This is it, the day of the doctors visit for Sherlock, the day that we shall find out the truth about how bad the amnesia really is and to say I'm calm would be a lie. I'm nervous and haven't managed to eat or sleep properly, at least Sherlock had gotten to sleep – having drifted off into a light sleep at around two in the morning, he had wanted to be in his chair all night so I daren't move him but this morning, I needed too. I needed to get him dressed up in one of his suits and get him looking pleasant and all perfect for the doctor to come and see him, he couldn't visit him in this state: he would think I hadn't been looking after him and that is far from the truth.

"Come on, Sherlock. You need to get ready, the doctor is coming to how you are today, and I can't have you looking messy, link your arm around me."

The order was simple to most folk but not to one who stared into space and zoned out from the rest of the world, Sherlock then grunted at me and tried to push me away not wanting to co-operate and in all fairness I didn't blame the poor guy, I wouldn't want to be poked and prodded in this condition only for someone to tell me the brutal truth ( Sherlock would more than likely forget it after a few minutes anyway.) about my health and then up and leave for someone else to pick up the pieces. Christ, Sherlock was a heavy man to get up, not that he's overweight or anything, maybe it's due to my shortness that everyone keeps referring too, I don't really have much advantage in winning battles with people who are taller than me. That, unfortunately, is my downfall, but I had to get Sherlock ready and I wasn't about to give up easily.

"Get off me, John!"

He protested, trying his best to remain glued to his chair as much as possible, flailing his arms around in the most ridiculous manner, where the hell was the help when it was needed the most, it had to be today of all sodding days that Sherlock decided to play up for me, as if I wasn't already stressed enough.

"Sherlock, you're not doing this! Not now! Get up!"

I had to shout at him slightly, it seemed that being stern was the only way to get around the detective and make him listen and unlike usual he gave him and stood with me letting me guide him to the bedroom to get dressed, his arm was hooked over my shoulders as he made his way inside taking his time not to fall. Once we were inside I allowed him to try and pick some clothes for himself which consisted of him staring into the wardrobe and blinking at all the garments inside, again his brain had failed him, hell was it really that bad now that he couldn't get himself dressed? Still, we had to be ready and so I wasted no time in getting the clothes for him and helped him get ready. That was the Sherlock I knew, those black trousers, the white button up shirt and the suit jacket that hung loosely off of him along with some socks and black shoes, he could kill me later if he remembered.

"There you go, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

Sherlock then turned his head to me, narrowing his eyes. Great. Why did he have to be all weird now? The doctor was due to arrive at the door in approximately five minutes and I hadn't even managed to get Sherlock to eat yet, not that he really seemed bothered by the company of food just yet – honestly, I think he was nervous but he wouldn't admit it, I respected that and wouldn't pry to him about it. The only thing that mattered to me was getting the truth and the correct healing time, I know I'm a doctor myself and I bloody wished that some other person didn't have to come out, but this field isn't my area of expertise I'm afraid. Honestly, to heal Sherlock would be a godsend the tiredness and the stress I had been put under was incredibly lumbering and it was surprising how long I was keeping going and I would until this sod was better. He really did love to do this, instil me with crippling worry and turn out not to be as bad as he made it out to be, yes I hate it but I was hoping that it was true in this case.

A knock at the door then came and honestly a lump formed in the back of my throat and the heart of mine was beating at several beats per minute, nervous was not the word to use but with a swift answer to the door the doctor flashed a grin and headed inside to see Sherlock, whom I had given strict instructions too asking him to stay in the bedroom and not give the doctor any issues but for god sakes this guy forgot his right from his left and asking this of him would even prove a challenge but I had faith in him that he could behave and let the man do his work, the fact that it was at home annoyed me, to say the least knowing that they had proper equipment at the hospital but since Sherlock was deemed unfit to head outside for at least a month and we were still inside the house rest period, the guy had no choice but to come and assess my best friend in the flat and I watched him. Oh, I bloody watched him carefully. Watched as he asked Sherlock a series of questions and did a variety of tests on him, some which looked to be ridiculous but then again if it made him better I was all for it.

The man recorded his findings on the chart and started to compare them to what seemed to be a previous chart of Sherlock's brain stability and memory fluidity, appearing to be from just after he fell and was shacked up in a hospital bed – I can't lie, the graph looked a mess and I prayed that his brain had improved: I'm not a religious person but for a split second my eyes closed and I mouthed several things under my breath in a desperate attempt to put myself at ease, begging like some school child. Why did he have to keep us waiting? Opening my eyes to find him leaning over the chart still was not something I wanted to see.

"Sorry, can you tell us what's going on please?"

It was then that he looked up towards me, a small frown on his featured. God no. No, it couldn't be.

"Indeed, I can. According to my findings, Mr Holmes has made a massive improvement over the last three weeks, his memory ability and brain activity have stretched up the chart and I am very happy with his progress and that is all thanks to you, Dr Watson."

Thank Christ, he was okay and on the mend.

"Thank-you. Thank-you so much buddy. Really—"

How I stopped myself from hugging him was a bloody miracle, instead the offer of a handshake greeted him, and he willingly accepted.

"However—He will need a brain scan to determine that exact time of recovery, in the meanwhile I'll give a rough estimate that he will be fully recovered within the next week or two."

That was a relief, guess trying to relax as much as possible would be on the agenda before I was running around alongside Sherlock non-stop. The thrill was certainly needed though. Why couldn't he heal faster? These things couldn't be rushed through which is understandable.

Saying goodbye to the doctor and seeing him out of the door, I then took a moment to myself to let the emotions go, finally letting go of all that pent up tiredness and stress that had overtaken my body in the past weeks, allowing myself to cry made me feel a hell of a lot better and after ten minutes, composure happened and I could focus on the task at hand – Sherlock.

Heading back into him to find the detective staring out of the window once again, I frowned softly. It was almost as if he was eager to get out and explore everything that he missed, maybe it would be good to help him remember, he was on the mend after-all and if I was with him it couldn't do any harm, could it?

"Please, John."

His deep husky voice almost begged, almost as if he bloody knew what I was thinking, even with this condition he still knew how to be a complete and utter git and get around me. For the first time, a chuckle left me, and I guided him out of the bedroom and helped him get his coat.

"Come on then but you breathe a word of this to anybody and I'll bloody murder you."

He chuckled back softly in response, slowly pulling on his familiar coat and smiling softly: it was great to see him happy and without hesitation, we walked through the door and out into the fresh, crisp London air.