So. John's without some memories.

Sherlock knew something was wrong when John started checking his blog for cases. And he wasn't at the clinic working. And he wasn't casually touching Sherlock or even speaking to him at all. Sherlock had almost forgotten what it felt like without John coming up behind him and hugging him, calling him darling (he still thought it was sexy), kissing him. He felt empty, now that he knew where things could go if they both just tried it.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?" Sherlock tried to look as uninterested and cold as possible. John could read him better than anyone, so he had to be careful what he showed to him.

"When was the last time you ate?" Common question, what answer should be used?

"Yesterday," he lied, knowing John would be suspicious if he said morning.

"Morning or afternoon?"

"Pancakes," he replied.

John gave Sherlock an exasperated look. "That doesn't answer my question."

"Pancakes."

He rolled his eyes. "What would it take for you to answer my question correctly?"

"For one, I did. For two, at this stage, you don't want to know what I require as payment." Sherlock was surprised to see John wasn't letting this go. And he wanted a kiss, but it was an awfully terrible thing to think about when John had no idea about any of their previous more desirable activities.

"I think I know what you want, Mr. Tight-Lipped. Literally." John smiled. Why would he be smiling, for any reason? It didn't make any sense. Then again, nothing in Sherlock's mind palace made sense when it came to John.

"What would I want? This is quite the opportunity to work on your deduction skills." Sherlock saw John move forward, but almost couldn't register it. He had to be dreaming, this didn't happen in his pre-suicide life.

"You want something from me specifically. I see the way you've been staring at me lately, like I have something you crave but can't reach. It's maddening, it infuriates you, but you're scared. Why would you be scared of me?" Or you are the something I crave, the detective thought, almost laughing at how ironic and positively insane the situation. And, of course he was scared? How did you explain to a memory-blocked version of your best friend and boyfriend that you wanted to kiss him and touch him and generally make a fool out yourself telling him your feelings without being scared?

Sherlock could feel his eyes tightening. Damn, how had this happened? He was so careful, he made certain he wasn't giving away any clues. "But what do I want?" This was more than just about the pancakes now. Ugh, and pancakes were so simple compared to this mess.

John reached a hand out, but Sherlock shrugged away from it. This was wrong, in this time, in this place. John wasn't supposed to know; he would leave Sherlock, and that would be the end of that. "You want..."

"Oh, please. Don't just leave me hanging after that little speech," the detective said scathingly. "Spit it out."

The doctor raked the outstretched hand through Sherlock's hair, effectively shutting him up. "Let me finish." When Sherlock gave him a confused and slightly betrayed look, John grinned devilishly (again, sexy) and added, "Your brother told me it was the easiest way to calm you." He paused. "And I can see you're now planning the murder of Mycroft."

"No, I'm not," Sherlock pouted.

John gave him the Captain Look. "You are stubborn, more so than anyone I know. If you wanted something from anyone, you wouldn't hesitate to tell them that. The mere fact that you're avoiding this makes it a more sensitive subject than I originally thought. And since it has something to with me, you won't make this easy."

"You're making this quite difficult," Sherlock muttered, trying to sound like his normal self. Failing.

"There you go again," John huffed. "What will it take to get it out of you?"

"And you call me stubborn."

John smiled. "Love..." Sherlock winced at the word. That was not Boyfriend-John, he was not allowed to do anything. Nothing like the lovely things coming to mind with Sherlock's eyes on that mouth. "If you don't want to tell me, I'm okay with that. But, I like knowing things about you that also have to do with me. For the record, I honestly have no idea why you keep me around, so that would be nice to know."

Sherlock couldn't help it: his mouth fell open. He tried to skirt around most gestures that looked unintelligent, but this was John, so it didn't matter. "How can you not know?"

John looked surprised. "You're not exactly the most open of people. The things I know about you, you've told me."

Sherlock shook his head. "John, John, John, John." He said it disapprovingly, but he also really liked the name on his lips, the way it sounded. "Have you ever seen someone tolerate me, like me, pay attention to me as much as you? Don't even answer that, you know you haven't.

"You, John Watson, are my sounding board, my mirror, my lens. You help me see what I'm missing. I've told you this before, how can you be such an..." Sherlock searched for a not-incriminating word, "illuminating person and not remember that?" I'm in love with you, I'm in love with you, I'm in love with you, he chanted to himself. He could not say it aloud, no matter how much he wanted to.

"But I'm just a normal person," John said.

And oh, was that the most incorrect thing to say to Sherlock Holmes at that precise moment. "No, you're not," he managed to get out without screaming that if John was normal, Sherlock wouldn't have so stupidly fallen for him! "Whomever has told you that told a grievous lie, indeed." He swept off into his bedroom, resisting the simultaneous urges to strangle and jump the doctor.

John, looking after the detective, was very confused. There was no real reason why Sherlock would show that much emotion in respect to the army doctor, especially since he thought of himself as quite normal. Had he gotten too close to a truth Sherlock didn't want him to know? Was Sherlock nervous about something more impacting than a question about when he'd eaten? John face-palmed. Of course he was.

What did Sherlock want?

John put his face in his hands, thinking. This was very important, but he had no clue why or how. Something about him and Sherlock made the detective uncomfortable, but he didn't know whether that was the closeness, or how close they had yet to get. John knew Sherlock was 'married to his work', John knew he'd had a huge number of girlfriends, John knew he was the closest thing Sherlock had to a friend. But, the common frustration, what the hell was it supposed to mean?!

It was like Sherlock had laid all the puzzle pieces in front of him, muddled up and in the wrong spots, and asked John to put them together three-dimensionally. Something was going on in Sherlock's mind, and John would try his damnedest to figure it out.

John went out to grab takeaway not long after that strange conversation. He took a cab to Angelo's, fidgeting in his seat. The cabbie, in fact, asked him to stop, because he was being distracting to the driver.

Relief washed over John as he walked inside the familiar restaurant, smelled the Italian food. "Hello?" he called, approaching the counter.

"Oh, hello, John! How's our detective?" Angelo asked loudly. John sometimes wondered if that man had a whisper voice.

He felt a weird emotion fill him when Angelo called Sherlock 'our detective'. John wasn't sure if it was the sharing of the genius or the affection that got to him. "Sherlock hasn't eaten since yesterday, and I was thinking I'd surprise him with food."

Angelo nodded. "Your usual, then?"

"Yes, thank you."

The bigger, louder man headed into the kitchen to tell the order to the staff, and then came back out to John. "I'm pretty tickled you two crazy boys got together. Makes an old bloke like me happy."

Okay, what? "Er, yeah." John decided to play along for the moment. He'd be out soon, anyway.

"Going on dates where you actually admit you're dating? That's just lovely, that is. You were such a gentleman." Angelo sighed, and John was halfway between running outside without the food and laughing. "And the kiss was sweet, too."

Hold up. Kiss? John's mind was ticking a million km an hour with no clear stopping point. How had this happened, and when? Was John drunk? Had he gotten a hold of Sherlock's drugs? He was sure he'd remember that. Kissing...Sherlock. The thing that caught him the most was that he wasn't against kissing Sherlock, he just wanted to know everything before that. Why did they go out on a date? Who had asked whom? When had they done that?

"Well, I'm glad you think so," John replied, his voice wavering, and cursing his nonexistent ability to lie.

Angelo went back to the kitchen and returned with two takeaway boxes in his large hand. "Enjoy, and tell Sherlock hello from me!"

"I will, thank you." John left the restaurant as fast as he could without looking like a robber.

When he got back to the flat, he found Sherlock laying on the couch, a nicotine patch gracing his forearm. "Hi," John said, announcing his presence to the close-eyed genius.

"I smell you've brought Italian food from Angelo's. Did he have any comments to bestow?"

John hovered above him with the boxes, really not sure what to tell him that wasn't a lie. "He says hello and enjoy."

Sherlock's eyes flashed open, and he sat up fluidly. "My usual?"

"Chicken alfredo," John answered, smiling slightly and handing him the box.

"Thank you." So, Sherlock was saying thank you now? Not that John was complaining, it was really nice, but seriously, something wasn't entirely right.

John and Sherlock dug into their meals, staying silent for a little while. The doctor was absolutely bursting with the strange things Angelo had said in the restaurant, but he didn't want to interrupt Sherlock eating, which didn't happen nearly enough as he would have liked. When Sherlock was three-fourths of the way finished with his chicken alfredo, John opened his mouth to ask about it, but the genius spoke first.

"There's something I'd never understood," Sherlock started.

John couldn't help the grin that spread across his face. "Really? I would love to hear about this."

Sherlock glared at him and ate another bite of his pasta. "I couldn't comprehend why people need to be remembered by everyone. Most people accomplish nothing lasting in their pathetic lives, be it physical or fundamental. True changes come rarely; everything in our minds is the same as it was one hundred, five hundred, one thousand years ago. Jealousy, greed, lust, brief moments of happiness, but it means nothing. We are like candle flames, and we burn out as easily. How can people be expected to remember a single fire out of billions?"

The doctor watched him closely for a moment. "You said couldn't."

"What?"

"You couldn't comprehend why people need to be remembered." John wouldn't let Sherlock's eyes stray from his. He wasn't giving up that easy. "But you understand now, don't you?"

"What if I just deleted it?" Sherlock looked quite uncomfortable, but John wasn't done yet.

"What if I'll get it out of you anyway?"

Sherlock suddenly smirked. "You're learning from me."

"So much that I won't let you change the subject." John was confident he had the consulting detective in a corner. Of course, Sherlock knew that would never be true.

Sherlock leaned quickly forward to kiss John, and moved almost faster back. The doctor's eyes were wide, and getting wider by the second; the genius had to reassure himself that John wouldn't recall any of this when the other John came back. He forced another lopsided smirk on his face and said, "Darling, I need you to remember me so that I know I have a heart that hasn't burned yet."

When John opened his eyes, he looked at the clock on his mobile. Not long after a dinner of sorts, if the takeaway boxes were any sort of evidence. His boyfriend had loud classical music on in the kitchen, since he couldn't play the violin and clean at the same time. Wait, Sherlock was cleaning?

"Darling, why are you cleaning the kitchen?" he called.

Sherlock yelled over the music, "I'm cleaning because you deserve a night off. You bought dinner, it's only fair I finish the process."

John stood up and went into the same room as his boyfriend, placing a hand on the counter. "You don't have to do that."

The detective fixed the doctor with a tired look that reminded him of the Lestrade man he'd met on Harry's kidnapping case. "Yes, I do." He kissed John softly, and then continued his activities.

While John wandered into the sitting room, contemplating what the gestures meant, Sherlock banged his head once on the cupboards. He wasn't sure how long he could last like this, hiding from old John, hiding from new John. He'd learned lying to the army doctor was always worse than telling the truth.

I discovered upon checking my stats that this story has been viewed over 6000 times! Holy crap, I do not deserve such lovely readers as yourselves. I decided to publish two chapters in one day to show my thanks. Read + review, please!