Sherlock was in a coma for a few months after the fall. Mycroft knew that his brother had wanted to take care of Moran on his own terms, always the stubborn one, but he had no clue when or even if his brother was going to wake up. By the time Sherlock had woken up from the coma Moran had been long dead, along with the rest of Moriarty's spiders.

Mycroft knew the moment Sherlock's eyes opened that something was wrong. "Lestrade?" Sherlock questioned dazedly. He started looking around, confusion written plainly on his face. Taking in his surroundings, making deductions.

Mycroft had always known this was a possibility. He'd known what would have been the clue as to if his brother had lost any of his memory. But instead of asking for John, he'd asked for Lestrade. The brilliant mind of Sherlock Holmes had failed him for the first time. Amnesia the obvious diagnosis.

Sherlock relaxed, he let the tension in his muscles release at the sight of his older brother, who was sat in a chair to the left of him. His right leg crossed over the left. Umbrella planking his side, Mycroft was always prepared for London's sporadic weather.

"I was worried about you." Mycroft admitted, the seriousness in his tone startled Sherlock. Sure his brother had worried about him before but usually it was about Sherlock eating and sleeping enough. But with his current surroundings it was obvious this was not the cause for his worries. Sherlock reached up, gently stroking his right temple. He didn't know what made him reach there, but the wide puffy scar that ran about an inch across was a clue. Though he couldn't for the life of him remember where he'd acquired it. He tried his mind palace but it was blank of any traumatic incident that would have granted him with this impressive scar.

"Mycroft," He paused meeting his brother's solemn look. "What's happened to me?"

When the Doctor's had asked Sherlock what year it was his answer was April 2009. He'd lost almost three years of memory. They explained to him that he'd suffered from brain damage when he fell. They informed him that in fact it was 2012.

Sherlock had taken the news well. He'd never been an emotional man, and the only thing he'd cared about was if any other part of his brain was affected from the fall. They weren't, he would be able to retain new information and it wasn't likely he'd lose anymore, but he also would probably never remember those three years he'd lost.

When Sherlock questioned what had happened during the time he'd forgotten Mycroft had done what he thought was best. Not just for Sherlock but John as well. He'd told him that he'd been working with Greg, solving cases.

"Greg? Who's greg?" Mycroft was startled, Sherlock had met Greg in 2005. He couldn't be losing more of his memory could he?

"Gregory Lestrade." Mycroft tested.

"Oh Lestrade! Oh I didn't know that was his name." Mycroft exhaled, relieved that it had just been his brother's ignorance and not more brain damage.

And when he asked about the fall, he'd told Sherlock the partial truth. He had fallen from a roof, but Mycroft had told him that he'd fallen while investigating for a case. No need to tell him about John or Moriarty. He didn't remember them. It would do nothing but confuse the poor man.

After completing physical therapy Sherlock was released from the hospital. A genial woman wheeled him to one of Mycroft's cars that was idling in front of the hospital. The older Holmes helped his brother into the backseat. Of course Sherlock scoffed at this but accepted the help nonetheless, he was still week, his legs still shook slightly the muscles were worn out easily from prolonged lack of use.

Mycroft didn't know where Sherlock would feel most comfortable. Obviously 221b was out of the question. In 2009 Sherlock had been staying at this dump on the outskirts of London, Mycroft was sure the place would have been occupied by a student strapped for cash by now. Other than himself Lestrade was the only person Sherlock had.

So that's where Mycroft took him. He would have had him stay at his home, but he needed to be cared for, and he wouldn't be able to do that. Plus, Greg knew Sherlock better at that time. Sure Mycroft was able to tell what kind of soap his brother used on a certain day, but he would never be able to understand how he worked.

"Thank you Lestrade, I feel terrible pushing him on you, but the doctors said that he needs normality. And at this time in his life you were what was normal to him. That and solving cases, so let him help you with a few if you don't mind." Greg nodded spying around the corner to make sure Sherlock couldn't hear what he was about to say.

"I just don't see how we're going to keep all of this out of the press, and John… he still comes around Scotland Yard sometimes. We've agreed it'd be better for him, for both of them, not to know right? I can't cut off contact with John, he's already lost Sherlock."

Mycroft swung his umbrella slightly as assuaged Lestrade's worries. "I've handled the press, you won't have to worry about them. As for doctor Watson, I see how this might be troublesome. Perhaps tell him to call before he comes from now on, tell him you're busy. I don't care, but I don't want either of them more confused than they already are. Never mind crushed."

Lestrade gave a tacit approval with a nod of his head. Mycroft gave him a warm smile. "Well I best be off, Goodbye Sherlock." He called into the living room where Sherlock laid on the couch. Mycroft turned to leave before he thought better of it and added, "Remember in 2009 he was still struggling, make sure he doesn't relapse."

"Don't worry Mycroft, I'll take good care of him."

Sherlock looked around Lestrade's flat. He remembered it from the times when he'd overdosed and he'd taken him in. Fixed him up, gotten him sober. He detested it. He liked his dumpy flat on the outskirts of London where he could be alone. He could work on cases, spreading out his files. Where he could keep body parts in the fridge without Lestrade yelling at him.

But he supposed that wasn't his life anymore. He supposed that's why he was here with Lestrade, because he didn't have that flat anymore. He wouldn't remember where he lived now.

"I need some… I need some air." He said springing up from the couch, snapping up the navy blue trench coat that he had no memory of purchasing, and the scarf that had been there too. Both had been clearly dry-cleaned. He wondered if he was wearing these when he… The traffic zoomed by on the streets below, Sherlock jumped the alley with ease. Landing on the roof of the next building, his trench coat catching the wind and billowing behind him. A shorter man was trying to catch up to him, he barely made the jump with his stumpy legs. Sherlock couldn't make anything else out. Was the man chasing him?

He was out of the vision as soon as it started. He didn't know what he was seeing. Was it a memory? He didn't know. What he did need to know was that he needed to be on his own sooner rather than later. If he showed Lestrade and his brother that he could adjust and take care of himself maybe they would let him get his own flat.

"I'm going out Lestrade. Shouldn't be long." Greg met him at the door blocking his escape. He is going to make this difficult isn't he, Sherlock thought.

"No Sherlock. You can't go out alone yet, you know 2009 London, not 2012." Greg was just buying time. London hadn't changed much in the three years, he just didn't want Sherlock to have a run in with John.

"Greg I need to get out of here. I need to memorize the city again. I'm a grown man you can't keep me cooped up in here. I'll take a cab, I won't walk see I'm making compromises now." Sherlock was getting hysterical. Greg released a sigh, he knew that he wasn't taking this as well as he let on. His mind was the most important thing to him, and a part of it was missing. He was going to find a way out anyway so why not let him go?

"Just try not to get killed by your cabbie, yeah?"

"What?" Sherlock questioned his face scrunching up at such a ridiculous warning. He took in Lestrade's serious expression and then it dawned on him that this must have happened before. He was there again, the man that was on the roof. Still trying to catch Sherlock, or was he just trying to catch up? Sherlock rounded a corner apparently chasing after something himself, he would have never taken this street if he'd been trying to escape from someone. "Never mind. I shouldn't be home too late." Greg gave a terse nod and stepped aside. Sherlock made his way down the stairs and out the door, shivery at the biting cold.