycroft. And... I am assuming you forgot your name. You're Sherlock." He lowered his head, hiding the pain in his eyes. The man before him was supposed to be strong and powerful and now he was reduced to wondering who he was. Nothing could ever go right. "So you don't remember John?"

Mycroft? Sherlock? What the hell kind of names were those? "Our parents must hate us to name those..." He said half jokingly. His brother mentioning John got his attention right away. "His name is on this ring around my neck. I really haven't figured out much though. I have all these different puzzle pieces but I can't seem to make anything fit. Anytime I go to remember it's just this big blank wall and I can't find the door..." Sherlock sighed and shrugged slightly. "Even looking at you and knowing we are siblings, I still have no clue who you are. Are we close? You seemed rather upset when you came in... How...how did you find me? I wonder if this means I can leave soon...?" The last question was to himself, lips pursing together in thought.

Mycroft couldn't help but laugh. Even with amnesia his brother was very much himself. "They are certainly unique, I will give you that," he stated with a small laugh. The way his brother referred to John, though, without an ounce of the love that he had been. It stung and his stomach twisted violently. "We're... brothers. I'm protective but I never tell you that. I occupy a minor position in the British government and was able to use my resources to find out what happened." He cast his gaze toward the floor and ran his hands down his face. "I'm going to let you take some of that in, possibly take you home, before we even start discussing you and John."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the laugh. He wasn't sure what the hell was so funny. Suddenly he became suspicious of the man in the room. "How do I really know you are my brother? What if you are the person who did this to me?" He gestured at his chest, even though it was covered and the bruises weren't visible. "I don't want to go with you. I'll figure things out on my own. As far as things go about this John fellow, I'm sure he was important to me I just don't know how…" He trailed off, thoughtful once more.

"Why would I come to pick you up from the hospital if I did that to you, Sherlock?" A single eyebrow raised in question, Mycroft's head tilting forward slightly. "That happened while you were in Afghanistan two days ago," he answered simply. This was the tough part, apparently. Trying to convince the man in the hospital bed who didn't remember a thing that, honestly, he needed to return to their Mother's house before anything else. "I'm your brother. I helped raise you. Made sure you brushed your teeth, made sure you went to bed, and made sure Dad didn't find out about your little experiments."

"Hmmm, I suppose you are right. Afghanistan? What the fuck was I doing in that war hell hole?" Sherlock suddenly remembered the pictures on the table next to the bed and he leaned over and picked them up to study them once more. He more or less ignored what Mycroft had said about growing up. Who was this man in the photos? This mental block was infuriating and he once more threw the pictures onto the floor with a growl of frustration.

Mycroft smirked and lowered his head, lifting it fractionally when the pictures were thrown on the ground. "I guess I shouldn't lie and say you were just visiting, should I?" He stood slowly from his chair and moved slowly to pluck the pictures from the floor. They were placed, one by one, on to Sherlock's chest with a deliberate glance toward his younger brother. "This is Captain John Hamish Watson. He is an army doctor currently serving his second tour in Afghanistan, his fifth tour over all in the Middle East. He asked you to marry him three months ago. This man is your fiancé." Having to explain this to Sherlock was causing his throat to tighten slightly. The man in front of him had fallen madly in love and now he couldn't even remember the name of the man who returned those feelings.

"Ah. So he isn't deceased then? I thought maybe he was, since I wore the ring on the necklace and not on my finger. Why don't I wear it I wonder…strange…" Sherlock was thinking out loud, rather than actually speaking to Mycroft. His gaze once more dropped to the photos. So, he was engaged to this man in the photos. Why didn't he know? Shouldn't he feel something when he looked at this man? He looked back to his brother and clearly directed the question to the other man this time, "Do I love him?"

This was going to be far more complicated than Mycroft had originally intended. How did want to explain to his younger brother that he didn't physically wear the wedding ring on his finger because he was too busy with experiments that could ruin it? It wasn't simple knowledge, really. Sherlock didn't remember anything. He decided that explaining his job and his entire life could wait until they were back at their Mother's. He chose the question that needed to be answered almost right away. "Yes. Undoubtedly. You love him more than anything. I've never seen you so happy." His voice was low and full of regret as he spoke about Sherlock's fiancé.

A frown found its way to Sherlock's lips once more. "Hmmm…" He muttered. Shouldn't there be something then? Why did he feel nothing at all? "What happens if my memory doesn't return by the time he's finished with his tour? Should I still marry him? Even though there isn't an ounce of recognition? Of anything. Whatever I felt for him before isn't here now…will it return if I do remember I wonder…"

Mycroft tensed and cleared his throat. "That is entirely your decision. I haven't told him yet. He is, obviously, very busy and has things to focus on while he is out there. I don't know when I'm going to tell him." He trained his gaze on the pictures again and felt his heart tighten nervously in his chest. This was the last thing John needed was to find out that the one man he had fallen in love with suddenly didn't return the feelings because he had been a blasted idiot. "We could try and get him when he's free... you could video chat with him and explain the situation?"

"Me explain it? Uh...I guess…what should I say? 'Sorry, whatever I felt for you is gone along with my memory. Oh, by the way, how are things going in Afghanistan? Oh, I ruined your day you say?' Bloody brilliant." Sherlock shook his head at himself. He looked back up to Mycroft. "Is there anything else I should know about myself that might help return my memory in an expedite fashion?

"Probably not like that. Maybe a bit more of 'I seem to have lost my memory but I would still like to get to know you again since we used to shag like rabbits' might be a better response," Mycroft stated with a steady smile. There was a small falter in his demeanor as he debated on how to tell Sherlock what exactly he did. "Why don't you do me a favor and look at this picture and tell me what happened?" He reached into the inside of his jacket and pulled out a single photo, holding it out for Sherlock. It was of a man laying spread eagle, covered in his own blood without any actual physical wounds.

"Did we really?" Sherlock asked, although he supposed that made sense since Jackson had told him about all the love bites and scratches on his body as well. If this was true, why couldn't he recollect any of it? He took the photo and eyed the dead man and was surprised he wasn't in the least bit squeamish at the grisly site. "It's a dead guy. So what?" He frowned, wondering what the point of showing him this picture was. Then something caught his eye in the picture and without realizing, tilted the photo at a different angle to inspect it little more intently. Without thinking he began voicing his thoughts out loud. "The blood is old, not fresh. An analysis under a microscope should confirm it, as the red blood cells will be a bit damaged from the cold while it was stored for however long. Probably a forensic counter measure to confuse the police. Look for other means of cause of death, poison probably. Which means it was likely a woman. Probably his wife, or ex or soon to be ex. Wedding band is missing, as indicated by the pale imprint where it used to be on his finger. Removed recently, obviously." He blinked in surprise. How had he done that? It was the same way he had figured out things about Jackson without really meaning to. It just happened. He just knew. "Freakish," he muttered and returned the photo to his brother.

"That's you," Mycroft commented softly as he took the picture back. "That's what you do. You and John, when he's not invading Afghanistan. You solve crimes. You're a right genius." And now he was stuck in some hospital and didn't remember a damn thing. Nothing about who Sherlock Holmes was, nothing about how his life had changed for the better... nothing about the man who had done that. The even bigger worry was that it was possible for Sherlock to not remember anything at all. "And, to answer your previous question: yes. You two can't keep your hands off each other." His smile was tight lipped and he had trouble keeping his gaze on his younger brother.

"Solve crimes for a living? Really? Like a detective? Genius? Me?" Sherlock asked the questions consecutively and then finally took a breath, as he tried to wrap his mind around this information. It all seemed so foreign to him. How did none of this refresh his memory? He was being given all these answers but he still felt like he didn't know a thing about himself. With effort he gave a small smile back to his brother, but it didn't reach his eyes. He was still preoccupied with all his thoughts and trying and failing to get past the barrier that incessantly denied him access.

"Yes. One of the brightest people I know, Sherlock. You solve crimes that nobody else can." Mycroft glanced around the room and visibly grimaced. "Would you want to go back to our Mother's for the night once you are released?" He asked softly, scratching the back of his neck. "We could Skype John when he is done with patrol... explain the situation to him. It will give us a little more privacy to fully explain what is going on. Perhaps that is what you need to try and remember everything?"

"Mother's? Don't I have my own place? Please don't tell me I'm some loser who can't take care of himself…" Sherlock trailed off muttering under his breath at the thought of being one those ridiculously smart people but completely incapable of doing normal things. That wouldn't make sense though, if he was emotionally mature enough to handle a relationship that apparently involved a lot of shagging. Intense shagging by the sounds of it. He was so lost in his own thoughts, it took a moment to register the rest of what his brother had said. "Tonight? Already? So soon?" He bit his bottom lip at the thought. Was he ready for that? "We should see what Jackson thinks. He is the doctor after all. See if he thinks it is a good idea…?" There was a part of him that just wanted to see the doctor again. Even though the man was a stranger to him, he had felt some sort of connection when first waking up. A connection that so far he didn't feel with anyone else. He sighed. Oh God, had he just made things even more complicated? He was supposed to be getting married for fuck's sake. He sighed at his realization, and suddenly he didn't want to talk this John Watson character at all.

"Oh, no. You do have your own flat, I promise. You and John started out together as flatmates, actually. That's how you met." Mycroft had moved forward to start help Sherlock out of the bed and tensed suddenly. Why was Sherlock asking about this doctor? A man that wasn't John Watson. "Sherlock, we don't particularly need that man's opinion, alright? We'll just get you back to a place where we can watch over you and you can rest and I'm sure your memory will return in no time." He was clearly agitated as he held his hand out to help Sherlock out of the bed.

"I can't just leave…he should know. I don't want him to worry…" Sherlock spoke before he could stop himself. He sighed again. Well, might as well go for broke at this point. "If it's all right with you, I think I would rather stay a bit longer. I know I said I wanted to leave but I've changed my mind." He declined the offered hand and looked away from his brother.

Mycroft let his hand fall to his side rougher than intended and glanced around the room. "Fine. Just... fine. I'll be back in a few hours so you have enough time to figure all that out," he snapped as he turned on his heels and left the room.

Jackson entered the room hesitantly, lifting a hand to run through his short brown hair with a nervous laugh. "Everything alright in here, then? Figure out who that bloke in the pictures was?" He closed the door securely behind him with a small smile.

Sherlock watched his brother leave with a sigh. When the door opened again, he was relieved to see Jackson enter. He smiled back briefly and then frowned. "Yes. John Watson, the name of the guy on this ring." He tugged at the necklace briefly before going on. "He's my fiancé. He is over in Afghanistan. Apparently I went to visit him for some reason or other. It's why all those markings were on my body it would seem, even the bruises and burns. My brother didn't go into detail how it happened though. He wanted me to leave with him…" he coughed and looked away shyly, "…I didn't want to…"

"Oh. Fiancé," Jackson nodded slightly and shifted his shoulders to adjust the white coat now hanging on his shoulders. "Well, at least we figured out who he was, right? That's good." He nodded with pursed lips, moving toward the end of Sherlock's bed to study his charts. "But... you didn't want to go with your brother? Why is that? It is something familiar." His blue eyes glanced up for a moment, contrasting against his slightly tanned skin. "Could help bring your memory back." He pulled his bottom lip into his mouth and moved to check Sherlock's pulse again, lightly holding his wrist between his fingers.

"Yeah. Great." Sherlock replied with a lack of conviction. Why was he suddenly so nervous? He rubbed his arm with his hand. "I didn't go with him because I wanted to stay here…" he hesitated and then added, "…with you. I know it's stupid." He groaned at how ridiculous he must sound and he fought the urge to pull the bed sheet up over his head to hide his mortification.

A blush spread quickly across Jackson's skin and he nodded vigorously. "You wanted to stay with me?" His voice was a bit high-pitched and nervous. "T-That's good, too." He smiled warmly and studied the clipboard intently, not taking any of it in. "I would say that I want to take you on a date but you've got your fiancé and I don't really think that'd be appropriate, y'know?" The man in front of him was highly attractive but didn't even know who the Hell he was. It wasn't a very good idea to get emotionally invested despite everything he wanted to do.

Sherlock smirked slightly at Jackson's initial response and then frowned at the rest. Right. Of course. "Just one night of…fun…?" He ventured a bit nervously. Not a fair question at all. To either of them he supposed. And definitely not to the man he was engaged to. However, right now he didn't feel anything for the man in the photos. But right here, right now he did feel something. It was the only connection he had to anything and he wanted to cling to it as long as he could.

Jackson's head shot up instantly, eyes wide and chest stuttering as he tried to suck in a breath. Holy shit the man had just propositioned him. He shouldn't. He really, really shouldn't. Except... Sherlock would be out of the hospital by the end of the day and technically he wasn't even on shift. The moment Sherlock was done, so was he. "W-What did you have in mind?" He asked softly, setting the clipboard down to rest at the end of the bed. This man had a fiancé, what was he doing?

"I don't know…" Sherlock admitted. He fidgeted with the blanket beneath him, twisting it around his fingers nervously. "I know its wrong…not fair to put you in this position…I just…whatever I felt for my fiancé is gone right now…but I feel something…some sort of connection with you and right now it's the only one I have…" He trailed off feeling stupid with every word he spoke. After a moment he added, "my brother will be back in a couple hours…so if you wanted to…we'd probably have to leave now…"

Wrong. So, so wrong. Jackson glanced at the door, to Sherlock, and then took a deep breath. "W-We can stay here, the door locks, the blinds close... the room is practically sound proof since the hospital is private..." his voice trailed off as he took several steps backward to click the lock on the door. Damn the man's fiancé, Sherlock wanted to get shagged and so did he, it was the reason he had approached Sherlock before to begin with. His steps back toward the bed were slow and deliberate, giving Sherlock enough to back out if he wanted. The white doctor's jacket was dropped to the ground as the front of his knees bumped against the bed. "Are you sure?" He leaned forward and gently met Sherlock's lips, his eyes instantly closing.