On Monday, after the last of his patients were gone for the day and his paperwork was caught up, John went back to the hospital. He had heard nothing from Donovan – of course, she wasn't obliged to tell him anything. Even if Sherlock hadn't turned down the case, getting information from Donovan would probably be like pulling teeth. She had mellowed over the years, but hadn't ever warmed to Sherlock being on a case. John thought she probably never would.
He sent a quick text to Sherlock saying he'd be late and was mildly surprised when he didn't get a reply. Either the detective was busy or he was sulking about John's delay. John shrugged it off as he pocketed his phone and walked across the Westminster Bridge. Sherlock would guess – accurately – where he was going. And he could deal with it.
He made his way through the hospital to John Doe's room, which was being guarded by a constable who appeared to remember him from the previous day – that, or John was on some approved guest list. He still had his coat searched and was carefully patted down before being admitted; it was just as well he didn't carry his Browning everywhere.
Doe was dozing when John shut the door gently behind him. He hadn't been a surgeon in over eight years now but he still recognized the difference between a deep sleep and a light sleep in a recovering patient. The sound of John's soft footsteps as he crossed the room made Doe stir and he shifted slightly, a grimace of pain flickering over his features before he blinked himself awake. It took him a moment to focus his good eye on John and another few seconds for recognition to set in.
"Oh," he murmured, his voice laced with sleep and analgesics. "I remember you. You were here– earlier."
"Yesterday," John confirmed.
"The doctor, right? The one who works with Sherlock Holmes."
"That's right. John Watson."
The barest of smiles ghosted across pale lips.
"We have something in common, then," he murmured. John draped his coat over the back of a chair then did a quick evaluation of Doe's features. His good eyes was still glassy from the painkillers but his features were a touch more alert than they had been yesterday – insofar as they were visible beneath the bandages, bruises, and cuts.
"More than one thing," John said and Doe gave him a puzzled glance. "Mind if I sit?" The injured man shook his head slowly and John settled into the padded chair. "I was shot, too. And I've been in the hospital more times than I care to remember."
"Oh," Doe said. John smiled slightly; he knew he'd have to carry most of the conversation but that didn't bother him. He knew how frightening it was to be bedridden, exhausted and injured – and utterly alone. He had craved company beyond that of the other patients – who mostly slept or were lost in their own misery – and the doctors and nurses with their incessant questions.
And he's got the police to deal with, too, John thought.
He thought it might be nice to have someone who wasn't demanding answers, either legal or medical.
"I was in the army," John continued. "Afghanistan. About halfway through my second tour there when I got shot in the shoulder then discharged. Came back here to find almost all of my friends here had changed – or I had – and that everyone I really knew well was still over there." He gave a light shrug, almost to dismiss the situations, but he could easily remember how stunned he'd been at how different his old friends had seemed. How unaffected by – almost unaware of – the war they were.
"But you're still a doctor."
"Yeah, but I never went back to being a surgeon. Got a job at a surgery – routine stuff."
"Why?"
John grinned.
"Sherlock, mostly. Being a surgeon means being on call, hectic schedules. Living with Sherlock means the same thing. I need a break sometimes. It's nice to have some routine in my life."
"Work together and live together?" Doe murmured.
John nodded, realising that of course it may seem strange. He'd grown so used to life with Sherlock, where strange was normal, that nothing really struck him as particularly odd anymore. The few things that did tended to be things that everyone else took for granted.
"Yes," John said. "We're married."
"Oh," Doe said, nodding slightly. John sat back somewhat, unable to prevent the movement or the flash of shock. He'd adapted to the reactions, too – as much as they sometimes annoyed him. It was usually surprise, but sometimes shock or disgust. He always got something because he knew being married to another man wasn't the typical assumption and it probably would never be.
But this – this was just a straight acceptance of new information.
God, he really doesn't remember, John thought, suppressing the urge to shake his head, keeping his expression clear through years of experience dealing with post-op patients.
He had no frame of reference for the idea of same sex marriage and no opinions on it. Sherlock had been right – he was waiting for cues from others because he had no preferences or ideas of his own.
Doe licked his lips then coughed, wincing and curling in on himself as much as possible. John stood, helping him with a glass of water and Doe sipped it slowly but managed to finish the whole thing before lying back on his pillows.
"Thanks," he murmured tiredly. John raised his eyebrows as he put the glass aside – there was something. Doe had done that without thinking. He wondered if anyone else had noted the ingrained social nicety. How far back did habits have to go to so close to instinct that they weren't lost? How much had he retained that most people would not even notice as significant?
"You're welcome," John replied, unwilling to push the subject. He could mention it to the nurses to pass onto the doctors, but there was no sense in pushing Doe about it. It would most likely agitate him more than it would help him.
"Do you think– if I were married, wouldn't someone be looking for me?" Doe asked.
"Why do you think you're married?" John replied, sitting down again, propping his elbows on his knees and leaning forward somewhat. Doe lifted his left hand slightly from where it rested on the blanket, curling his fingers to draw John's attention to the ring.
"You've got one," he said, nodding to the gleaming band on John's finger. "The DI– the woman– "
"Donovan."
"Donovan. She said they were checking to see if anyone had reported me missing. A spouse, maybe. That's what this means, right?"
"Maybe," John conceded. He knew it was highly likely – but there was an off chance that Sherlock was right. Maybe Doe was wearing it as a cover. Or maybe he was just wearing it as a ring.
"Can I see it?" he asked. Doe nodded and John watched carefully for any hesitation, any reaction to being asked to remove his ring, but there was none. It was the same his response to seeing the scar on his leg the day before – as though he was dealing with a stranger's body.
John stood again and worked the ring off carefully. Doe's hands hadn't survived the attack unscathed but his right hand had born the worst of the damage. John eased the ring off of Doe's left ring finger carefully and held it up to the light. Eight years with Sherlock had taught him exactly what to look for in wedding bands. This one wasn't particularly dirty but nor was it cleaned on a regular basis – at least not as regularly as Sherlock cleaned their rings. The inside was no more polished than the outer surface, so he did not take off much, either.
"What are you looking for?" Doe asked.
"An engraving," John said. "Someone's name or a date, maybe. Sorry, nothing."
"Would that have helped?"
"Maybe. It might have given the police a name to start with."
Doe gave a resigned nod and John slipped the ring back on his finger, keeping a smirk to himself.
Just as well Sherlock isn't here, he thought. He hadn't missed detective's sudden and undivided attention when he'd examined the scar on Doe's leg. But he'd let it pass; he knew what real uncertainty from Sherlock looked like and that hadn't been it.
"Donovan said they think I might be from Manchester?"
"That's right," John confirmed.
"Why?"
"Your accent. Puts you from somewhere up in that area, most likely."
"Oh," Doe said again, then licked his lips, his gaze distant for a moment. "Where's that then?"
John blinked in surprised then nodded to himself. It was jarring to realize precisely how much he took for granted in terms of knowledge and memories. Was anyone else really even thinking about it? Or were the police and the doctors just giving Doe information that, to him, had absolutely no context?
It must be like trying to follow a conversation in another language if you only knew one or two words, he thought. He remembered his own time in the hospital and how much easier it had been to deal with the doctors and nurses because he was a doctor. He understood what they meant, he could read his chart, he knew the language. He realized he could not at all imagine what it would be like to have no frame of reference – or how terrifying that must be.
John pulled out his phone, called up a map of the UK and positioned himself next to the bed so that he could hold it and Doe could see it.
"We're here in London, England," he said, his index finger hovering just over the screen. "Here's Manchester, to the northwest. It's a city. Still in England. There's Scotland at the top, Wales in the west, and Ireland and Northern Ireland over here."
Doe nodded slightly and John caught himself again.
"England, Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland are part of the United Kingdom. Ireland is independent. Sorry, this probably isn't making much sense to you at the moment…"
Doe studied the display for a moment, then reached up with his good left hand, placed his thumb and forefinger on the screen and brought them together to zoom in on the map. John fumbled, so startled by the action that the phone nearly slipped through his fingers.
"What?" Doe asked.
"That! What you just did there. That–"
"What?" the injured man repeated.
John strained to keep his voice steady despite the sudden shock. "You didn't even think about that, did you? You just knew how to zoom in."
Doe stared at him and John grinned.
"It's called body memory," he said. "It's often unconscious. But it means you remember something. It means you're familiar enough with the technology that you probably use it on a regular basis. You probably have a smart phone – who doesn't nowadays?"
"I don't think I have one," Doe murmured and John opened his mouth to ask why not before realizing the other man was looking around the room.
"You weren't carrying one when you came in," John confirmed. "It doesn't mean you don't have one. You didn't have a wallet, either, and you definitely own one of those. But we could identify you by your phone and wallet. You'd keep things like credit cards – for buying things – and maybe a driver's permit in there, if you drive. But that– I'm not a neurologist, but I think that was a very good sign."
Doe was watching him with a hint of hope behind the fatigue in his features. John gave him a grin before putting his phone away.
"That's two things you've remembered since I've been here," he said, deciding to just go for broke.
"Two? What was the first?"
"You thanked me when I got you water."
"Oh. Is that odd?"
"Only because it's not odd at all," John replied. "It's something you had to learn to do. Saying 'please' when you want something, saying 'thank you' when you're given something. We all learn it – well, most us learn it – when we're small. So you would have been doing it your whole life. But the phone... you're about my age – I'm forty-five – but these kind of phones have been around for– what? Maybe ten years? Fifteen? So it's something you had to learn to do much more recently."
Doe looked mildly surprised and John gave him another grin.
"Again, not a neurologist, but I'd say it means you're retaining more recent memories, too."
"Oh," Doe said again. "Good."
"Brilliant," John replied.
"Too bad it's not useful. Wouldn't my name be better than knowing how to zoom in on your phone?"
"Give it time," John said, then paused when Doe grimaced and began coughing again. He waited until it passed, listening carefully to his breathing. There was some congestion and wheezing, but nothing that alarmed him, especially given the extent of his injuries. He'd suffered his own coughing bouts after his surgery, the gasps wracking his injured shoulder until he'd had to swallow on the coughs to avoid passing out from the pain.
"Here," he said, helping Doe with more water once the worst of the spasms had abated. The other man drank gratefully – small sips only – and John could tell he was on the verge of falling asleep again. The doctor set the glass aside and gave Doe a reassuring smile.
"Get some rest," he said. "Right now, it's the best thing you can do for yourself."
"I hear that a lot," Doe murmured.
"Sound medical advice, believe me. If you'd like, I can stop by again tomorrow."
Another pale smile tugged at Doe's lips.
"Yeah," he said. "It's nice to have some company."
"I know," John replied. "Get some rest. I'll see you again tomorrow afternoon." He doubted the other man had heard the last sentence – he'd closed his good eye and his body had relaxed as his breathing had slowed, all before John had finished talking. He waited a couple minutes to make sure Doe stayed asleep and that the coughing fit didn't return, then gathered his jacket and went home.
When John got home, the flat was dark and silent. He clicked on a light and glanced around; Sherlock's coat was hanging on the back of the door, so he wasn't out. There were no yellow notes peppered about the flat this time – although the memory made him smile – so he assumed his husband was downstairs helping Mrs. Hudson with something. He was just about to head down to check when Sherlock's voice came ringing up the stairs.
"John! Come down here!" he called imperiously, his tone leaving no doubt that he'd be obeyed. John smirked when he heard his husband's footsteps retreating toward Mrs. Hudson's flat. He toed off his shoes and hung his coat before heading back downstairs. The door to the A flat was open, soft yellow light spilling out into the common corridor. John peered inside and saw Sherlock watching him from the archway that led into the living room. Mrs. Hudson was not immediately visible but John could hear her puttering around. There were tinselly garlands strung in loose arcs along the walls near the ceilings and a scatter of pine needles on the floor leading into the living room – evidence of their Christmas decorating.
Sherlock was watching John expectantly, as if waiting for him to do something.
"Yes?" John asked.
"Well? Come in!" Sherlock said, beckoning impatiently with one hand. John stepped inside and Sherlock rolled his eyes, gesturing again. He moved next to his husband, peering into the living room where Mrs. Hudson turned from hanging decorations on the tree to give him a warm smile.
"Hello, John," she said.
"Hullo, Mrs. Hudson," John replied. "Sherlock behaving himself?"
He heard the soft impatient huff from beside him and resisted a smile.
"He's been a godsend," she replied. "That height! I don't trust myself on ladders or chairs anymore."
John nodded, glad to hear that. Her hip gave her more grief when the weather was colder, and the years had made it worse, too. He didn't like to think of her alone in her flat on a ladder or a chair. If she fell, it was unlikely that either he or Sherlock would hear it – if they were even home.
"It's not working," Sherlock complained and John glanced up at him but his husband was looking at Mrs. Hudson now. She smiled back at Sherlock with a warm patience that reminded John suddenly and sharply of Sibyl.
"Well, I don't think he's noticed it, dear," she replied.
"Noticed what?" John asked.
Sherlock made an impatient noise and pointed to the ceiling above him. John looked up to see a little sprig of mistletoe dangling from the archway. He grinned and rolled his eyes.
"Obviously your theory that it– mmph– " Sherlock managed before John leaned up and shut him up with a kiss. He saw Mrs. Hudson smile out of the corner of his eye as he swallowed on Sherlock's shock and kept kissing him until he relaxed.
"I'd say it works just fine," John replied. He saw Sherlock attempt a scornful expression but the light in his eyes gave him away.
"Then these will be useful," Sherlock said and John glanced down to see him opening his left fist, which contained two small branches. The doctor's grin widened. One was going in the doorway to the kitchen and one in the doorway to their bedroom if he had any say in it.
"Why don't I take these and hang them up?" John asked. "You finish up down here. I'll order dinner while I'm at it. Thai sound all right?"
"Yes," Sherlock replied. "I won't be long."
John smiled. "Good night, Mrs. Hudson."
"Good night, dear."
John headed back upstairs and ordered the food before hanging the mistletoe where he wanted it. He thought he'd get another sprig for above the door to their flat – and maybe the bathroom door as well. He grinned at the idea of not being able to pass through any door without claiming a kiss. Not that he couldn't anyway – Sherlock was happy to oblige.
While waiting for the food and for Sherlock to come upstairs, John dug out their own Christmas decorations and set the box in the living room. They'd need to get a tree and he'd have to do that sometime this week. One year he'd sent Sherlock, which had not ended well. They did have high ceilings but the detective had not seen the problem with buying a twelve foot tall tree and expecting it to fit in their flat.
There was a knock on the door just as Sherlock was coming up the stairs, so John tossed his wallet down. Sherlock joined him a few minutes later, putting the takeaway bag on the counter.
"Beer?" John asked.
"No," Sherlock said coolly. His beer moods were few and far between.
"Wine?"
"With Thai food? I don't think so, John."
"Suit yourself."
"I always do," Sherlock murmured.
"You're telling me," John said, snagging a beer for himself as Sherlock filled both their plates. He never gave John enough but John didn't mind – that's what seconds were for. He followed Sherlock into the living room, stopping for a requisite kiss in the doorway under the mistletoe, and settled onto the couch with him. Sherlock propped his feet on John's legs and John rested his plate on his husband's ankles. They ate in companionable silence, then Sherlock put his plate on the floor and slouched down a bit.
"You went to the hospital," he commented.
John raised his eyebrows, waiting for the explanation, and Sherlock waved a bored hand.
"You smell of hospital disinfectant – not strongly, so you were just there long enough to pick up that rather unfortunate scent. You will have to shower before bed, you know."
John grinned.
"I don't mind showering."
"I know you don't. But you will wash yourself thoroughly if you have any hope of a good shag."
"All right," John agreed. He didn't note or care about the smell much but Sherlock had developed a strong aversion to it after being hospitalized following the crash.
"Yes, I was at the hospital," he said. "I wanted to see how John was doing."
Sherlock scowled and slouched down further.
"He's not John, you're John," he said, digging a big toe into John's thigh. The doctor rolled his eyes.
"It is a common name," he reminded his husband. Sherlock made a derisive noise.
"Presumably he has doctors." John pinched the arch of Sherlock's left foot and his husband scowled, pulling his feet back. John took the opportunity to get up so he could help himself to more food.
"Of course he has doctors," he called from the kitchen. "And police working on his case. But the doctors and nurses have other patients and the police have other cases. I thought he might want to see a friendly face who just wanted to talk to him."
"I want to see you, too," Sherlock sniffed as John came back into the living room.
"Move your feet or I'll sit on them," he said and Sherlock did because he knew John would make good on his threat. "You're seeing me right now. You can see me all night. As much of me as you want."
Sherlock waggled his eyebrows suggestively and John smirked. The detective pressed the soles of his feet against the sides of John's thigh, wiggling his toes.
"He's in the hospital alone and he has no memory. If it were me, I'd be terrified. I just thought he might like a bit of company. It's almost the holidays. Can you imagine spending Christmas without your family?"
As soon as the words had left his lips, John realized what he was saying and froze. His stomach twisted and he wished desperately that he could pull them out of the air where they hung between him and Sherlock and erase their existence altogether.
Sherlock had stiffened against him, expression blank and shut down.
"I– " John started but Sherlock spoke over him.
"Yes," he said softly. "I can."
"I didn't mean–" John tried again but Sherlock swung himself up and padded into the bedroom, leaving the door open behind him, not bothering with the light. John cursed to himself and put his plate aside quickly before hurrying after him. He found Sherlock stretched out on the bed, hands folded on his stomach, looking through the darkness at the ceiling.
"Sherlock– "
"Please don't, John," Sherlock sighed. John hesitated, biting his lower lip. If Sherlock had moved at all, curled up on his side facing away from him, sat up against the headboard and sulked, John would have reconsidered. The softness in his voice and his stillness made the doctor nod. Sherlock needed to be alone now.
John went back into the living room, feeling numb and stupid. He took his plate into the kitchen, his appetite having vanished, and dealt with the leftovers and then the washing up. This didn't take long, so John went through the fridge, getting rid of expired food and making a short list of the things they needed to replace. With that done, he tidied up the rest of the kitchen, avoiding the biohazard zone that was their table. He was almost finished when he heard Sherlock come into the living room and then retreat into their bedroom again. John wiped his hands on a towel quickly and hurried back toward the bedroom.
Sherlock was lying on the bed again, holding his violin bow carefully. John hesitated in the doorway, watching carefully.
"I'm not going to break it," Sherlock said without glancing up. John sighed, pushing himself away from the doorframe to cross the room and climb onto his side of the bed. He sat down cross-legged, regarding Sherlock thoughtfully. Sherlock kept his eyes on the bow, his expression unreadable in the low lighting.
"I'm sorry," John said. "I didn't mean that."
"I know you didn't," Sherlock replied. John sighed again. He wasn't going to run from this now – but he didn't think it would be a confrontation, either.
"I'm not angry," Sherlock continued.
"No," John agreed. "You're sad. That's worse. Because there's nothing I can say to make it any better."
"I don't need you to say anything, John."
John nodded. He sat still for a moment, then took the bow carefully from Sherlock, whose grey eyes flickered to him questioningly. John got up and set it on the dresser then returned to the bed. He lay down, stretching out beside his husband, gathering Sherlock into his arms. The detective stayed stiff and still for a moment, then sighed and rolled onto his side into John's embrace. Sherlock wrapped an arm around John's waist then nuzzled his face into the doctor's neck. John felt the warm brush of air against his skin and the soft kiss of eyelashes as Sherlock shut his eyes.
John rested his chin against the top of Sherlock's head and closed his eyes as well. He held on, keeping the silence, for a long time.