John couldn't stand to see Sherlock in that much pain. He knew that he was struggling with his memory, which is the last thing a person with a mind like Sherlock should be having issues with. John wasn't quite used to dealing with people with amnesia so he spent some of his free-time on his laptop that has been hack free since Sherlock couldn't remember the password, searching up some ways to help them. Since a lot of the websites said practically the same thing, which was get a doctor or a therapist to help the affected individual, John sighed. He was going have to do this on his own then. If Sherlock wanted to know about his past, then he was going to have to tell him, no more avoiding the questions. Sherlock deserved that much. Then he called Mycroft. As usual, that wasn't the most spectacular thing either.

"Hello, John."

"What the hell were you thinking dropping Sherlock off like that in front of the pub?"

"I was trying to help you out and speed the process along, since you decided to delay it."

"I wasn't delaying anything."

"John, if your idea of helping my amnesiac little brother is by keeping him holed up in your room like some jail cell for days while you went out and about with your life as if he wasn't there is helping him, then I feel sorry for you. I thought you cared more for him."

John hesitated. For Mycroft to claim that he doesn't care about Sherlock, his best friend, his Sherlock, was completely uncalled for and he felt himself getting slightly offended that he would even think such a thing.

"I do care for Sherlock. And anyway, how do you expect me to react? Do you want me to just throw a sign on Sherlock saying "NOT DEAD" on it and have him parade all over London? And what are you doing to help his situation?"

"What I thought best and let him go back home, to you."

"And you and I both know that he doesn't know where his home is! He doesn't even feel comfortable enough around me, sure he talks to me on occasion, but that's only when he's watching crap telly."

Damn. John shouldn't have said that last part.

"…He's watching crap telly?"

"Yes, it was the only thing that kept him quiet for a while so I just thought what the hell?"

There was another pause.

"I'm not going to entertain that subject any longer."

"Good because I didn't know what else to say."

He could hear Mycroft huff.

"I sent Sherlock there because if he was going to recognize anybody, it would be you."

John knew what he was getting at but he wanted to hear Mycroft say it.

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"John while you do not possess superior intellect, I'm sure that you can understand what I meant when I said that."

"Well maybe my lesser-brain can't process that, maybe I need you to explain it to me."

He could practically hear Mycroft's smirk through the phone. His mouth drew into a smirk of its own as well.

"Ever since my brother met you, his attitude has certainly changed. However, that attitude change is only present when you are in the vicinity, other than that; there is hardly a sign of change with anybody else. He listens to you, John. He enjoys your company and he's convinced that he works better with you, which is the case. He cares for you John, despite everything I have ever told him about caring for another; he still lets you find your way into the heart that has been long closed. I would argue that he starting to feel more….amorous towards you, but since the accident…"

"That YOU caused," John said accusingly.

"Since the ACCIDENT," Mycroft continued, "I don't even know what he's thinking anymore, and that's new for me since I'm always one step ahead of him. And so that's why I placed you in charge of making sure my little brother gets his memories back, because you're the only one that can accomplish this task."

"What makes you think that he likes me that much?"

"Do you really think that Sherlock would ever let someone get as close to him as he let you? That Sherlock would let just anybody parade around a crime scene with him and help him solve it? No, John Watson, it is only you. You're his doctor, you're his flatmate, his colleague, and, while I do not approve of it, you're his friend. He's chosen you, and as far as I'm concerned, you chose him as well."

"Chose him? I haven't chosen anybody-"

"How's your visits with Ella been going?"

John's face stiffened.

"I've not seen Ella in almost a year."

"And how's your hand tremor?"

"…."

"When's the last time you've even had a girlfriend?"

John could hear that Mycroft was amusing himself with these endless questions. John refused to be Mycroft's object of humor at the moment so he quickly shut it down.

"Alright, come off it. I see what you're getting at."

The low rumbling told John that Mycroft was possibly laughing.

"Good. Now I must be off, I have a meeting with several ambassadors that I'd rather not be late to."

"Mycroft, wait, I still need to talk-"

"Goodbye, doctor."

Just like that, he hung up. Why would he stay any longer? Mister British government had other things to do like rule London, or possibly interrogate another psychopath so they can start running about terrorizing England and stalking Sherlock. John will call him, Moriarty Two, and maybe this time, when Sherlock has to jump off of a rooftop, his plan would go right and he won't end up in another coma. John gave a sigh that soon turned into a groan and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was interrupted by the familiar baritone voice.

"Is something the matter, John?"

He released his hold on his nose and saw Sherlock standing there, in his pajamas, and holding the side of his head.

'Another headache, it seems.'

John shook his head and lowered his hand.

"No, nothing is the matter. Did you have another headache?"

Sherlock looked hesitant to answer at first, but he bit his lip and then nodded, careful not to agitate his headache anymore. John walked into the bathroom and got the Advil and gave him two and watched as Sherlock knocked it back without any protests, as this was starting to become a daily routine with the two men. Ever since Sherlock practically begged John to help him remember a week ago, Sherlock's headaches seemed to increased and he's been waking up to the throbbing of his head for a few days now. John took his hand and led him to his chair, and John took his seat in his chair.

"What did you dream about this time?"

Sherlock's answers were always vague, but John could usually piece them together.

"I saw…clouds…but they were grey. I felt like I was high…on a roof, perhaps?"

John gave a nod to show that he was listening and that he understood.

"And then, I said something, I don't know what. But then I heard you scream my name again and I woke up."

John knew exactly what he was remembering, his fall from Barts, the last few minutes that he had before the injury. John didn't want to remember that day, but all Sherlock could do was remember and dream about it. John looked at the newspaper that Mrs. Hudson brought up and saw Lestrade on the cover. John didn't have any other choice, if he wanted Sherlock to remember…this was the only way.

He placed his hand on top of Sherlock's and rubbed it with the pad of his thumb. Sherlock looked confused but then he looked into John's eyes, and John could've sworn that he saw a twinkle in them. Did he really choose him? Or did John want to be chosen?

"Get dressed, Sherlock. We're going to go out for a while."