Disclaimer: I do not own nothing.

A.N: Un betad, any mistake is mine and I apologise beforehand for them.

Why Sherlock can't remember John?

"Afghanistan or Iraq?."

"I-I'm sorry, what-?"

"I said Afghanistan or Iraq."

And his blue eyes met Sherlock's grey ones. John felt something he hadn't felt in a very long time.

Hope.

John looked at him puzzled. He was aware about his brother- Sherlock's deductive skills, but it had been years since their last meeting, since their last moment together. And now, being face to face after all those years, all the pain and loss between them, the ex Army Doctor couldn't understand why he was acting like they were strangers.

"Afghanistan, sorry how do you-"

A young and pretty woman came inside the laboratory, carrying a hot mug filled with coffee and a very shy expression. Without saying a word, she handed him the mug, just next to John, who looked at the frowned look in the taller man's face when she raised her head to look at him.

"What happened with the lipstick?"

She shrugged and smiled. "It wasn't working for me"

"Really? It was a big improvement. Your mouth looks so... small now"

John turned around and looked at the furious blush in her cheeks and she smiled a bit. "Okay"

Everything was so new. He couldn't remember his brother- Sherlock saying such a compliment, if you want to take that observation about lipstick as a compliment, to any woman, not even their mother- Elizabeth.

"How do you feel about the violin?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for hours on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other"

The violin. Of course he remembered about the violin. Of course John Watson remembered the long sessions after lunch, upstairs in Elizabeth's blue room in which the two of them used to play duets together. Sherlock with the violin and himself with the clarinet. And sometimes, when she could or when she wasn't attending to those scheduled lunchs or breakfast with the Queen or anyone of the Royalty, she was there playing the piano for them. Teaching them her favourite pieces and reading them about famous musicians and composers.

"Are you—? You told him about me?"

"Not a word." Replied Mike.

"Then who said anything about flatmates?"

Something wrong was going on. He could feel it. Sense it. Sherlock wasn't acting like he always did. He looked lifeless, almost like a porcelain doll with his pale skin. Also his physical appearence had changed a lot. He wasn't that slim and unworried young man he remembered, the one who loved to use dark jeans and baggy jumpers like him.

Sherlock was now a serious man, with tailored suits according to his rich life of course and a lifeless look in his face. His grey eyes were pale, not filled with the promising dreams and ideas he used to have when they were young men together. Something had changed him.

And that made him forget John.

That made him erase John from his life.

"I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, just out to lunch with an old friend. Clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Not a difficult leap."

John couldn't help but look how his brother- Sherlock was wearing a blue scarf. The same blue scarf Elizabeth knitted for him before she died. It had the same knitting style of his jumper. The same one he kept all those years and the same one that made him cry every time he wore it.

"How did you know about Afghanistan?"

"Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary-"

"Is that it?"

"Is that what?"

"We've just met and we're going to look for a flat? We don't know anything about each other, I don't even know your name-"

Lie. He asked himself why he needed to lie like that. Why he couldn't just hug him and tell him everything was OK. That he was sorry for running away from him to a War that almost killed him and now the only thing he wanted was being the brothers they once were.

Because they were brothers. No matter what papers or surnames said, or what a judge in a wig could say, they were brothers. They grew up together. They shared more than a sibling relationship.

And being just as close as they were but far away at the same time was hurting him.

"I know you're an army doctor, recently invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's concerned about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him - possibly because he's an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife - and I know your therapist thinks your limp's at least partially psychosomatic - quite correctly, I'm afraid. Enough to be going on with, don't you think? The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. See you tomorrow at five. Afternoon!"

And he ran. He ran away from him just as he ran away many years ago.

John Watson couldn't wait till next day.

He looked at it. It had lost some of the original colour, it wasn't 'porridge' coloured as he used to said before. It was grey now. John let a hand ran over the different patterns of the knitted jumper and swallowed his own tears. The same patterns and knitting style Sherlock's scarf had.

And against his own thoughts, John decided to wear it for the first time in years and meet his brother again.

His leg hurt, God knew how it hurt but he finally arrived at destiny and he couldn't help but knock the dark door amazed. He couldn't belive it and he realized that fact once he looked at the cafe next door. It was the same place he visited once with the dark haired man many years ago in their trips to London.

Sherlock surprised John with a black door and a three numbers and a b letter on it. Next to the black door was a little coffee shop managed by an old lady wearing a violet dress and a open and warm smile. Both teenagers looked at the poster glued on the window of the place. The old lady was renting rooms to 'responsible' people. It had two rooms, a sitting room with a fireplace, a kitchen and a bathroom. John couldn't help but burst out laughing at the description of the place and the number on the door. It was the same as the fictional stories they read since they were kids. Sherlock didn't shared the same laugh as his brother. With a very determinated voice, Sherlock assured John one day, they were going to live there together.

Destiny was playing cards with their lives on stake. He bit his lip and suppressed his tears when Sherlock arrived.

Act. John Watson needed to act and follow the events.

"Ah, Mister Holmes"

"Sherlock, please"

They shaked their hands for the first time and John had to hide his pain. He even wondered if Sherlock, being the clever man he was, could deduce the pain in his chest.

He prayed to the God up above he couldn't.

"Well this is a prime spot. Must be expensive"

"Mrs. Hudson the landlady is giving me a special deal. She owes me a favor. A few years back her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help her"

"So you stopped her husband from being executed?"

"Oh, no. I ensured it."

Of course he looked surprised. He remembered Sherlock always trying to get the Police attention sneaking on crime scenes when they were in the middle of the way to uni, but he wasn't expecting him working in the States. Not even ensuring death sentences. But John wanted to ask him thousands of questions when the owner of the rooms opened the door and let both men in.

John didn't expect him to help him through the stairs. He had a limp, he wasn't invalid. He wasn't moving himself in an wheelchair. He could manage. And that's what Sherlock saw when he ran the stairs and waited for him at the top.

It was the first time they were inside, well, at least together. It was clear Sherlock had see it before since he talked about it like if he knew the place the day before when they met.

The place was cozy and it looked familiar. Familiar because he was there with Sherlock. He was with his brother, the one he grew up with and now he was determinated to stay with him, beside him, though he knew they weren't going to recover all the time lost.

All the feelings between them weren't going to born naturally again. Sherlock wasn't going to be on the roof to look at the stars like they used to do before when they were teenagers. But being as close as he could be from him, John was happy.

"Well, this could be very nice. Very nice, indeed"

"Yes, yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely"

"Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned up-"

"So I went straight ahead and moved in-"

"Oh. So this is all, uh..."

"Obviously, I can straighten things up..."

Both men shared a blush in their cheeks when they realized their words. The air started to feel awkward and John wanted to disappear. He can sense that feeling in the other man, who started to put some order in his things when the landlady appeared.

"What do you think, Doctor Watson? There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms"

The old lady looked at him, expectantly for an answer and he couldn't help but answer her question with his most neutral face.

"Of course we'll be needing two"

"Oh don't worry, there's all sorts around here. Mrs. Turner next door's got married ones."

John looked at Sherlock for a moment, trying to find an answer or a small gesture, but the other man was just untying his scarf and turning on his little computer. He could see Mrs. Hudson knew Sherlock from the past, and that little suggestion made John wonder more things about the brother, about the man he hadn't seen in years.

But his leg wasn't leaving him alone, so he fall with a tired sigh on the armchair next to him.

"Oh I er, looked you up on the internet last night."

"Anything interesting?"

"Found your website. 'The Science of Deduction'"

"What did you think?"

Despite the proud look in Sherlock's face, John gave him a look. The same look he used when his clever brother could deduce something, work out something but couldn't tell how he knew it.

"Mycroft is putting on weight again, John"

"How do you know? He has been eating healthy food and running every morning in the garden"

"I know, but he's putting weight on again, I just know it"

"How can you know something but explain how-"

"I don't know. But trust me, he's fatter!"

The two fifteen year old boys couldn't stop discussing about Mycroft and his weight till Sherlock obliged him to step on a weight balance.

And Sherlock was right.

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb"

"Yes, and I can read your military career by your face and your leg and your brothers drinking habits by your mobile phone"

"How?"

John wanted to run. He couldn't stand those grey eyes on him. He knew Sherlock was going to say something about their past at any moment. But what John couldn't tell, was the fact if he was going to be strong enough to face reality.

"What about these three suicides then Sherlock, thought that'd be right up your street-"

"Four. It's been a fourth."

The red and blue lights of a police car were getting inside the place. And then, John felt something strange inside him.

Something growing inside his chest, and he knew he won't be able to stop it.

"Where?"

An man, probably in his late thirties, early forties came inside the flat like if he were the owner of the place and looked at Sherlock straight at his eyes.

"Lauriston Gardens-"

"Why come to me now?"

John frowned. Sherlock had an air of superiority he never meet before. He was petulant sometimes, or even arrogant, yes. But he never believed himself as someone superior to the others.

"There's a note"

"Who's on forensics?"

"Anderson."

"He doesn't want to work with me"

This last line was adressed to John, when the other man, who were clearly part of the Police force rolled his eyes.

"You know he can't be your assistant-"

"But I need an assistant"

"Are you coming, then?"

"I'll go after you. Text me the adress"

The silence of the place, just only interrupted by Mrs. Hudson's short heels on the floor suddenly died when the dark haired man jumped in the air with his hands up like a kid in Christmas.

John couldn't do anything but keep himself silent looking how that man who seemed to be ignoring a lot of things between them took his coat and scarf and asked his landlady to cook something.

"John, make yourself at home! Don't wait up!"

A promise of a tea and biscuits from his future landlady were enough to calm him down, to make him think or at least try to think why Sherlock was acting like that. Like they were completely strangers.

And so far, Mycroft haven't been there. And john remembered how the older Holmes was behind them when they first moved together before starting uni. Using his 'desk job' in the British Government he tried to get them a nice flat in the best and exclusive part of then city and fight against him was something he couldn't have done if Sherlock wasn't there with him.

Periodic visits for tea were just an excuse of his to see if his little brothers were fine, eating properly and living properly like the Holmes they were.

John didn't know if it was better not to meet Mycroft when Sherlock reappeared in the room.

"You're a doctor. In fact you're an army doctor"

"Yes"

"Any good?"

"Very good"

"Seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths"

Of course he had seen them. Too much pain, work, tears and blood. Those years were the hell of his life. He met Hell and all its Demons. John looked for redemption, he wanted to forget that life he believed didn't exist.

But he came back alive. And this time, he wasn't going to waste his new chance.

"Well. Yes."

"Bit of trouble too I bet"

"Of course. Yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much."

"Wanna see some more?"

"Oh god yes."

And both brothers ran throught the stairs, feeling the excitement running in their veins. They didn't share the same blood. They shared something stronger.

Brotherhood.