Upon his return to the empty flat, John sank down in his chair with a certain heaviness wracking his body. He looked over at the couch and imagined his tall, lanky friend sprawled out on it, complaining about a case that they were on and how blatantly obvious the solution was it. John looked behind him and saw Sherlock waltzing into the living room with his blue silk robe and looking at John with the look that he wanted company but didn't know how to ask, but John knew. John always knew.

But all he can hear in his head right now is that conversation he had with him in the hospital.

"Who are you?"

"I don't know who you are!"

"Can you excuse yourself? You're giving me a headache."

John closed his eyes and took an inhale so deep that he thought his chest was going to burst. The man that John spent so long mourning for was lying in a hospital cot, unconscious. John imagined so many different scenarios on his way to Bart's. He imagined Sherlock was sitting in the bed, fully dressed and fussing with the nurses who were only trying to make sure he was fit enough to leave. He imagined Mycroft and him getting into a hushed argument, probably Sherlock turning his worried brother away or him trying to convince Mycroft that he was perfectly okay and could return to 221b with John. He never imagined that Sherlock would stare at him with the look he had on his face. The reserved anger and confusion of seeing John, the frustration of being told that they were acquainted in the past and that they were best friends, but never seeing that person in your life. John was angry, but he couldn't help but think about how Sherlock was feeling. People rarely do.

Hearing a familiar knock at the door, followed by the also familiar, "Yoo-hoo!" was Mrs. Hudson. She had that ever so cheerful and maternal smile on her face as she walked into the flat. She looked around the room and then her eyes glanced over to Sherlock's stuff that was sitting on his desk, collecting dust. She shook her head.

"It's been a while since I've been up here. I really should dust that and clean the place up a bit but…it's just…Sherlock would have a right fit if I touched his belongings…"

John forgot. Besides Mycroft, John was the only other person who knew that Sherlock was still alive. Everybody else was kept in the dark. Part of John wanted to tell her, along with everybody else, but if she were to see Sherlock in the state that he was in now, he can't bear to see how much it would hurt her. She loves Sherlock and John so much that they might as well be her own kids, they love her too and that's why John is going to wait to tell her. But he doesn't know how long the amnesia is going to last, or if it will ever go away.

"I know Mrs. H, I miss him too. I can't bear to touch any of his stuff either."

He saw her eyes getting teary. Her hand moved to her mouth to prevent her from doing something she didn't want to do, it was probably so many things. John wanted to comfort her, but he was going through his own grief and he could barely stand that. Mrs. Hudson was the one to break that awkward tension, all the sadness leaving her face and the bubbly happiness returning.

"How are you John, you barely come downstairs anymore, are you eating? Do you need anything? I'm only doing this because you're going through a rough time. Remember that I'm your landlady and not your housekeeper. "

John gave a bitter smile.

"I'm fine, Mrs. H, I know I haven't been coming to see you and I'm sorry. I've been eating enough to get by."

She shook her head in a scolding fashion.

"Rubbish. Come downstairs and we'll have a meal together. It'll do us both some good."

John wanted to decline and to tell her to leave him to his self-wallowing and pity, but he didn't have the heart to. She was only trying to help and to do what she thought would make him feel better. Remember, she's the surrogate mother. He resigned to agree, and followed her downstairs to her flat so that they could do their best to enjoy the company of each other. And maybe John could at least pretend that Sherlock was going to return to home with his brilliant memory intact. That everything was going to be okay.

Sherlock was lying in his cot, trying to stop his infernal head ache from pounding away inside of his skull, when the man he remembered calling himself Mycroft walked into his room again. He groaned at the sight of the overly demure and posh man with his umbrella standing at the side of his bed. Holding the side of his head as if it were about to fall off, Sherlock slowly sat up, not trying to irritate his issue anymore and have it progress into a migraine.

"What is the matter? Having a bit of head problem? Do you need a nurse?"

Sherlock glared at Mycroft.

"I do not need any more people coming into my room to poke and prod at me as they please. You included. "

Mycroft's lips pursed together.

"When are you going to understand, it IS my job to poke and prod at you, and to tell you the truth, I am far better than any of these nurses here."

"What makes you say that?"

That smug smile came to his smooth lips and he started twirling his beloved umbrella. Sherlock watched with slight disgust at the man.

"Because I know you, that's why."

"I have never seen you before in my life…"

"Mycroft."

"Pardon?"

"You were looking for my name, I could see your eyes darting back in forth for previous recollection of when you have heard it but it was not coming to your mind as quickly as you hoped. So I thought I would just tell you and save you the trouble, as I am so accustomed to doing."

Sherlock's brow rose at intrigue to Mycroft.

"Alright, Mycroft care to answer a few questions for me, since you and I go way back, apparently."

"Oh you have no idea." Mycroft teased.

"That man who came in here, who looked so sad when he saw me, was he right? Do I actually know him?"

Mycroft looked him up and down.

"His name is John Watson, and why do you care? Last time I checked, you were completely indifferent to the man."

Sherlock's agitation rose.

"Do you get off on being so cryptic?"

"I should ask you the same thing."

Mycroft was obviously taking pleasure in this. Sherlock, however, was in no mood for these childish games. After a short while, Mycroft finally opened his mouth to speak.

"Tell me Sherlock, do you really want to know the answer to that question?"

"Do I?"

Mycroft pulled out his phone, smirking at the screen of it instead of the person he was talking to. As he pressed the buttons on it, he answered, "I think you do and I'll give you the answer to all the questions you have."

Sherlock was unsure of all of this and doubted the man in front of him.

"How can I trust you?"

With those cold eyes flickering over to the gray ones, he simply uttered, "You can't. But you have no choice but to trust me."

"I do."

"Yes."

Sighing in defeat, Sherlock released the side of his head and laid back in the bed.

"Since I have no other option, where are we going?"

The low rumbling of Mycroft's chest told Sherlock that he was laughing. Was he laughing at the situation, or was he laughing at Sherlock himself? Since he looked like a primped up prat, Sherlock thought that it was both.

"That's for me to know and for you to find out…"

~~~~~~~~~~~
After the surprisingly pleasant dinner with Mrs. Hudson, John returned upstairs after saying his goodnights. While it wasn't a drastic change, he did feel a little bit of something being lifted off of him. Maybe this is what he needed, maybe all he needs is somebody to talk to, somebody who can distract him from the troubled thoughts of his friend…or was it more than that?

Trying his best to push those thoughts to the back of his head, he opened the door to his flat to find the one person he had been trying to move on from, the person who shooed him away at the hospital, sitting in his old chair and looking around the flat with unfamiliarity. John, still standing in the doorway, unnoticed by the curious detective had his mouth hanging open as an invitation to any lingering flies. He almost didn't hear himself mutter Sherlock's name. Said person snapped his eyes at the entrance to find the ex-soldier standing there. The grey eyes cutting into John's with a burning intensity.

"Sherlock?" John said louder than before.