John told Ryan he would be returning home with a man named Sherlock who apparently knew him very well.

"That's wonderful though. He can help with your memory." Ryan patted John on the shoulder, giving him a brief hug before leaving his address and number with John. "Probably don't remember your own, so have this if you ever want to visit or talk."

With that, John rejoined Sherlock and Ryan went to catch his own flight.

John didn't use the wheelchair anymore and getting onto the plane, which suspiciously looked government official, was slow going. Sherlock stayed behind John, uncomplaining and offering silent encouragement.

On the ride home, John dozed and Sherlock was fitful. He kept texting Mycroft questions and Mycroft was infuriatingly calm about the interruptions, though Sherlock knew the man was busy.

I need answers. SH

You will get them. MH

NOW! SH

Patience, brother mine. MH

John has no memory of me. How am I to deal with this? SH

We'll figure it out when you both get back. MH

Where will he go? He doesn't remember his flat. He would not agree to mine. SH

Obviously take him to his. MH

It will help try to stir memories. SH

Of course. I will have everything ready when you land. MH

We need to talk. SH

I will set up a date and time to bring you to my office. Will John be with you? MH

I have things I need to know. SH

Sherlock looked to his watch. They were less than four hours into the flight and Mycroft was taking longer than usual to respond. After no response for half an hour, Sherlock tossed the phone away with a flustered noise and rose, pacing the floor of the open cabin. John peeked out, sleepy-eyed, from the doorway to the bedroom.

"Everything all right in here?" John inquired just as sleepily in a deeper voice than usual. Sherlock stared at him, wishing John had never left but knowing he could change absolutely nothing. It was physically painful to have to start from scratch on something Sherlock knew had taken a long time to get where it had been.

"Everything is fine. Did you get enough sleep?" Even though John looked rather exhausted, Sherlock knew that was no indicator. John had looked this way ever since Sherlock had shown up at the hospital.

"Yeah. Uh. I have to ask, is this a government plane? I've never been on anything so fancy. You said your brother lent it to you."

"Yes, he runs part of the government."

"Oh. As well, where are we, um, going?" He scratched his chin, leaning against the doorway. Sherlock held back the urge to go to him, hug him, touch him. It was very painful to stand still, hands clasped behind his back so tight he felt a bite from his nails into his flesh.

"We're taking you home. To your flat."

"I have a flat?"

"Yes, apparently you moved there after your studies for medical help in the war. The government kept the flat funded for you." Sherlock eyed John, wondering how exactly to treat amnesia patients. Were you to let them figure things out on their own of were you to tell them everything? Sherlock knew he felt uncomfortable even with the thought of having to tell John that they had been a thing. Especially if memories of John's father were still there, still prominent. Sherlock didn't want to chance driving John away.

"What of my parents?" John gripped his cane tightly in one hand and shuffled over to one of the comfy chairs. He passed close to Sherlock and the man stopped breathing, nearly terrified he would smell John and lose his control. As John sat, Sherlock shifted his stance and put himself almost the whole width of the plane from John. The man didn't seem to notice.

"Mycroft informed me that they were made aware of your departure from Afghanistan and will be at your flat the day after you return home, in order to give you space to breath."

"Your brother, yeah?"

"Yes."

"I can tell you two don't get along." Sherlock was stunned at this but couldn't help realize that it was correct.

"No. He owed me a favor or two and I asked him to let me come get you."

John stayed quiet after this remark, his eyes burrowing into Sherlock. It was possibly the most uncomfortable a person had ever made Sherlock feel. After a few grueling minutes of being sized up, Sherlock couldn't take it anymore and he started heading for the bedroom.

"If you've finished with the bedroom, I'll try to sleep some of the hours away. Make yourself comfortable, everything on this plane is Mycroft's so you can burn it for all I care." Sherlock slipped into the bedroom and closed the door. Without giving a second thought, he slipped from his clothes, except for his boxer pants, and burrowed into the bed sheets.

Immediately the smell of John engulfed him and he realized how bad of an idea this had been. Sure, sleeping would throw more of the flight away and Sherlock desperately needed to be off keeping busy, but now he wanted to go cuddle John. A warmth from his body still clung to the bed and it was almost like John was there with Sherlock.

Forcing himself into sleep, Sherlock convinced himself that it wouldn't always be so hard.

The landing was safe and the drive in a fancy black car was awkward as John and Sherlock shared close space in the back seat as the driver took them to the flat. John didn't seem nervous, but rather curious as the city of London slipped by the windows.

At the flat, John made his way up the five stairs to the door. Sherlock handed John a key and they slipped into the building.

"I like it. At least." John commented as they went into the hallway.

"B is upstairs." Sherlock murmured, motioning towards the staircase and John visibly paled. Sherlock practically choked trying not to tell John not to worry, he'd carry him.

John was a soldier, and stubborn to boot. This is why Sherlock was not surprised when, halfway up the stairs, John dropped to his knees. He'd pushed himself too hard and was exhausted. Sherlock grabbed John before he could fall any further and pulled him close. John's heavy, ragged breathing as well as the rapid movement of his chest slowed.

Sherlock had his head nestled into John's crevice, nose resting along his clavicle. One arm was wrapped around the front of John's shoulder, the other around his waist. John had not moved, not even stiffened, when Sherlock had grabbed a hold of him. As time slipped by and his body relaxed and his breathing became normal, he put a hand on Sherlock's arm around his shoulders. The other arm he laid upon Sherlock's around John's waist.

It was a blissful feeling, Sherlock had to admit. He hadn't touched John in years and being next to him suddenly, having been worried when the letters had stopped and Mycroft wouldn't tell him anything until he'd practically stormed Mycroft's work building, was overwhelming. The emotions were beyond Sherlock's usual parameters.

"I can go up now." John practically whispered, his head turning ever so slightly into Sherlock's. Sherlock let him go, keeping a hand on his back as he stood up to his feet, but removing it as John started back up the stairs.

Once up there, John unlocked the door that had a large "B" on it and inside was a fairly bare, decent apartment. The wallpaper was garish but John's first impression was feeling homely.

"I know this place. A bit. I don't remember anything really about it but it feels like home." Remarked John, going over to a chair he felt fond of. It was the only one in the flat.

"That's good. I am not certain how to get your memory back but feeling comfortable is a first step, maybe." Sherlock stood awkwardly and John looked around, trying to take in everything. It was hard for Sherlock to grasp regular people and their simple minds, but to try and grasp the concept that John was one so intelligent and now has amnesia was nearly impossible.

When John had left for college, Sherlock hadn't said it aloud but he figured the two of them may never see one another again. When John had, without fail, kept in touch and let Sherlock know every piece of his life, it had been hard to try and forget the boy. When the letters had stopped, like he figured they eventually would, he'd panicked and called Mycroft. Unconcerned with a boy he'd met only once and rarely heard of from Sherlock years ago, Mycroft hadn't fueled Sherlock's emotions. But when Sherlock had called a second time, two months later, Mycroft had investigated and found that a Dr. Watson had been injured a week prior. The condition he was in was unstable and unsure, Mycroft went so far as to force Sherlock in a jail cell to keep the man jumping country. When he'd signed for John to come home, he promised Sherlock that he'd be the one to bring him back.

No one had said anything about his amnesia, though Sherlock had been told about the gunshot and that he'd been hit in the head.

Sherlock looked at John, his pondering only having lasted maybe five seconds total. The man was twisting to sit in the chair.

"I'll get you some tea." Sherlock said, practically throwing himself into the kitchen. John didn't look up, even when he finally sat, a hand running down the leather arm of the chair.

As Sherlock made tea, no sugar but definitely milk(Mycroft had promised to stock up the kitchen with at least some fresh food), he wondered again for the millionth time what happened to John. Why had the letters stopped at least two months before the accident? Sherlock had grown so used to know each piece of John's life through the letters that the months he knew nothing about drove him into fits.

John took the cup of tea, eyeing it with a mixture of surprise and confusion that only worsened when he sipped.

"You know exactly how I like my tea." John commented, setting the cup on the coffee table. Sherlock took the lengthy stare from John a bit easier than before, even though he was still standing in the middle of the room.

"I'm sure you have some questions." Sherlock finally threw the open-ended conversation starter onto the table. He knew he'd regret it, but it had to be done.

"Of course. But, ah, please find yourself a place to sit." John waited patiently while Sherlock collected some spare pillows from a hall closet and sat atop them on the opposite side of the room.

"Right then, we'll start with the basic. Who are you?"