Regardless of John's unsure feelings as to why he felt this way, and why it was so strong, he jumped readily into the motions and wordlessly took the reins.

Sherlock had liked the relationship they had had before, and desired wholeheartedly to have it back, but seeing John so full of lust and drinking it in without a second thought was a beautiful sight. Obviously, though, it meant things were wrong in John's head still. Sherlock, though, wasn't above taking a small bit advantage of the situation. When John's memories came back, the sex would be most likely what they used to have back in school. It would be nice to have this experience.

There was no question who was taking the lead, and there had not been from the beginning. John had been the more forceful of removing clothes, more urgent to get to the flesh underneath. Just like years before. There was a determination in John's eyes and Sherlock suddenly shoved the man away. Stunned, John stood with his head cocked, waiting for Sherlock to do something, anything.

In his mind, Sherlock saw them having rough sex that they hadn't had in years. In his mind as well, he knew John felt no attachment to what they were doing, what they had been about to do. And even though Sherlock was selfish enough to want this, desire this, he was smart enough to see the consequences.

If they had sex in this moment all pleasure will be had and Sherlock would have memories that didn't belong and John would possibly splatter the old, locked-away memories with this perverse moment. He may never remember the feelings they'd shared during the most intimate of moments. As well, the moment he received his memories again, it was likely he'd be hurt due to Sherlock "taking advantage" of the situation. Though Sherlock was nearly irritated at the idea that he would be considered "taking advantage" of John when the man was panting like a dog for sex.

There were many other tiny, nearly insignificant reasons that they not copulate, but the biggest one was John's memories and the possibility of slashing the previous moments of intimacy. Sherlock would rather never lay another hand upon John. The possibility was tiny, but it was there nonetheless and by being celibate for now it would create less pain later.

The most important part of all of this was John.

"I can't." Sherlock said into the dark, watching John nodded and back off. John turned and left the room, leaving his clothes scattered on the floor along with Sherlock's. There was a few moments where Sherlock felt an almost desperate need to chase after him and tell him what had just happened but he knew John may possibly try talking him out of it.

Quietly, he snatched up his clothes and took a very cold shower. Afterwards, he went and played the violin. John had been sitting on the couch when Sherlock had entered the living room, wearing pajamas, obviously changing while Sherlock showered.

"I don't remember you playing the violin so well. Rather, I believe you hated it." John murmured around his cup of tea. Sherlock stared at him, not willing to push the moment away. He struck a few more chords of a melody he'd been writing only a few days. John's eyes drifted closed. "Yes, you were dreadful to listen to before but now you're a wonder. What song is this?"

"I composed it myself. It's not finished."

"You didn't before."

"You've been away a long time." Sherlock murmured, his eyes watering from lack of blinking, as well as the strain of wishing that maybe, just maybe...

John opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock. There was mix of surprise as well as confusion.

"It's odd, remembering bits and pieces like this. I know you played, horribly at that, but I don't remember when I heard you. I don't remember how I know you never composed. It's like a jigsaw puzzle and every now and then I slip a piece into place."

"I understand." Sherlock breathed, seeing the moment gone. He'd have to call Mycroft tomorrow and report the moments John was remembering, seeing if there was a connection to what was making him remember.

They sat together for a while as Sherlock played, pausing to write every time he got what he wanted, and eventually John went to sleep. Sherlock lasted only another half hour, making sure John was asleep, before going up the stairs to the second bedroom. Completely uncharacteristically, he sat in silence and read the notebooks Felicia had given him.

this next bit is from the first episode, obviously, but I tweaked a few places for reasons

In the morning, Sherlock got an idea. He readied for the day and helped John do the same. Shortly after he knew a companion of his was at work, he started almost furiously texting. By the time John was sitting on the couch reading the news, Sherlock was hyper to get moving.

"I have an event planned."

"Okay."

"I would like you to come to work with me."

John furrowed his brow, getting ready to heavily protest when Sherlock threw a jumper and coat at the man.

"No time to argue, I have a new case. I'll explain on the way."

Over the rest of the week, John tailed Sherlock and watched in absolute wonder as the man worked out every tiny detail on a trail of dead bodies. He met the whole team Sherlock referred to as "Scotland Yard" where everyone seemed utterly rude to Sherlock. They were very surprised to see John following Sherlock, one of them stopping him and in fact telling them that Sherlock will one day be the killer.

John found out a lot about Sherlock, a lot of the tiny quirks of the man and grew to understand why the Yard didn't like him. But at the same time, he wasn't bothered by any of it. Sherlock was a full-grown man and used his talent to help, regardless of the fact that there didn't seem to be any sympathy for the dead or the scared victims. Not everyone was perfect and from what John could remember, Sherlock had always been different.

There were no memories or flashes of colors or feelings. There was just a knowing that Sherlock was always different. Had always been different.

But this Sally woman calling Sherlock a freak was not necessary. The Anderson fellow was, just the same, making John uncomfortable with the degree to which the man would go to shame Sherlock.

The week went generally smooth, Sherlock left him at a few crime scenes so John had to find a way home and once asked him to remain at a restaurant once while he chased a man in a cab. There were rare moments when John felt too exhausted to continue for a while, in which Sherlock spent a long time at the flat talking about the case with him.

As a drug bust that John was overly surprised at the fact that Sherlock didn't seem unused to, this largely hinting the man was a user, took hold in the flat, Sherlock suddenly found his answer.

While Lestrade continued his tirade, Sherlock left the flat. John received text alerts as to Sherlock's plan. Eventually it was noted that Sherlock had nothing to hide, especially since the flat was in John's name, and the team left. John almost immediately left once they had gone, going to the address Sherlock texted him.

Once there, he had a feeling that the timing was almost desperate. This was a killer, after all, who had Sherlock in his grips.

John saw the cab and slipped into the passenger side, looking anywhere and everywhere. He didn't think, barely stopped to register the familiar feeling that slipped through him the moment his fingers gripped a gun under the seat.

Adrenaline shot through him as he picked one of the two buildings at the address Sherlock had put. There was no number on each to distinguish which Sherlock may have been in. Unfortunately, as he entered one of the larger rooms, he saw light from the other building through the window. As he took a step into the room, he felt the adrenaline spike high and he could almost hear blood thrumming through his veins.

Without thinking, John rushed to the window and slid it open. He watched, knowing there was no time to run to the other building, and raised the gun. Training he didn't remember having took over and he leveled his aim. Steady arms lined up with the strange man that held his hand up, mimicking Sherlock. Danger, John's mind screamed.

Before either man could make a move, John took his shot. It hit the target, ripping through the strange mans chest. John didn't stay much longer, slipping the window down and wiping his prints from the sill. He didn't walk home, but rather waited for the cops.

Sherlock didn't rat him out, but it was obvious he knew who had shot the man Sherlock called cabbie. Laughing as if the best of friends, the two men walked most of the way home until John became too tired in which Sherlock paid for a cab. Sherlock needed time, the man said, now that the case was closed, to be alone.

John rolled into bed after a long shower and smiled into his pillow. There had not been a lot of memory-inducing moments the last week but he'd made a week worth of memories. Almost every one of them had been with Sherlock and the man was, dare John say "wonderful?"