A/N: This is the final chapter. I hope you've all enjoyed the story, and I like to take this moment to thank you all for reading and reviewing. I'd also like to point out that there is a French version available by CruelleIronie. Anyway, thank you all so much for the feedback (again), it means so much to me. I hope you enjoy this final chapter!

P.S. I'd also like to add that I am not a medical professional.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock!

Chapter Eight:

John looked about the hospital with a grimace, remembering the dusty tent he had operated out of only a few months ago. With the memories came an ache in his shoulder, and then his leg, as the thought of how close he came to losing everything rose in his mind. He pushed himself forwards, towards the reception desk, and forced the memories away.

"Um, excuse me?" He said quietly.

The woman glanced up at him, and then to the cane he practically clung to, and smiled politely. "Do you have an appointment?"

"Er, no. I'm here to visit someone. His name is Sherlock Holmes?"

"One moment please." She replied, typing quickly on her computer. "Are you family?"

"No, I'm… a friend. A close friend."

The woman nodded, pulling out a small card to write the room number on. "Room 442. Y'know," she added, leaning closer, "he's been here nearly a month. And you're the third person to visit him. In all that time!"

John allowed himself a small smile. "He's not much of a people person." He said fondly.

"I heard he was really smart."

"He's a genius." John replied, heading for the lift.

When he reached the room, John wasn't sure what to expect. It wasn't this. Dark curls, unkempt and unwashed, sprawled messily onto the pillow or onto his face, clinging to greasy, pale, sickly skin. He was thinner than the last time John had seen him, verging on gaunt. Various tubes snaked away from his arms and nose to machines John had only dealt with in his years at Medical School. He couldn't help the gasp that passed his lips as the sight before him jarred violently with his memories. He hesitantly stepped into the room and made his way to Sherlock's side, his hand hovering just above his cheek. "Sherlock?"

The man remained silent and unmoving. John felt a lump well up in his throat, sucking in a deep breath and reminding himself that it could be worse. Limping back to the end of the bed, he glanced over the charts. If he could have banged his head against the wall, he would. Considering that was probably inappropriate for a hospital environment, he instead sank into the vacant chair and fixed the unconscious man with a tired stare. "What have you done, Sherlock? What have you done?" He asked quietly.

"Got hit by a car for starters." A professional and stern voice told him.

Looking up, John frowned at the woman standing in the doorway. He debated getting up, but his leg quickly reminded him why this was a very bad idea. "Er, hello. Who are you?"

The woman pursed her lips, looking thoughtful. "I feel like an Emily today. And may I ask, who are you?"

"I'm John. I'm a friend of Sherlock's."

"I was told he didn't have friends."

"He has me."

"Does he? Then where have you been all this time?" Emily asked severely.

John gritted his teeth. "In Afghanistan. Getting shot at."

"You couldn't have picked up a phone? Written a letter?"

"We had to maintain radio silence." John replied, glaring at the woman. "And who the fuck are you, exactly? Why am I explaining myself to you?"

"I'm an interested party in Mr Holmes' affairs." Emily retorted, crossing her arms over her chest.

"What happened to him? How long has he been like this?"

"Why should I tell you?"

John was on his feet instantly, hands balled into fists. "Because when I left he wasn't in a hospital bed. When I left, he was telling me about the flat we were going to have and the crimes we were going to solve. When I left, I had something to come back to. Now I want to know what's fucked up and how I can fix it, so if you don't mind, I'd appreciate a little cooperation."

Emily raised an eyebrow at him, before shrugging and stepping into the room. "I only know as much as his doctors do. He was running through traffic and he just stepped out in front of a taxi. He somehow survived without too much damage, but there's been… complications."

"What complications? How- How did he not see a taxi coming at him?" John demanded.

"He was high. According to the tests, he had enough cocaine in his system to take out an African bull elephant. They figure he was hallucinating."

"Cocaine? Why would he- No. This man- Sherlock- He- He just wouldn't. He couldn't. No. W- Why? Why would he…?" John stammered, looking between his friend and Emily.

"Why does anyone get high? My guess is he was lonely. Or frustrated. Or looking for a thrill. Either way, he's lucky to be alive."

"You mentioned complications?"

"He's been here three weeks. In that time, he's been in and out of consciousness. But from what the medical staff can gather from his few coherent statements, he thinks he twenty-one and that he has a paper due in a week."

"Amnesia?"

Emily nodded. "They aren't sure if he'll get it all back."

At that moment, John could swear he felt his heart shatter. He wouldn't allow himself to cry, not yet, not in front of this stranger. He couldn't show how much the idea stabbed at him. Because if Sherlock didn't remember, then John's entire future would fade away to nothingness. His four years in a desert dodging bullets and burrowing into the earth like a wombat, thinking only of London and a tall man in a dark coat waiting for him, would never let him be, would never let him forget how it was all for nothing.

I should have been here. I should never have left. He NEEDED me and I wasn't here. And now he's forgotten me.

"What are the chances he'll… never remember me?" He asked quietly.

"When did you first meet?"

"He was twenty-three." John answered, smiling as the memory came into focus.

"Well, the bad news is that you fall inside the does not remember radius. The good news is that if he does start remembering things, being an older memory, he's likely to remember you sooner rather than later."

"I- I suppose that's a good thing." John said, gritting his teeth as his leg reminded him that jumping to his feet in a fit of rage was no longer a plausible option. Taking a deep breath, he pulled a small notepad out of his pocket and scribbled down a number, handing it to the girl. "If- If he remembers me… If he starts asking where John is… would you have him call me? My old number was in his phone but it's changed and, um, I just want him to have it. Could you do that for me?"

"I'll make sure that he gets it." She replied, tucking it into a purse.

"Thank you." John nodded and plodded over to Sherlock's side. For a moment he stared down at his sleeping friend, thinking about how, despite the state he was in, he still held his unnatural beauty. In a split second he had bent down and planted a tender kiss on his forehead. "Don't forget me forever, okay?" He added in a whisper. Straightening up, he nodded to the woman and left.

After a minute, the woman pulled out her phone and began dialling. It rang twice before being answered. "Sir? Yes, I believe he's the one. Yes. I'll set out about a meeting as soon as he wakes up. And of course, sir, I will be subtle."

"Good." The man on the other end crooned. "I would hate for my dear brother to be alone for the rest of his life. Well done, Mary."