Awakening hours later, John felt very refreshed. As refreshed as a man could be given the emotional, physical, and mental stress he'd been going through the last month. He took a shower, being careful at the exertion he put out, and went to the kitchen for breakfast. Sherlock was standing with nothing but a blue silk robe draped over his shoulders, the front not even attempted at being tied.

John frowned as he noticed Sherlock's eyes were a very brilliant color mix of green and blue. The round orbs seemed to beckon to him, calling him closer. Without realizing it, John had gone halfway into the room before he came up short, remembering that Sherlock had pushed him away last time.

"I made a mistake, John," Sherlock purred so softly John was unsure how he'd heard it so loud. His voice seemed to have come from right next to his ear. Fingers that held a cup straightened, glass shattering all over the floor. John couldn't take his eyes from Sherlock.

The red eyes that looked at him were confusing. Had they always been so red? John couldn't remember, couldn't think straight. Sherlock was taking a slow step forward, his leg snapping and bending into what almost looked like that of a wolves. As his foot touched the ground, fur shot up and covered the whole leg. His back leg lifted up, the same transformation taking place.

John couldn't move, stiff as a board. Long hair sprouted from all over Sherlock, crawling like bugs, his body lengthening and his face stretching to accommodate long canines.

"I will destroy you!" Sherlock growled out, vibrating all of the room as well as John's insides. Glass shattered from the cupboards and the windows shattered. John fell backward, feeling the floor come crashing up to meet him. Sherlock jumped on him, claws tearing his chest and teeth sinking into his neck.

John shot awake, a scream ripping from his lips. He was tangled around the hips by his bed sheets, sweat drenching his body. There were slamming feet and crashes to be heard before Sherlock threw the door open and slapped the switch on. He stared, chest heaving, at the sight of John.

"I'm...I'm okay. Just a bad dream." John forced out with a dry throat. He couldn't get the dream out of his mind. He couldn't look in Sherlock's eyes in fear they were red.

"Do you remember what it was?"

"No." John lied, lying back down in hope Sherlock wouldn't see through it. After a few moments Sherlock turned the light off and closed the door. John heard the soft steps recede and go up the stairs as Sherlock went back to bed.

John closed his eyes, breathing heavy, as he realized that it was not the first time he'd dreamed a dream like that. As well, he knew that Sherlock was not going to sleep, had not been asleep.

John held back a sob through a smile as he had a moment of clarity, realizing that his memories were coming back, and would hopefully continue to do so.

The question John had, though, was why did he dream, and had done so before, of Sherlock turning into a wolf and killing him?

There were few times that Sherlock could describe himself as being uncomfortable. Today was one of them.

John was shying from him during breakfast, even though Sherlock had made the tea and even went out to buy biscuits that John agreed were a good idea. Through lunch-Sherlock's treat at the restaurant two blocks over-John barely spoke a dozen words. On the walk back-John's idea-there was almost no contact of any kind between the two.

Sherlock knew, and remembered well, that John had reacted well to the case they'd just finished. Maybe, though, the man was going through some traumatic issues. He had killed a man. Even though he'd played it off the night before, Sherlock knew that every other person tore themselves to pieces over guilt and such.

Maybe Mycroft needed to be contacted once more. Last time, no one had been able to come to a conclusion as to any trigger John had for his memories. Felicia was notified of the dates and the general size of the memory. Mycroft urged Sherlock to not be himself as much as possible.

Sherlock was not only worried about the memories John may have had the last ten hours, but what the memory of committing a murder may do to the memories from before. It was at this moment Sherlock realized he had no idea if John had ever killed a man before and if maybe there was a possibility of PTSD having arisen from surfacing memories.

Home, no headway in their conversation having happened, Sherlock told John he was going out for a bit and text if desired. The man barely nodded as he disappeared into his room.

Sherlock contacted Mycroft on his way to the office and by the time the cab pulled to the curb, there was a man waiting to take Sherlock to his brother.

"You sounded very urgent."

"I solved the case." Sherlock blurted, unsure for the first time in his life how to explain what he was thinking, feeling. Mycroft caught this information and his eyebrows rose high in surprise. Sherlock sat heavily in one of the chairs and Mycroft, choosing the smart route, stayed quiet until his younger brother composed his words.

"I figured out the killer and every other piece but the pill. But. John killed him. I was about to make a choice and John shot him. He was gone and cleaned up after himself by the time Lestrade showed up."

"He killed your killer."

"He hasn't spoken to me much since. I believe it's possible the murder awakened memories from his time in Afghanistan. PTSD is a possibility if he killed others. Even doctors had to fight."

"Yes. Unless he talks to you there is no way to tell what's going on."

"He won't talk to me."

"I'll send someone. See if they can do better."

Sherlock bristled at the mention that he was not doing enough for John, but kept his mouth shut. In a few hours, there may be more answers than they had now, and getting back at Mycroft wasn't worth it.

Left alone in Mycroft's office, one of many, Sherlock found himself fiddling with random objects arrayed the room. He avoided his phone knowing John may send texts in question over the person bound to bother him. Sherlock was unsure how he would respond so he kept himself away from the problem.

Mycroft appeared shortly after the second hour passed, entering with a frown. Sherlock said nothing as he watched his brother sit behind the desk. Sherlock leveled a glare at his older brother as the seconds ticked by. Not willing to lose whatever game Mycroft was playing, Sherlock sat down and remained silent, face sticking in a glare.

After long minutes, Mycroft took a deep breath. "I sent a woman over. John turned her away without any trouble. He was, I quote, 'a wonderful gentlemen that seemed as if nothing were wrong.' So I sent another and she was turned down the same." Mycroft bore his eyes into Sherlock's. "Dear brother, I would say you are the problem."

Sherlock leaned back, a sudden and sharp pain clenched in his chest. Mycroft looked at him with a half detached and half amused look. There are rare moments when Sherlock actually considering using violence to get his point across, and just now he'd love to knock the stupid smirk off of his brothers face. Knowing it would only satisfy some sickness in his brother was the only thing that stopped him from doing so.

"I would suggest you make the decision if you can live with his silence. John is going to be a different man than you knew before."

"I know."

"Then get that hope out of you, dear brother. It's unnerving."

Without responding, Sherlock rose from the chair and left for the flat. His brother would be no help, was less help than the notebooks Felicia gave him. In the cab on the way, Sherlock stared at his phone and eventually turned it on. Three texts and two calls all from John.

There's a woman dressed up asking about the war? JW

Two, really? JW

I don't even remember the war. Amnesia. JW

Neither call left a voice-mail, John was aware Sherlock didn't care much for checking them. The last anything was almost forty minutes ago.

On my way. SH

When Sherlock walked into the flat, he expected anger or confusion, a few different types of mixes between the two. What he didn't expect was John sitting on the couch in front of the laptop, clicking away, and acting as if nothing had happened.

Instead of taking the same route and acting like it was any other day, Sherlock took off his coat and scarf and stood five feet away. Eventually, John looked up.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"You haven't talked about the man you killed."

"There's nothing to talk about. You could think that it was horrible, and in a way it was but I look at it as your life or his. I felt you were more worth saving. My inactivity in the situation would have led to your death and inadvertently I would have felt guilty about it my whole life. I wouldn't be okay had I let you die. I can live with having saved you."

Sherlock stared John down, the two men holding eye contact almost painfully. To his mind arose the night he'd pushed John away. The taste of the mans' lips a sweet memory.

"No war memories."

"None, really. Memories of dryness from the desert, feeling of blood on my fingers and hands. But they told me I was a medic."

"Yes."

"I went to med school and I don't remember any of it." John sighed deeply, moving his laptop onto the coffee table and stood. "I want to visit your flat." At the expression Sherlock gave him, astounded and confused, John cleared his throat. "It might help me remember. You said we were friends. Maybe something will trigger."

After a few quick seconds of thought, Sherlock realized it was a wonderful idea. It's not like Lestrade made him touchy having people over. The Scotland Yard wasn't filled with people that friendly.

"Okay. Tomorrow in the morning."

"If you don't get a case." John pointed out and Sherlock split into a huge grin.

"Of course."

Sherlock reached forward, touching John's shoulder. For a small second Sherlock wanted nothing more than to press his lips against John's. Before he was able to voice or act upon this desire, John sat back down and pulled his laptop back into place, already acting as if Sherlock were not there.