Title: Being Selfish

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Sherlock (this incarnation) belongs to the BBC. I (and the other 7 billion people in the world) own the originals because they belong to everyone (yay!)

Pairing: John/Sherlock

Summary: The explosion at the pool causes John to forget everything that came after being shot in Afghanistan. He becomes obsessed with trying to gain his memories back. The problem is that his mysterious flat-mate seems equally obsessed with making sure he doesn't remember.

A/N: As a psychology degree student, writing a cliché amnesia fic is quite funny. Since there are very few physical injuries that I could think of that would reliably cause that specific level of retrograde amnesia (and not cause other serious problems, and/or be permanent) we're going down a psychoanalytic route. HOWEVER as a psychologist I am duty bound to point out that other psychological theories *are* available.

"So we live at-" John paused to look down at the address he had written down in front of him, "-221a Baker Street." The taxi ride was taking forever in the rush hour and inane chatter at least could distract him from the utter madness of finding himself suddenly and without warning in the middle of London.

Unfortunately his flat-mate didn't seem designed for humdrum talk. "221b," was his monotone reply.

They lapsed into silence again and John went back to thinking his situation over.

He had already been swamped with new information at the hospital. Retrograde Amnesia, trauma, post-traumatic stress; these were all terms that had been scrawled across his notes, passed from doctor to doctor, and then been explained to him in over-simplified terms. John had reminded them that while he had forgotten the past four months of his life, his eight years of medical training were still fresh in the mind.

The working theory settled upon by the doctors and psychologists was that when John had been injured in the explosion those injuries had – coupled with his pre-existing PTSD – caused him to mentally return to the last time he had been happy; some time shortly before being shot. No matter how John strained his mind, the last clear memory he had was of eating breakfast with the troops. After that there were only fuzzy patches of memory; being on patrol, patching up a head-wound, driving a jeep, and then...nothing...just the nurses and doctors of the last few weeks.

Naturally he had been baffled at first. To be shot in Afghanistan was one thing (and he had first assumed he was recovering from an injury received out there) but the truth was even more bizarre. He had already recovered from a bullet wound, returned home, and then – under his own steam – managed to get blown up in a swimming pool.

He had not been alone in this explosion, though no one seemed to know much about it. He had gathered that his flat-mate – one Sherlock Holmes – had been with him at the time. This man's injuries had been less severe, and he had been discharged two days after John had first woken up. According to the staff this man had inquired after his health frequently, but after discovering John's memory loss the man seemed to have lost interest. He no longer inquired, and he hadn't dignified John with a personal visit, or even a message.

His land-lady had visited over the next two weeks. She brought pyjamas, toiletries, and medical publications for him to read. She made light chit-chat with him about daytime television and hospital food, but was otherwise uncommunicative. Whenever he asked about other things, she gave an apologetic wince and told him that he should keep his mind off it. Her tone suggested that longed to say more, but couldn't.

It was to his surprise then that Mrs. Hudson informed him that the man himself, the great Sherlock Holmes, would be collecting him when he was finally discharged.

"He's been asking after you, you know," she said kindly, "quite fretted he has, in his own little way." Then she bit her lip as though she had said far too much.

Now, a day after Mrs. Hudson's last visit, he was sitting in a taxi with Sherlock Holmes,

Meeting him had been like meeting a stranger and John had judged him as such. He was expensively dressed, aloof, and on the rare occasions he spoke he did so with a clipped, well-educated voice. Though John wasn't one for noticing male attractiveness, he recognised that if the two of them ever went on the pull, Sherlock would be the one going home with a glamour model.

This man was his friend? If he was, he certainly had a funny way of showing it. He was looking fixedly out of the window aside from pausing to fire off an occasional text.

John, who was finding being in London again overwhelming, focused on reading and rereading the safety notices inside the cab. When this became too tedious, he ventured to speak again.

"How long have I been living there?"

"Two months."

"And how did I come to-?"

"We were both looking for a flatmate. A friend of yours introduced us."

John took this in. "Oh, who?"

Sherlock gave a disinterested shrug. "Old uni friend. Can't remember a name."

John doubted this. This man didn't seem the type to forget names. Even if he had, he might have mentioned how he knew the friend, or where the friend worked. Personally John couldn't think of anyone from uni he still socialised with these days.

The cab pulled up in a well-heeled street. Without a word, or even an offer to help with the bags, Sherlock climbed out.

Once inside, the flat was nicer than he'd expected. But it didn't give him much in the way of insight into the last two months. John felt he could have gone into any flat in the street and felt about the same amount of recognition as he did in this impersonal and tidy room.

It was just a space shared by two people who existed together but had little other connection. It was nicely furnished, but bore no personal marks. The bookcases were filled with books he didn't recognise and DVDs he vaguely remembered owning before Afghanistan. The surfaces were clear and presumably anything personal they owned was kept in their private rooms.

"Very nice," he said mildly.

Mrs. Hudson interrupted (or rather, provided a welcome distraction) to welcome him home. She threw her arms around him like a favourite aunt might, patted his cheek, and fussed over the length of his hair. She seemed about to enquire after any changes in his health in the less than twenty hours since she'd last seen him, but stopped when she seemed to notice something unusual about the room.

"Hell's teeth Sherlock! What's happened in here? It's -" she must have read something in Sherlock's un-expressive face, because she faltered, "It's so...clean."

Sherlock shrugged. "Well it wasn't up to our usual standards, what with both of us being in hospital, so I gave it a once over."

"Usual standards?" was her bemused reply.

"John could probably do with a cup of tea Mrs. Hudson," said Sherlock pointedly. Mrs. Hudson gave him a look that suggested that were it not for John's delicate state then Sherlock would have received a clip around the ear for that.

John tried to stop her, claiming he hadn't forgotten how to boil a kettle, but she waved him off and went to make it anyway. With nothing else to do John moved towards a comfy looking armchair near the door. It was rounded with a union flag cushion.

Sherlock almost forcibly pushed past him and dropped into the seat first. He pointed to an empty and uncomfortable-looking chair opposite him.

"That one there is yours," he explained.

A/N: Let me know what you think!