Disclaimer: The characters are not mine, though - like everyone - I sure wish they were.

We were on a scene. Nothing unusual, just another dead body found by the river bank. Sherlock had already done his silent deduction of the scene and then signaled me forward to assess how long she had been dead.

I leaned down, careful not to touch too much or muck up any evidence around the body, "She's been dead about 36 hours, based on weather, water, and rigor mortis."

"Really, John, it's very good," Lestrade said. I smiled at the praise since lord knows Sherlock will never offer it up.

Sherlock snorted.

I gave him a perturbed glance with an eye roll, then looked back to Greg, "Thank you," I said as I stood up.

"We should really utilize you more often. Our person who typically does it never gets nearly as accurate as you, even with more time allotted."

Before I could respond, Sherlock spoke up with a scoff, "No. He's my person. And I don't share."

I looked at him for a few seconds, shocked at the outburst, but I couldn't for the life of me wipe the smile off of my face. I turned back to Greg, "Well, that settles that, then." I knew Sherlock didn't mean it in an untoward way because he doesn't do feelings - he barely does friendship. Which is fine, because I'm not actually gay. It was just...nice to feel like he did want or need me around.

We went back to Baker Street shortly after. Sherlock was somewhere in his mind palace when I decided to go take a shower. Something about crime scenes always makes me want to clean up a bit, even if I have already had a shower that morning. It was a relatively short one, and once I was done I decided to put my pants back on but leave my shirt off so that I could easily throw a new one on; one that didn't smell like river water and death.

As I padded out, still toweling my hair dry, I instinctively glanced over towards Sherlock's chair where I had left him. Only, he wasn't there. It took me a second to realize that the shape on the floor was my friend, but when I did I ran over to him with a gasp.

"Sherlock!" I called to him. He was on his back with limbs akimbo, face turned towards the couch. I reached out to his neck to find his carotid artery, not even hearing my own whispered repetition of "please", and was relieved to find a pulse there.

I moved my hand to his shoulder, gently trying to shake him while calling to him, but it didn't work. My hand then moved to cup his cheek, almost on its own volition, "Sherlock," I called louder, slightly disgusted with myself and the way my voice shook. 'Get it together, man! You're a doctor!' But then they always say it's different when it's someone you know. I had hoped to never find out from personal experience.

"Sherlock, please, you must wake up," I said quietly, and then the idea formed. I cleared my throat to gain back some dominance in my voice, "Sherlock Holmes, that is quite enough," I said roughly, though my thumb had started moving gently on his pronounced cheekbone in complete counterpoint to my words, "It is time to get up." His eyes started darting back and forth beneath his eye lids, so I took a big breath for the final draw, "Sherlock, NOW!"

He gasped as his eyes flew open wide and his back arched a little off of the floor. His eyes finally found me and there was no recognition. My heart and stomach both sank.

"What?" he asked while looking around.

"You must have collapsed while I was in the shower," I said gently as I removed my hand from his face.

His eyes returned to me and there was a noticeable shift back to the man I know, "John, I'm fine," he said and made to move to a sitting position.

"You're bloody well not fine, you wanker!" I couldn't repress my anger as I helped him to a sitting position with his back against his chair. He was looking at me in that way he has. Oh, God, he was analyzing me, "Stop that!" I said and stood up, "You stay right there while I grab my stethoscope from my room."

"And a shirt?" he asked softly.

I forgot I wasn't wearing one, but I turned to him and scoffed, "Unbelievable. You may have a concussion and you're worried about me not having a shirt on?"

He just grunted and I turned back towards my room. Once there, I threw on a plain white t-shirt before going to my medical bag that I take to work and drawing out my stethoscope, blood pressure cuff, and a pen light. Thank God I didn't leave it at work as I'm prone to do.

When I reentered the living room, he had moved himself to be sitting in the chair. I growled - literally growled - and said, "You are the most frustrating man in the world, you know that?"

"This was more comfortable. I thought you would advise that as my doctor."

"I advised you to stay where I put you," I said as I closed the distance. I kneeled at his feet, "Roll up your left sleeve a bit," I told him as I placed my stethoscope in my ears and got the BP cuff ready. For once he did as I told him without fighting, and I took his readings within a couple minutes.

I placed my stethoscope around my neck and went to remove the cuff as I announced my findings, "BP is 90 over 60, which is low. Pulse is 60, which is bordering low. Your breathing, however, is a bit fast," I then picked up my pen light and raised on to my knees again. "Eyes on my nose. Don't look away," I tested one eye and then the other, relieved by these findings, "Pupils are equally reactive to light, so that's good, at least."

"So am I going to die?" He asked sarcastically, rolling his sleeve back down.

"Not from this, it would appear, but you do need to get your blood pressure back up," I stood and placed my equipment on my chair, "I'm going to make you some tea and crackers."

"Really, John, I am fine."

"We'll see about that in a few minutes when I reassess. If your blood pressure doesn't return to a normal range, we're going to the hospital."

"That is highly unnecessary!" He seemed offended by the idea.

I turned to the kitchen, "We'll see."

After finally getting him to eat and drink his snack, I waited about 20 minutes before checking his vitals once more. "110 over 80, and pulse is back up to a solid 80."

"So I'm good?" He asked as he once again rolled his sleeve down.

I sighed, "Yes. But if this happens again, we're going to the hospital."

"But..." he went to argue, but I pinned him with a glare that left no room for argument, "Yes, fine..." he said petulantly as he looked off to the side.

"Good."

The rest of the night passed without incident.

When I woke up this morning, I found Sherlock at the kitchen table looking in to his microscope, working on some new experiment that I really don't want to know anything about.

"How are you feeling this morning?" I ask, putting the kettle on to make my tea.

"Good," he says without looking up.

"I want to take your blood pressure again before I head to work," I say before heading towards my bag to grab the supplies. When I turn around, he has a confused look on his face and I falter, "Are you sure you're alright?"

He shakes his head as if to clear it, "I already said I was. Let's get this over with," he says as he slips his left arm out of his dressing robe to grant me uninhibited access to the arm.

I perform my routine, satisfied with the results, "Same as the final check last night. You seem to be doing fine, but I want you to actually eat today. You need to keep your blood pressure and sugar up otherwise we're going to the hospital."

"Yes yes, I remember the threat well enough," he grumbles, placing his arm back in the sleeve and looking back in his microscope.

"See that you keep remembering it," I say as I sit down to drink my tea and glance through the paper. I have about 10 minutes before I need to leave for work, and his silence is actually very helpful in letting me mentally prepare for my day.

When it comes time to go, I refold the paper, rinse my cup and place it in the sink to wash later, then grab my bag as I head for the door, "Right, I'm off to work. Be back later, but let me know if you need anything throughout the day or start to feel weird."

He looks up and opens his mouth a bit, then seems to think better of it and closes it briefly before saying, "Right."

My brow furrows, but I assume I'm over-thinking things and if I don't leave now I'll probably be late for work again.

The workload is tedious and redundant today, and by lunch time I'm about ready to beg off on sick leave so that I don't stab myself in the eye with a needle - just to shake up the day a bit, of course. It's at this point that I get a phone call from Lestrade. I answer it almost too eagerly.

"Hello?" I pick up the phone.

"John, it's Greg. I...need you to come to a crime scene."

"What, now? I'm at work," I respond out of habit, like I wasn't just praying for something like this to happen.

"It's Sherlock. He's..." Lestrade trails off, and my mind fills in the gap with a million different words.

"Is he okay?" I ask worriedly, "he had a fainting episode last night and seemed a bit off this morning still."

"John, he...I don't know how to say it. It seems ridiculous, but he seems to have lost his memory."

My mind goes blank, "His...memory?"

"Yeah, it's like he doesn't even know what it is he does."

"Where are you? I'll head out immediately," I say as I gather my things and am on the move towards my office door.

He tells me where to meet them, and luckily for everyone involved it's only about a 10 minute cab ride. During the drive, I go back over his symptoms in my head, but it just doesn't make sense. Maybe he hit his head harder than I guessed last night. Maybe he played it off better than I anticipated.

And then I remember his look of complete incomprehension the night before, right after he came out of his fainting spell. But he came back quickly from that, and that wasn't that unusual was it? 'Oh, God,' my stomach drops and I swear I'm going to be sick in the ashtray of the cab, 'What if it's the same look and it doesn't go away? What if my best friend has forgotten me?' I simply can't think of that at the moment, because I can't deal with it. I can't help Sherlock if I'm selfishly hoping he doesn't need it when it comes to remembering me.

And why would I be special? He is one of the most self-centered men I know; most of the time he doesn't even know I've left the flat, thus continuing conversations that he expects me to remember even though I wasn't there for them.

I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, trying to reason with myself, 'If he has forgotten me, he'll just have to relearn. Maybe it'll be better,' I think, but then scoff sadly, 'What if he doesn't like me this time around?'

And that's the real kicker isn't it? I want him so desperately to want me around still because I can't just be a doctor at some stupid clinic wanting to stab myself in the eye with a needle; I need the adventures as much as he does. Did. 'Oh, God,' I think again.

The cab comes to a halt and I pay him before stepping out to learn what my new life may be like. Maybe Sherlock will recognize me and nothing will change for us. But somewhere deep down I suspect that that cannot be the case.

I see Lestrade walking towards me and I aim for him. Sherlock is perched on the hood of a police car behind him, looking around, and something about his face isn't quite right.

"Thanks for coming, John," Lestrade greets me.

"Of course. How's he doing?"

"Same as when I called. I'm hoping he'll recognize you."

I shrug, "He very well may not," it comes out much more reasonable sounding than it feels in my soul, "So what happened?"

"I picked him up from the flat because we were on a bit of a time crunch. That part has passed now," he adds, but I don't really care, "He was acting weird when I showed up, but he's Sherlock and I just assumed he was in his mind palace ignoring me or something. We got here and he just sort of stood around, looking at things but not analyzing. He has this...blank look on his face. No snide remarks, no derision, no Sherlock, basically," he says and I nod in understanding as I glance at said man on the car. I see the face he means and I grimace, "So I summed things up for him and then waited for him to do his thing, except he didn't. When I asked him why not, he said that he was sorry, but he had no idea what I was expecting from him."

My eyebrows shoot up, "He said he was sorry?"

His lips quirk up a bit at the left corner, "Yeah. That's when I called you."

I take a deep breath in and let it out, "Right. I'm going to go talk to him, but could I do it alone?"

"Yeah, I've got to get back to the case anyway. Let me know if you need anything."

"Yeah, I will," I say and we part ways. I gear myself up and then make my way towards Sherlock with the worst case of butterflies I've had in years.

He eyes me warily as I approach, and I just know that he has no idea who I am.

"Sherlock," I nod as I stop in front of him.

"Yes. And you are?" It's his voice in the sense that it's his timbre, but not his typical inflection. My stomach drops again.

"I'm John Watson. You...really don't remember?" I have to ask it. It's so disorienting seeing a man that I have an established history with but who has no memory of that past.

He shakes his head, "I really don't."

I have to look away from him to hide the tears that spring up at the words. Stupid. Why the tears? 'It's because he's gone. The man I love is gone.' Oh bugger. What the hell am I thinking? I'll come back to that later, I can't analyze that now. I clear my throat and lift my eyes again.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock says, "I seem to be disappointing people today, but I don't know how not to."

I chuckle a little, "That sounds about right for you, actually," he looks confused at my words, so I back track to the introduction portion, "I'm your flatmate, and we work together sometimes."

"Sometimes? What is it that we do?"

"Well, I'm a doctor mainly. You're the world's only consulting detective, and you drag me along with you to cases. Then I blog about it," 'and sometimes you forget to wear pants,' I want to add, but he won't understand the joke. My heart aches again.

"The world's only consulting detective? That sounds farfetched and egotistical," he scrunches his nose in distaste.

I can't help the laugh that escapes. Okay, maybe this won't be so bad if he's as critical about his former self as the rest of us are, "It does make some sense, actually. Your powers of deduction are...unparalleled, and this country owes a lot to you," where exactly did that praise come from?

His eyebrows knit together as he analyzes me. For a brief moment, he's my Sherlock again ('Possessive now, are we?') before all that's left is the confusion, "You're...my person."

The words from yesterday ring through and give me a little hope, "You said that just yesterday."

"What does it mean? Are we...lovers?"

I blush, "No, no, no. No, we are not."

"Why? Do you not find me attractive?" Okay, maybe there are some base qualities that make Sherlock who he is that just can't be changed, even if he forgets who he is.

"Do I...? Sherlock! I am not gay!" 'Liar. But we get to revisit that later.'

He cocks his head to the side, clearly confused, "Oh. Am I gay?"

"I have absolutely no bloody idea. We don't talk about it."

"Maybe we should."

"Maybe we shouldn't. What you meant yesterday is that I'm your friend. Your colleague. Your go-to."

"My person," he says with an understanding nod.

I blush again, "Right."

"Well that seems alright. Are you going to explain my life to me, then?" He says it so matter-of-factly that I can't help but roll my eyes a bit.

"I can try. You're a bit difficult to figure out; this would be much easier if the situation was reversed," I confess.

"Why is that?"

"Because that's what you do: you observe people constantly and lay out full details that they themselves may not have even known."

"How do I do that? I just look at them?"

"I think so. You read the little details, like tobacco-stained fingers, or missing jewelry, or crumbs on a jacket and somehow come to absurdly accurate conclusions."

"And that's impressive?"

"Sometimes it's annoying," I smirk, and he mimics it, "but mostly it's impressive."

He nods, but doesn't say anything. We lapse in to a bit of an awkward silence. I take the opportunity to look at him and take in the differences. He's wearing a white button-up shirt, but the sleeves are rolled to his elbows and it's untucked. Because he's wearing jeans. Oh, Jesus, does he look good in jeans. 'Stop it! Really not the right time to be objectifying him.' I look back up at his face and blush to find him staring at me with that calculating hint of himself back.

"Is that I what I look like when I do it?" He looks perplexed.

I shake my head, "I have no idea what I looked like, so I can't say."

"You looked..." he starts, trying to find the word. I swallow thickly waiting for him to continue, "thorough. You also looked surprised. Is this not my typical outfit?" He finishes as he looks down at himself.

"The shirt is, but you don't roll your sleeves. You always tuck it in to trousers, never jeans, and you usually have a jacket," I naturally respond and then furrow my brow. I never realized how much I observed of him, especially his clothes.

He grunts in thought, "Well then maybe I should change? You said we live together; can you take me back to our flat?"

"Sure, just let me call us a cab," I say and walk away to make the call, giving myself some space from the man I've just recently realized I've been denying feelings for. Is there a worse time to have started accepting them than when he can't remember who I am? But maybe this could be the opportunity I need to see if he could feel the same. Would that be wrong of me?

"John?" Sherlock calls to me as I hang up the phone. I turn around to face him.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

He falters, a lost look on his face like he just forgot something again. It's like his memory is trying to surface itself but can't quite grasp on with enough strength. As his eyes turn sad and fall to the ground, I make it my mission to help those memories surface and stay. I close the short distance between us, and place my right hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, it's okay. We'll deal with this and you will remember," I promise, and unexpectedly he wraps his left arm around my waist, his right around my shoulders. I tense for a second but then accept the fact that we both need this, this affirmation that, though our situation has clearly changed, we're in it together.

'I can think of something else we'd like to be in with Sherlock together. Can you guess it, John?'
'Oh my God, not now!'

But no matter how I try, my body is going full force in to showing just how accepting it is of the fact that I'm attracted to Sherlock by presenting an erection. I pull back suddenly, and Sherlock gives me a confused look.

"Do we not hug?" He asks.

"Uh, no. We don't," I stutter, unable to look him in the eye as I place my hands in my coat pockets and will my erection away. Mycroft in drag. Yes, there it goes, thank God.

"I'm sorry, then."

"No, it wasn't bad," I blush, "I mean, there was no precedent, but I didn't mind. If you need that support, I will of course be here no matter what you need."

His brow furrows again, and I'm beginning to suspect that I'm going to get very used to seeing that look, "Why will you do this for me?"

I cock my head to the side because it's so obvious, but I remember that it's not to him. I can't stop the flash of hurt before I say, "Because you're my best friend," then turn away as I hear a car approaching. Great timing, cabby; truly impeccable.

The cab ride back to Baker Street is silent for the 15 minute duration. I use the time to come to terms with a few things, the rest will have to wait for later. 1. I am attracted to Sherlock Holmes. How long that has been a true statement, however, I am not quite certain. 2. Him forgetting me is one of the hardest things I've ever dealt with thus far, and that includes the war. 3. I have no idea how to help him, I just know that I must.

As we arrive outside 221B, I pay the driver and escort Sherlock towards the door.

"Do you remember this place?" I ask.

"That man, Gavin," he starts and I smirk; he still can't get Greg's name right, "picked me up here earlier today, but that's the first I knew of it. I don't remember it; how long have we been living here?"

"You moved in a bit before me, but it's been about three years now," I stop and turn to face him, still on the sidewalk, "Sherlock, what is the last thing you remember?"

He retreats inside his mind, analyzing, "I don't really know. I remember things like my parents, my brother, school...but it's all very random and doesn't exist on a timeline per say. It's like I just woke up this morning and landed at an arbitrary point in my life, missing out on actual events, though they've clearly shaped me."

"As a doctor, I must say that that makes absolutely no sense to me. There is no medical backing for something like that."

He shrugs, "I never said there would be. You asked the question, and I supplied the answer as best I could."

"Right. What about Mrs. Hudson, our landlady? You helped her out with a case a few years back."

"I don't remember anything about being this consulting detective you mentioned, so I doubt I'd remember her."

"Well let's give it a shot, at least," I say and walk through the door. I lead him towards the door to Mrs. Hudson's flat and knock lightly.

"John! Aren't you supposed to be at work?" She asks, surprised.

"Something has happened. Can we come in?" I ask politely, a bit anxious to see Sherlock's reaction to her.

"Of course, dear," she backs up and leads us to the kitchen, automatically starting to make some tea as we sit at the table, "What is this about? What's happened?"

I look at Sherlock, and he seems to really be trying to remember her. He turns to me at last and shakes his head sadly.

"Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock appears to be experiencing amnesia."

"What? What happened?" She's shocked.

"No idea," Sherlock says, "I woke up here this morning, but don't know how or why."

"But..." she looks him in the eye finally and can see he's different, "you don't remember me at all?"

"No," he says gently, shaking his head.

That does it, she just bursts in to tears, "Oh, Sherlock!"

"Mrs. Hudson!" I quietly scold her.

She looks to me and sobs again, "I'm sorry, I can't," before she leaves the kitchen and we hear a door slam.

I sit with my mouth hanging open. Well, maybe this was a terrible idea after all, but I didn't think she would react quite that poorly or quickly.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, I didn't think she would react that way."

"It's okay. I don't really know her, so I don't feel bad about it. Does that make me awful?"

I snort, "No, that is surprisingly normal for you."

"Am I...a horrible person?" He looks sad at the thought, and it's like a punch to my gut that I would have made him think that.

"No! No...I mean, sometimes," we both wince, "You're just very...different than other people...socially. But that's what you have me for."

"You tell me when I'm being insensitive?"

"Yeah," then I smile, "and sometimes you even listen to me when I do."

He chuckles, albeit sadly, "I don't sound like I'm very easy to be around."

"For most people, you're not. You care more about being honest than sparing peoples feelings, which can throw them off a bit. It's not an entirely poor way to go about life."

"Do I treat you that way?" His eyes search mine. I can't imagine how hard it is to relearn yourself from other peoples perspectives and find out that you weren't exactly Mother Teresa.

I nod, but try to keep my answer light, "Sometimes. Sometimes you say things that piss me off and you have no idea why. But I have to remind myself that you don't mean it...at least I hope you don't."

"I'm sure I don't."

I can't say anything to that due to a mysterious lump in my throat. I clear said throat and say, "Right. Upstairs, then?"

"Yes."

He follows me up the stairs and I lead us in to the flat. It hits me that I'm going to have to give him a tour of our home that we've shared for three years, and it almost undoes me again. The more instances I see of him not remembering, the harder it is to keep the tears at bay.

"This is our flat," I say as I take my coat off and place it behind the door, "I'm going to give you a tour, see if anything rings a bell."

He only nods, watching me carefully. So close to my Sherlock, but still not quite right.

"The living room. My chair, your chair, your skull," I point to each.

"My skull?! What do I have that for - am I rehearsing bloody Shakespeare?!" He looks so honestly uneasy about the idea that I can't help but double over in laughter. It's good to get the tension out that way instead of the tears I've been fighting.

"You talk to it, if you can imagine. Helps you work through your cases."

"I thought you did that."

I stop and think about that, "Yeah, you don't use it when I'm around. I assumed you still did when I'm not around, but now that I think about it you've referenced multiple instances where you've continued talking to me after I've left."

His brow furrows again, "As in, I don't notice you're gone?"

"You get very wrapped up in that head of yours when you're working on a case."

"I'm an asshole," he deadpans and a splutter in shock.

"You are many things, Sherlock: annoying, brilliant, naive in some ways, and socially inept to name a few, but an asshole you are not."

He raises one eyebrow that silently asks, 'You don't honestly believe that do you?'

I shrug as an answer, 'I honestly do.'

"Next is the kitchen. We have to order in a lot because you tend to use the fridge to hold body parts and experiments."

He looks shocked but intrigued by this, "What kind of body parts?"

"Heads, eyes, fingers...I swear you'd have an entire corpse in there if it would fit. Which it won't," the gleam in his eyes is the closest he's gotten to his former self, and it makes me smile.

"Maybe I can get back in to that. I've always loved experiments and running them on the most accurate specimens that I can lay my hands on."

"You've left some going. Afraid I don't know anything about them because most of that goes over my head, but the kitchen is your space for that if you'd like."

"Thank you, John," he smiles.

I nod before leading him towards the hallway, "This is our bathroom, and this is your bedroom." We step in to his room, both of us with new eyes. I've never been in here because I haven't needed to; he would always steal my things in the living room if he was too lazy to go to his room - or order me to - and get his own.

I watch as he walks the room. It's a bit of a mess, but not as horrendous as I had imagined it. 'And how often has that been?' 'Not nearly as much as it will be now.' He sits down on his bed and picks up a pillow, bringing it to his face and smelling it. His eyes close with a crease between his eyes, as if he's thinking of something. He sniffs it again, but growls in frustration before throwing it back towards where it came.

"It doesn't smell familiar. I woke up in this bed, but nothing made it feel like mine," he says frustratedly as he glares around the floor at his clothes and various other objects, "You think I would recognize my own scent, wouldn't you?"

"Honestly, I have no idea. I would have thought so, but depending on which part of your brain has been affected, it probably makes perfect sense that you don't. Sherlock, maybe we should take you in to the hospital and get a scan done."

"What good will that do?" He asks, still frustrated.

"If you have a clot, or a tumor, or...or something else, they'll find it and can treat it."

He looks cautiously optimistic, "Can they do that?"

"If there's something to fix. We won't know unless we go have it looked at."

"You're my doctor. I guess I should listen to you, eh?"

"I'm not actually your doctor. You don't often need one."

"John, you're my person which basically means you're a lot of things to me, including my doctor."

"Okay, Sherlock," I smile, "Does that mean you agree to go, then?"

"If you think it's best."

The roll reversal is surreal and I hope I don't have to become used to it. This Sherlock is so similar, yet different than the one I'm used to. He's almost a kinder, more open version of his genius self.

"I do think it's best."

He stands up and walks towards his door and I follow, "Shall we go now?" he asks.

"Yeah, alright," we walk back to the living room, and his eyes fall on his violin.

"Do you play?" He asks, transfixed by the instrument.

My heart stops for a second as a wave of sadness runs through me. The thought that he may never play his beautiful music again - may have forgotten those countless pieces he has memorized - had not crossed my mind. He is one of the most talented musicians I know, and the only classical one that I willingly listen to.

"No," I say quietly, unable to look at him, "...you do."

"But I gave up on lessons as a child!" He walks over to the music stand, "There's not even music, just this hand-written thing," he points to his most recent composition.

I shake my head, "You memorized everything you played, except what you would compose yourself," I continue quietly past the tears. There's no stopping them now.

"John..." he starts in awe, still not having looked at me, "this one has your name on it. Was I writing this for you?"

I do look up at that. My Sherlock never mentioned anything of the sort, and I never look at the music stand since I can't understand it anyway, "I don't know."

He turns to say something and then sees the tears in my eyes, "Oh no, what have I done?"

"I'm sorry, I just...need a moment," I say and turn to climb the stairs to my room. As I walk away, I run my right hand under my eyes to wipe the tears that have already blazed the trail for their brethren. When I reach my room I don't close the door, just sit on my bed with my face in my hands, letting the tears fall but trying to repress the sobs. It's too much, losing my best friend this way. I suddenly feel an immense empathy towards the family members of Alzheimer's patients; this is one of the cruelest jokes the universe can play.

I can hear tentative steps and lower my hands to see Sherlock standing in my doorway with a sad expression.

"John, I am so sorry," he sobs and a tear falls down his cheek.

I hiccup and wipe at the tear tracks again, "That doesn't help; you never used to apologize and mean it."

"I thought you said I wasn't an asshole," he tries to joke, but it only brings on a fresh wave of tears from us both.

"You aren't! Don't you get it? I love you because of everything you are, ineptitudes and all," I say angrily before my words even register with myself. 'Did you just say that out loud?' 'Oh, God'

"You...what?" Sherlock's face is shocked and priceless, if only I could actually enjoy the moment.

"I didn't mean..." I struggle, but I can't bring myself to deny anything completely.

"You mean as a friend?" He walks over to my bed and sits next to me.

It takes me about 30 seconds to figure out what I'm going to say, "Of course I love you as a friend. Anything more than that...I don't know anymore, honestly; yesterday I would definitely have said no. What I do know is that this is the worst feeling I have ever felt - my heart has never hurt this badly - and I can only assume it's because I've lost a piece of you," the tears come again, stronger this time, but I push through to whisper, "I've never been forgotten before."

He sobs as a fresh wave of his own tears overtake him, "I don't know why I never apologize to you."

"You've never hurt me this badly before," I say before looking away from him again.

His hands reach up to cup my face, forcing me to look him in the eye again, "I am so, so truly and deeply sorry. I wish I could remember," his hands slide to my back as he pulls my face to his chest and just holds me. My left arm goes to his side, my right to his back, and I pull him closer as I desperately clench my hands in his shirt. After a few minutes of us crying on each other, my selfishness hits me.

I'm still sobbing, but I move my face just enough for him to hopefully be able to understand me, "Oh, God, I'm so selfish. You must be so frustrated and terrified at the situation, and here all I can think about is how it's effecting me."

"No, this is good. This helps more than you can imagine. Just...please don't let go yet."

I pull him tighter again and we stay that way for many more minutes, but I have no concept of the exact amount. Once my tears finally seem to have dried up, I yawn as I slowly push away from him, still holding his sides, "I'm sorry. I'm completely here for you, I promise."

"You'll still help me? I know it's hard for you," he truly is a different person, but not a worse one.

"Of course, whatever you need," I say emphatically, "Starting with getting you to the hospital and checked out if you're still up for it. The sooner the better."

"Absolutely. If there's a way to fix this, I want to start it right away."

We get our coats at the door and head to the hospital. We get triaged behind four bleeding cases and one possible appendicitis. I can't complain about that, really, but this is also very important even if not life-threatening. Hopefully not, anyway. 'Oh, God, please.'

We finally get called back and a nurse does a preliminary exam before she gets the doctor. We don't talk as we sit and wait, just take comfort in the other being there. Only a few minutes pass before the doctor comes in to do his own assessment. He decides to take Sherlock down to get a CT scan, as I would have fought for if he hadn't, and we make our way to another area of the hospital.

"Mr. Holmes, we're ready to start," a new face says after we've been sitting in the waiting area alone for about 15 minutes.

"Can he come with me?" Sherlock asks, gesturing towards me and sounding scared.

"I'm afraid not," she says, "due to the exposure to X-rays it would be dangerous for him to. He can wait in the control room and speak to you through the intercom if you need."

He looks at me, so scared, and he grabs my right hand in his left. My heart breaks seeing that look that my Sherlock would never have. It briefly crosses my mind that it's like looking after your friend's twin. Sure, he's just as attractive as my friend, but he's not mine. 'Getting possessive again.'

"Will you do that?" He asks nervously.

My hand reflexively tightens on his, "Of course. I said 'anything' didn't I?"

"John, I'm scared," he whispers.

"I know," I whisper in response, "but you have nothing to worry about. I'll be right here making sure they do everything right. You'll be alright."

He makes an unsure sound in the back of his throat.

"I'm your person, remember? You have to trust me," I smirk, trying to charm him in to movement. It surprisingly works, and he chuckles before taking a deep breath in while nodding. We both stand and he makes no move to drop my hand; in fact he grips it tighter. I will give him this support while I can, but I wish I could go in that room with him.

When we reach the room, he turns to me one more time for assurance. I say, "I'll be right here the entire time. Nothing can hurt you in there."

He nods and finally releases my hand. It's sweaty, but I can't bring myself to wipe it off as I make my way to the control room. There's an extra chair off to the side that I take as I watch the technician guiding Sherlock in to the proper position on the table. I can hear her instructing him to stay still and to try not to talk. As she comes in to the booth with me, she gives me a smile and I try to give one back, but I'm not sure I succeed.

"Okay, Mr. Holmes, we're going to begin."

The machine kicks in with its traditional whirring noise, and my eyes automatically lock on to the screen where the scan will appear.

Very faintly I hear a whimper and when I look to Sherlock I can see him twitching, "John?" He calls to me, still as nervous as before.

I look around for the intercom button, and press it as soon as I find it, "I'm here, Sherlock, just like I promised. You're doing wonderful, but I need you to stay still."

"But..."

"No talking. I'll talk. Do you want to hear the story about the first time we met? Just lie back and listen for me," I take a breath as I notice his twitching stop, and the technician gives me a grateful smile, "Three years ago, you had mentioned to a friend that you needed a flatmate but didn't think you could find one since you're kind of a difficult person to deal with sometimes. That friend had gone to school with me and just so happened to bump in to me that same day, when I was lamenting about not being the type of flatmate anyone wanted. He took me to St. Bart's where you were working on some sort of experiment, and within minutes but very few words, you had deduced that I had been a soldier in Iraq or Afghanistan. It was Afghanistan, by the way, I did have to tell you that much. Not five minutes later you practically declared we were flatmates and walked out. You winked at me, and all I could think was, 'Who the hell is this man, and what have I gotten myself in to?' I met you at 221B Baker Street later that day and the rest, as they say, is history."

The technician stops the machine and heads to the room to retrieve Sherlock. I was so distracted by the story that I didn't see any of the scan, "Sherlock, keep still, the technician is going to get you out of there now."

As the bed begins to slide back out, I move to the door that he'll come out of. He's a bit shaky but he appears calmer than before the procedure began, "Did it look okay?" He asks me.

"I didn't see the scan, but you did wonderfully," I smile.

"I'll analyze and send the scan back up to the doctor and he should be ready to see you again shortly to discuss it," the technician says.

"Thank you," I smile at her.

"Can I just say, you are the sweetest couple I've seen in a long time," she gushes.

I blush, "Oh, we're not..." I begin.

"Thank you," Sherlock interrupts me with a grin.

She looks confused, but just smiles and asks, "Can you find your way back to the waiting area?"

"Yes, we'll be fine, thank you," I say before heading towards the door. Once we enter the hallway outside, I ask Sherlock, "What was that about?"

"What?"

"Thanking her for saying we're a sweet couple when we're not one."

"She didn't say romantic partners; we are a couple of friends."

"You know what she meant," I accuse.

He genuinely smiles for the first time since coming to the hospital, "Maybe I'm starting to realize that there are much worse things in life than being your boyfriend."

My mouth gapes open and I stop walking, "What?"

He stops and looks at me, "But don't you see it? You're too good for me," he says honestly, no longer smiling, "I don't feel like I know myself very well, but I know that much."

"But you don't do relationships," is my counter. He has no idea that he's the one that's too good for me, not the other way around.

"And you're not gay," he quotes me from earlier, then continues walking. I catch up with him in a few steps and we're silent the rest of the way to the waiting area.

After 20 minutes, the doctor comes back out and leads us to his office. Even as a doctor myself and knowing that it's not necessarily a sign of bad news, I'm still nervous as hell. He tells us that the scan didn't show any signs of trauma, clots, bleeding, tumors, or abnormal growths. For all intents and purposes Sherlock's brain is fine, which does nothing to give a reason for the amnesia.

He explains that cases like this happen occasionally. It typically takes 3-4 days for memories to return, and they could do so all at once or a little at a time. It's impossible to tell which before it happens. I am to help him by keeping him in his routine and reintroduce him to familiar stimuli: smells, stories, sounds, that sort of thing. We leave the hospital with no real answers and a feeling of helplessness.

Once home, I make us some tea and order some sandwiches from downstairs. I have an idea that might jog his memory, but I know that it could also throw him off.

"Sherlock," I say to the man sitting in his chair staring at the wall, "I want you to change in to something comfortable. Neither of us is going anywhere after I pick up the sandwiches in a few minutes, and my next idea might take awhile."

His brow furrows, "That sounds rather scandalous, John."

"Oh, Jesus Christ, I just mean that you'll be doing a lot of reading, and it may take you awhile to do it! Go get changed," I fume to cover my embarrassment as I grab my coat to get the sandwiches.

When I come back, he's sitting in his chair again, but he's in his pajama pants and a t-shirt. "Better?" He asks, gesturing to himself.

"Much, thank you," I say as I bring his sandwich to him and place mine on my chair so I can take my coat off and replace it on its hook. I go in to the kitchen and grab us a couple of waters.

We eat in silence, and once we're done he asks, "So what am I to read? Do I keep a diary?"

"I...have no idea. Maybe, but I kind of doubt it," I smirk, "You're going to read my blog. It's where I write about all of the cases that we do; the who what where when why how nitty gritty of it all."

"How many entries are there?"

"31 at last count."

"Just 31 cases in three years?"

"I amend my statement: it's where I write about all of the interesting cases that we do."

"Oh, yes, of course."

I sit at the desk with my laptop, pulling the site up and going back to the beginning. He's standing over my right shoulder when I notice him bend closer to me and then I hear him breathe in deeply.

"Sherlock!" I pull my head to the left and turn to glare at him, "were you sniffing me?!"

"Yes, I was, now get back over here," he says as he places his left hand on the left side of my neck to gently pull me back towards him.

As he begins sniffing my hair again, I ask, "Why?"

"There's something," he moves lower, behind my ear and I repress a shudder, "familiar about," he moves yet lower until his face is on the side of my neck. I reflexively tilt my head to grant him more access and can't stop the shudder that goes through me as he speaks there, his warm breath caressing my skin, "your scent." He growls in frustration and stands up, "Damn, I swear I almost had something there."

'You can try again. Sniff anywhere you'd like.'
'Oh shut up!'

I straighten my head and make sure I've got the first entry, then stand up, "Right. You're all set to go. I'll be reading in my chair if you have any questions or anything. If you start remembering things, let me know right away."

The hours pass as I sit in my chair reading The Hobbit - not for the first time in my life - and randomly glancing over at Sherlock who is engrossed in the history of our cases. He randomly speaks aloud about how absurd some of the situations are or that his deductions can't possibly be real.

I release a loud yawn around 11pm which he can't help but notice, "Should you be going to bed so that you're rested for work tomorrow?" He asks.

I shake my head, "I already called Sarah and took the next three days off, but warned her it could be longer."

His eyes soften in a way my Sherlock's never do when aimed at me, "You don't have to do that. I don't want to keep you from your work."

"Trust me, a mini vacation is just what I need."

"If you are sure," he adds skeptically.

"Keep reading, Sherlock," I say and then return to my story, as well.

Around 1am I close my book and yawn. Looking over at the desk, I see that Sherlock has fallen asleep with his cheek on his left fist. Great, how did I miss that? Now I have to wake him up and hope that he remembers who I am this time. My stomach clenches at the thought of living some twisted version of that rubbish American movie Groundhog's Day.

I walk over to him and place my right hand on his upper right arm lightly, trying to ignore the muscles I can feel through the material, 'Still not the right time to be objectifying him.' "Sherlock," I call gently, but he doesn't move, "Sherlock," I try a little louder and his eyes flutter a bit, but he simply turns his face further in to his fist, away from my voice. I sigh heavily as I hesitate slightly before running my hand through his hair and speaking at a normal volume, "Come on now, it's time to wake up so you can go to bed."

"That makes absolutely no sense," he mumbles, still half asleep, without opening his eyes.

"It makes perfect sense if you're awake," I laugh.

He slowly opens one eye and then the other before turning to me, "John?"

I stare into his eyes, trying to gauge which twin I'm dealing with, but the hope was for naught; it's still the attractive twin, but not my Sherlock, "Yes, I'm here."

"Did you mention a bed?"

I laugh again, "I did. You need to find yours so you can sleep comfortably. Do you need help relocating it?"

He looks around the flat and spots his door, "That one, right?" He asks as he points to it.

"Yes."

"Then I think I'm okay. Are you going to bed, too?"

"Yes, I'm knackered and we've still got more work to do tomorrow."

"Okay," he says as he stands up. As I turn out the light and head towards my stairs, I notice him still in front of his door.

"Did you need something else?" I ask, repressing another yawn.

"You said you were coming to bed," he says.

"What?" I ask, confused, then his meaning hits me and I'm awake in more ways than one, "I meant my bed...I'm going to my bed."

His brow furrows for the first time of this new day, "That's...right. Right, of course."

"Goodnight, Sherlock," I say gently.

"Goodnight, John," he says, and we both turn towards our rooms.

If it takes me a little longer to fall asleep than I originally thought it might, it surely has nothing to do with the fact that I can't stop thinking about what it would be like, falling asleep in Sherlock's arms.

I wake slowly, very relaxed. It's only once I'm a bit more conscious that I understand what woke me: the sound of a violin. Being played well. My eyes snap open as my heart races. Could it be that he awoke with his memories? I glance at my clock to see that I slept in until 8am, which is amazing since I'm usually up at 6am on the dot thanks to my soldier training. I grab my robe and sling it over my shoulders as I make my way downstairs. I need to know which Sherlock it is.

When I reach the bottom of my stairs, I stop in awe just looking at the magnificence of him. How could I have never realized the depth of my feelings for this man? How was I to ever resist him? 'Oh, God, he's wearing that fucking purple shirt and those charcoal trousers,' I almost moan at the sight but luckily catch myself. It is almost sinful how good he looks in some clothing.

He notices me staring and lets his bow arm drop as he lowers the violin. He holds it in front of him nervously, "I'm sorry if I woke you," he says, and I unconsciously flinch. Still the twin.

"No," I say, but then correct myself, "I mean yes, you did, but it was a lovely way to wake up. You remembered how to play?" I ask as I walk over to him.

He shrugs, "I thought I would try to see if I could because it might trigger other memories or habits. It's the strangest feeling, reading the music and having my fingers and arm know where to go. It's like being on auto pilot, but if I think about it too much it all falls apart."

"What was it that you were playing?"

"Your song," he answers simply.

"Right. Which may not even be for me," I remind him with a bit of a blush.

"No," he says slowly, eyes calculating thin air as if analyzing himself, "something in me knows it's for you," he snaps out of it, back to my face, "but it's not finished. I hope some day it will be; it's such a beautiful melody."

I have no words for that so I just nod and turn towards the kitchen to start the kettle before using the restroom. Once back out, I notice that Sherlock set up the cups and tea, waiting on the water to boil.

"So what are we going to try today?" He asks without turning from staring at the kettle.

"I thought I would call up Greg and see if he's got a case we can tag along on. Try getting you back out in the field now that you know a bit more about your life."

"Who is Greg?"

"Greg Lestrade, he's the detective who picked you up here yesterday and then called me."

He turns to me with a furrowed brow, "I thought his name was Gavin."

I laugh, "You can never get his name right."

His lips twitch in a mimic of an almost smile, "Well at least that hasn't changed."

The kettle cries and Sherlock turns to grab it and finish making the tea. I sit down at the kitchen table, careful not to move too many things. When the cups are made, Sherlock places mine in front of me and then takes a seat across the table.

"Thank you," I smile.

"You're welcome," he smiles in return. We're silent for a few minutes as I stare at the wall lost in my thoughts before he brings me back, "John, is this shirt too tight?"

I splutter and almost choke on some tea. I place my cup on the table and look at him with what can only be guilty eyes, "What?"

"The shirt," he says again, holding his arms out straight to the side and causing the material to pull across his chest, "look at how it pulls when I move," he says and demonstrates some more.

'Oh, I can see how it pulls. I'd like to rip it off of him and send the buttons flying.'
'What a waste of his best shirt.'
'That wouldn't be a waste and you know it.'

"No," I croak out, then clear my throat, "no, it's fine. It's one of your favorites."

He looks up at me and I could swear he's analyzing me like my Sherlock does, but it's just slightly different; more honestly curious, "Do you like it?"

My eyes pull back to his from where I had been staring at his chest, "It's...not really my color, but it's a fine shirt," I say before picking up my cup again to take another drink.

He opens his mouth to speak, but then I hear my mobile start to ring. I get up and head to the living room where I left it sitting last night.

"Hello?"

"John, it's Greg again."

"What's going on?"

"First off, how is Sherlock?"

"He's still not remembering much of the past, but we're working on it."

There's a bit of a silence, then, "Would you two be willing to come out to a scene? Is that stupid?"

"No, I was going to call you later and ask if there was anything we could help with. I want to see if it can help jog his memory now."

"Perfect!" He says, then gives me the address and we hang up.

"I'm going to get dressed, then we'll head out to that scene," I say to Sherlock.

"Okay," he says with indifference.

I go up to my room and quickly throw on some jeans, a t-shirt, and my black and white stripped sweater. I head downstairs to brush my teeth and then to the living room. Sherlock is sitting on the couch in his matching charcoal grey suit jacket.

"You'll want to wear your coat, too; it's chillier today," I say as I grab my own coat and throw it on. He stands and grabs his coat, but not his scarf. I pull it down and hand it to him, "this is yours, as well."

He straightens it out and wraps it around his neck, allowing the two ends to hang down on opposite sides. I shake my head, "No, not like that," I tell him.

He looks down, perplexed, "Then how?"

"Folded and then looped."

He removes the scarf and tries to make sense of my words in regards to the cloth but it's not working. He shoves the fabric towards me patiently, "Show me?"

I grab it, fold it in half so the two ends meet, then approach him. He stands still, all the trust in the world in his almost-familiar eyes. I have to stand on tip toe to get the cloth around the back of his neck, then go to flat feet to loop the ends through the folded center part. As I turn it so it's in the middle, my eyes catch his again as my hands linger on the fabric. We're so close, and there's a hunger in his eyes. It's the only word I can think to explain it. In that moment, I want to kiss him, consequences be damned; my lips are positively calling out for his. He draws my attention to his lips when he licks them, but when I look back up at his eyes, my mind supplies me with, 'Twin!'

I step away from him, breaking all physical and subtext contact from him. I don't want to take advantage of this version of Sherlock. This one isn't mine, I'm supposed to be making sure he's okay, that's all. Surely he'd feel like I was taking advantage of him when his memory returns. Worse yet, what if he doesn't feel the same as this Sherlock does? 'They're not different people with different emotions! If he's feeling it now, he'll feel it later,' my mind tries, but I can't take the chance of ruining our friendship.

"We need to get going," I say without looking at him again and heading towards the street. We catch a cab and silently wait out the 10 or so minutes to get to the murder scene.

It's a bit gruesome and gory, and Sherlock shows no indication of recognizing Anderson even though he hates him. He greets Greg with a nod, but I can tell he's weary of this whole situation. Greg walks us through the preliminary details, then looks to Sherlock expectantly. Sherlock looks at me with nervous eyes.

"Well," I say as I step towards the body to make the first deduction, "she's in her mid-forties and isn't married."

"No, she's either recently divorced or lost her ring," he steps forward now, too, and I smile encouragingly at him.

"She was filing for divorce. We've already started searching her background with the ID we found in her purse," Lestrade adds in.

"This was a crime of passion," Sherlock sounds more sure of himself now, like it's coming easier, "She was stabbed in the side, which means she had to trust the person enough to let them get that close."

"What about a mugging?" Lestrade asks.

Sherlock performs a suffering sigh, and my attention is drawn back to him as he sounds more like my Sherlock than he has yet, "You said you found her purse," he rolls his eyes, "where you found her ID. Was her money taken?"

"...no," Lestrade concedes.

"Then my money is on the boyfriend she left her husband for. She told him she was filing for divorce, and he got angry because he was scamming her for her husband's money, nothing more."

"If he wanted her husband's money, why didn't he take what she had on her?" I ask.

"She was on an allowance only. Not enough to take and be worth it to risk getting caught."

"We'll...look in to that," Greg says and then heads over to one of the officers I'm not familiar with.

"Sherlock!" I smile widely, "Do you remember how to be a detective?"

"I think I do," he smiles in return, "it's a little auto-piloted still, but I understand what I'm doing. This is invigorating!"

"Did it trigger anything else?" I ask hopefully, but I can already tell he's still not himself.

"No," he shakes his head, "it's like the music; it's all I remember," he looks at me sadly, "I'm sorry, John."

My smile turns a bit bitter, "No need. We're getting there; this is real progress and I'm happy for that."

Lestrade doesn't keep us much longer at the scene and we decide to stop for brunch on the way back home. Once we've returned, I ask, "So what's next?"

"Experiments? See if I can get the hang of any of those?" He offers up enthusiastically.

He attempts to pick up multiple experiments, but can't figure any of them out.

"I'm not even sure what I was trying to accomplish with any of these!" He shouts out, frustrated, "like, why is this goo half green and half black? Did I do that, or was a I trying to figure out how it happened?"

He walks away and roughly falls in to his chair with a pout on his face. It's kind of adorable if you forget about how sad he legitimately is.

"I don't get those either," I say gently as I sit in my own chair, "but you've already remembered so much today, don't force it."

"I've remembered two things," he huffs.

"And you're starting to sound more like yourself," I smirk.

He looks and me and his eyes soften, "I don't know that I want to be who I was," he says honestly, "Not entirely."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't want to keep hurting people close to me that obviously care about me and I for them."

"You don't on purpose," I insist.

"I think that's bullshit," he says simply, and I flinch, "I think, with the redirections of my behavior that you do, that I know what I'm doing now. It's easier to say I don't than to admit I'm wrong when I slip up. I hate seeing people cry because I wasn't thinking. With how brilliant I'm supposed to be, there should never be a time where I'm not thinking."

"You are always thinking. Just not always about the people you're standing near when you're doing it."

"How can you keep making excuses for me?" He asks sincerely, "Why do you stay with me?"

"Because you're my best friend. You're brilliant, you're brave, you're honest, and you saved me. I haven't ever said that, but you did. When I came back from the war, it was more than my shoulder that was wounded. You deduced that my limp was psychosomatic and cured it within hours. You kept me busy and focused on other things that would have destroyed me if I was allowed to dwell. You did that, and I can't imagine not being here for you," I tell him honestly. He deserves the truth.

"But..." he starts, "I'm honestly an asshole."

I nod, "Yeah, sometimes you are, but so am I. So is everyone. It's part of who you are and you have enough redeeming qualities for me see past that one."

"I really don't deserve someone like you."

"Yes you do. You always have."

We spend the rest of the day chatting, watching TV, and him playing the violin while I read. A relaxing day where we aren't trying to force memories back in his head, just content to make new ones. He doesn't remember anything else, but that's okay, because I feel like we've reached an understanding.

When we both retire to bed - much earlier tonight than last night - he doesn't misconstrue that I'll be joining him in his. I'm not honestly sure I could tell him no a second night in a row. So I go up to my bed and just imagine I didn't have to.

"John!" Sherlock yells as he enters my room. I feel my bed shake as he practically jumps on it.

"Sherlock, what the hell? What time is it?"

"Still the middle of the night," he says offhandedly, "John, I remember!"

My eyes open immediately and I stare at him. He's grinning like a loon and I stare at his eyes. It's my Sherlock staring back at me, "Sherlock?"

"Yes," he nods, "it all came back to me like a dream, but I know it was real. I remember everything, even the past two days. It was like I was trapped in my mind and someone else was running the controls."

"You remember everything?" I ask as I sit up in my bed, back against the wall.

"How we met, the hospital visit, the end to your song...everything," he finishes quietly, looking down.

"So it is my song, then?" I blush.

"Yes. If you don't like it I can write you another one," he rushes to say.

I laugh, "Don't be daft. It's beautiful and I'm honored."

He smiles at me and I see a question form in his eyes. I can't look away from them now that they're finally his again, "Did you mean what you said?"

"To which statement are you referring?" My heart is racing a bit now.

"That you love me, ineptitudes and all?"

"Of course I love you, you're my best friend."

"But...not as a friend. Have you figured that one out yet?" He bites his bottom lip and my eyes are drawn to it. I have the almost uncontrollable urge to kiss the hurt away that he just caused.

"It's not...I mean, it's all so new, I'm not sure what is what at the moment," I say honestly, though it's difficult to open myself up like this.

"My deductions of your behavior over the last few days state that you are attracted to me," he says matter-of-factly. He's definitely my Sherlock again.

"You're reverting back to who you were three years ago, please don't do that. You have learned emotions, so use them; you're not a bloody robot," I say a bit aggravated.

"I'm not used to talking about them."

"I know, but can you try? For me?"

He takes a deep breath, "The last two days were very eye opening for me. Learning about myself and realizing that I'm not the nicest person and actually feeling like I wanted to change that was very new to me. The way you treated me...took care of me the last two days was very touching. If that's what friendship is, I've never really had one until you," he says, and it's the most sincere I've ever heard him speak. I have no words to say, so I just try to smile through the emotional tears that are welling up again, "Your actions and words have warmed my heart, and it physically hurt me to see you cry. I think, from my deductions since I have no personal experience outside of family, that I love you. Not like my brother, not just like my friend. I would very much like to kiss you because your hair is messy and you're still a bit sleepy, and I find that attractive."

I chuckle as I lean forward, reaching out my left hand to cup his cheek, "You are without a doubt the most ridiculous human being I have had the privilege to get to know," I rub my thumb along his cheekbone, "I wanted you to kiss me when you were sniffing my neck. I wanted you to kiss me while you were wearing that fuck-me purple shirt. I wanted you to kiss me when I put on your scarf. I wanted you to kiss me a few minutes ago when you were biting your bottom lip. I want you to kiss me now, because you are finally my Sherlock again, and I'll be damned if I didn't miss you."

"Fuck-me purple shirt? The one that's too tight?"

"Of course that's what you latched on to," I smile, "I'm going to kiss you now and then answer that later, okay?" I say quietly as I draw closer to him.

"Yeah, okay," he nods in a daze and meets me to close the distance. It's a bit awkward as we find the right position, but the first touch of his lips to mine is electric nonetheless. I pull back and look him in the eye to make sure that he's okay. From the wonder in his eyes, I'd say he's just fine.

"Why are you staring at me instead of kissing?" He asks seriously.

"It's just really good to see you back," I say honestly.

"I didn't leave," his brow furrows, mimicking his twin.

"Yes, you did," I nod, "not physically, but I noticed the difference."

"I was nicer. I said 'sorry'."

"A lot."

"Not good?" He smirks.

"A bit not good," I return his smirk before kissing him again, harder this time. The position is still a bit uncomfortable for my neck, so I make a split-second decision. I pull away and scoot back to get out from under the covers. Once I'm free, I get up on to my knees and shuffle over to Sherlock, pleased with his confused look. Without looking from his eyes, I place my hands on his shoulders and swing my left leg over his thighs so I'm sitting on his lap facing him, "Is this okay?" I ask.

He places his hands on my hips, just holding them, "More comfortable."

"I agree," I say before leaning down to kiss him again, able to get a better angle and tease his lips in to finally opening. He moans in to my mouth and I deepen the kiss even more, spurred on by an intense hunger that I have never felt for another human being, much less another man, "Sherlock," I say breathlessly as I pull back and he takes the opportunity to kiss my neck, "I've never...been with a man before," I admit.

He moans against my neck and thrusts his hips up in to mine so that our erections rub together which draws a moan from me. He pulls back and looks me in the eye, "I've never been with anyone before," he admits in return.

I growl as I lunge at his mouth, so incredibly turned on by the fact that no one has seen him the way I will, and quite possibly no one else ever will. The force of my lunge causes him to fall backwards on to the bed. I take a second to move so our legs are alternating, one of mine between his and one of his between mine, then grind down to create a delicious friction.

Sherlock moans again and arches up hips first. I pull back to look down at him, and decide that he is the most magnificent creature I have ever laid my eyes upon. His hair is mused, he's sweating, and he is definitely flushed with arousal.

"God, you are beautiful," I say reverently.

"You must be joking. Compared to you I am nothing."

I lean down to kiss him hard, all teeth and tongue, as my hands go down to the hem of his shirt and begin to lift. I break the kiss to help him get the shirt off over his head, and as soon as it is his hands reach to my shirt to do the same. Once both garments are removed we just stare at each other.

As I trace the panes of his chest with just my eyes, my cock pulses in appreciation, "Oh, God," I moan and lean down to kiss him again. I can't get enough of his lips that are picking up very quickly on what I like. I have no doubts that the same attention to detail will be paid to my body's likes and dislikes as any of his other deductions.

As we kiss, he rolls so we're both on our sides and then roams his hands all over my chest as I do the same. I slowly run my left hand down his side, then move to his back when I reach the top of his pajama bottoms, placing pressure on the small of his back as I press my hips forward.

His head throws back as he lets out a loud moan, "Oh, John!"

I take the opportunity to suck on his neck as my hand follows the top of his pants back to the front. I dip my fingers below the elastic just a tiny bit, teasing him.

"Touch me," he moans, "Please, touch me."

With such a pretty request, how could I say no? I reach my hand in to his pants and grasp his cock the best I can with the awkward angle, "Oh fuck, fuck, fuck," he chants through gritted teeth, then slides his own hand down my stomach to reach inside my pants. His touch is a bit more tentative than mine, which makes it feel more teasing than relieving.

"Oh shit, Sherlock, tighter," I moan and he complies immediately. The angle is still weird, and while I hate to break contact with him, I get an idea of something that could be better.

I remove my hand then his before standing up from the bed. His eyes open in confusion and then hurt. He raises on to his elbows to see me better, "John, I'm so sorry. Did I do it wrong?" He bites his bottom lip again, and I don't hesitate to kiss it better.

"No, you didn't; you're wonderful," I assure him once the kiss ends, "I just have a better idea. Move so you're the right way on the bed," I say and he does, then I rearrange to a position where I can remove the remainder of his clothing. He doesn't object, raising his hips to assist. Once his clothes are on the floor, I bend down to remove my own and nervously stand in front of him. His eyes are all over my body as my eyes are on his face. When his eyes reach my cock, it twitches at the attention and he moans low in his throat.

"John, please get back in this bed," he entreats.

"My Sherlock, nothing would make me happier," I agree before getting on all fours at his feet so that I can drag my entire body along his, relishing the feeling of his naked flesh against mine for the first time.

"Yours," he moans at the feeling.

As I reach his mouth, I make sure I have his eyes before I growl, "Mine," possessively.

"Yes," he readily agrees before my mouth claims him.

This time it's me who rolls us on to our sides, and my right hand wastes no time reaching down to both of our cocks, grabbing them as best I can and beginning to stroke.

He breaks from the kiss to loudly moan my name. I encourage him by grasping just a bit tighter and thrusting in to my own hand and against him. It doesn't take long for us both to succumb to the wonderful feeling as I hold us both and his left hand maps my body.

When we catch our breath a bit, I kiss him sweetly on the mouth.

"Thank you, John," he murmurs against my lips.

"Whatever for?" I ask, shocked.

"Everything you've done the past three years. I'm sorry I've been an asshole."

"But you're my asshole, just like I'm your person."

"No," he shakes his head, and I get worried before he continues, "it's not a suitable term; it's not good enough. You are...my everything."

"Sentimental bastard," I say fondly before I kiss him hard, leaving him able to only hum in agreement.