Morgan returned to Ireland sooner than John expected, leaving shortly before New Year's with the two captured RIRA members who'd assaulted both him and Riley in tow. After a frank discussion with Lestrade – during which Sherlock had glowered at the DI the entire time – John had agreed not to press charges. Neither man was talking and the chances of conviction based solely on John's voice ID were slim. He'd also waited to report the attack, which would cast even more doubt on his story.

He didn't like that they weren't being charged with Riley's assault, but the injured man couldn't identify them.

"They showed me a bunch of pictures," Riley said when John mentioned it during one of his visits. "I didn't recognize anyone."

Sherlock was obviously unhappy about the decision; he'd started an argument about it then sulked on the couch for the rest of the afternoon, answering John in monosyllables – and then only if absolutely necessary. John let it go. He understood why Sherlock was upset and part of him thought he should feel the same way, but he didn't really want a court case he'd probably lose to complicate his life any more than it already was.

The complications came in a different form.

A week after they'd been to Buckinghamshire they were back again, for a much different reason. It was cold and drizzling when they buried William Holmes next to his wife. John stood huddled with Sherlock under an umbrella, close enough so that they could clasp gloved hands without being observed.

Sherlock's face was utterly impassive, breath misting in front of his lips, but John could see the pain nearly hidden behind his grey eyes.

When they got back to Baker Street, John left Sherlock sitting on the couch, holding the box William had left for him, while he unpacked their bags. It had been the second time in less than a year that they'd packed hurriedly to travel to Sherlock's childhood home. This time, though, there had been no hospital visit. William had died in his sleep and hadn't been discovered until the following morning.

When John came back into the living room, Sherlock was still sat on the couch, staring blankly at the opposite wall. The doctor took the box gently and set it aside. Sherlock folded forward, wrapping his arms around John's waist and turned his head to press his cheek against John's stomach. John laced his fingers into his husband's hair and kept silent. Sherlock didn't move or say a word.

They stayed that way for a long time.

More official information came to light about Neil Hayes – and none of it John liked. It was less than he'd learned thanks to Sherlock's blatant disregard for access to restricted information, but all of it reinforced what he already knew. The trail of bodies Hayes had left behind him ended only with his own. The police continued to investigate, but when Lestrade spoke to John about it, the doctor could see the frustration, the looming knowledge that the case looked like it would go cold.

Their primary suspect couldn't give them any information – nor could he be linked to either the crime scene or the victim's home.

Occasionally John wondered what had become of the CCTV footage Mycroft had sent him. If he'd been able to access it, surely the police could have? He thought they would have checked the cameras from both places leading up to the day Hayes was murdered – but if they did, they evidently hadn't seen him because there was no arrest, no reports they had any leads.

John thought he detected Mycroft's involvement but he couldn't figure out why his brother-in-law would bother. He asked Sherlock about it one night, late, when they were curled in bed together, Sherlock still mindful of John's healing ribs.

"Mycroft's motives are never clear," Sherlock replied. "Maybe he was leaving the decision up to you."

John nodded, trailing his fingertips up and down Sherlock's bare spine absently as he thought, feeling the familiar shiver of muscles under his ghosting touch.

"I've already made my decision," he replied.

Riley improved by degrees. As cold and flu season kicked in to full force, John found less time to visit, being swamped by patients. He imposed more rest on himself – a rare course of action, but he didn't want any respiratory bugs making things worse for his ribs. Even clearing his throat still sent pangs through his muscles – he couldn't imagine what coughing would do. The bruises had faded but the area was still tender. If Sherlock brushed it accidentally when they were in bed, John would hiss and tense involuntarily and they would have to stop until his breathing evened out and the warning flares subsided. Sex was a much more careful affair than it normally was, although he left his fair share of bruises on Sherlock, who wore them like vivid little badges of honour.

Still, John managed to get to the hospital a couple of times a week, watching as Riley's wounds healed. He was there when they removed the bandage covering the other man's injured eye. There was still a faint red mark edging the outline of his cheek and some healing cuts that would scar, but his vision was fine. He spent a few minutes blinking, distracted by the sudden return of depth perception.

Slower to heal were the more severe injuries but he was becoming better with his right hand, able to flex his fingers and hold light things.

His memory was still fragmented, mostly not there, and what he did remember tended to be small bits of information, inconsequential things.

"I had a blue duvet," he told John once. "And the kitchen window leaked when it rained."

John had no idea what had become of Riley's flat, whether it was still technically his or not, but before Morgan had left, she'd delivered some of his clothing. John had unfolded a few of the shirts and held them up for Riley to sniff, but it hadn't triggered anything. He wouldn't wear one of the shirts, insisting he didn't like it – John had no idea if that was a memory or a newly formed opinion.

He supposed it didn't matter. Riley wasn't the same person, as Sherlock had pointed out. It would be better if he developed new preferences, John thought, rather than try to remember his old ones. The times when he attempted to force memories only ended in disappointment and exhaustion.

There was one particular trend John noted though – Riley never forgot the doctor's name, nor the names of the nurses and the two constables who were friendly to him. He sometimes still stumbled over other names, even Morgan's. John was glad to see that there were people treating Riley warmly. He was still a patient, after all. In this, he was still the victim. The constables particularly impressed John; they could easily have been disgruntled, having to look after a former terrorist. Some of them were. A quiet conversation with Donovan had one or two of them removed and replaced with constables who seemed indifferent to the assignment. Indifference John would take – they'd still do their jobs if required. It was clear Donovan was no great fan of Riley's, but John knew her professional pride would be stung – and her reputation damaged – if something happened to a victim in her charge.

John enjoyed talking to Riley and, as time went on, their conversations got easier. Riley started to learn – or relearn – things and develop opinions on what he liked and disliked. It was easy enough to talk to him. There was no judgment in his questions or observations and John found that refreshing. He was always interested in whatever topic they got onto, if only because he often didn't know anything about it. John was frank with him when Riley asked about his time in the army and about the Taliban, accepting John's answers despite the shadows of self doubt that darkened his expression.

John only ever addressed serious questions if he thought Riley was awake and strong enough to take the answers – more often than not, he'd nudge the conversation in a different direction and the injured man didn't seem to notice. There were still times when he fell asleep while John was talking, but they grew fewer. John would end his visits at the first real signs of fatigue, leaving Riley to sleep, and coming back later in the week to continue their conversations.

One day in early February, he arrived to find a bustle of nurses and doctors inside Riley's room, along with Charlotte Morgan. She met his eyes through the door's window and stepped outside, gesturing him away from the constable who had cleared John easily enough – they all knew him now.

"What's going on?" John asked, glancing over her shoulder back toward the room.

"They're evaluating if he's well enough to be moved," she replied, folding her arms loosely, dark eyed gaze giving nothing away.

"What?" John demanded. "Why?"

"I'm taking him back to Ireland."

He felt a flash of panic followed by indignant anger, flexing his left hand into a fist to displace it, trying to stay calm.

"What evidence do you have–"

"I don't need evidence to know he's guilty, Doctor Watson," she snapped back.

"The courts do!" he hissed. "You can't call him guilty just because you want him to be!"

"And you can't call him innocent just because you want him to be," she replied curtly. "Maybe he's a wonderful person now, I don't know–"

"No, you don't," John interrupted.

"But he wasn't always," she continued, eyes narrowing slightly. "He was a terrorist and a killer, Doctor. That's not going to change just because he doesn't remember."

John shifted, falling back into an army stance out of habit, shaking his head. Morgan held his gaze hard for a moment before her shoulders relaxed slightly and she relented.

"Besides, no. I said I was taking him back to Ireland, not that I was taking him to prison. We can't leave him here – London's obviously not safe for him."

"And Ireland will be?"

"We'll do what we can," she said. "Give him a new identity – that won't be hard, since he doesn't remember his old one. It's much easier for us to keep an eye on him if he's in a hospital in Dublin, and hopefully we can get one step ahead of the people who know he's here."

"Sherlock caught them," John pointed out.

"I know you're not that naïve, Doctor," she snapped. "They hadn't spoken to us but you can bet they're speaking to their lawyers. Who are themselves probably RIRA members. The message will be passed on. I'd rather get him out of here before one of them decides things are calm enough to act."

"And then what?" John asked.

"I don't know," Morgan said. "He needs more time in the hospital. After that… I really don't know. Unless his memory comes rushing back, he won't be much good at supplying any more information. We'll try and get him a job, I suppose. Doing something useful. For once."

"Making amends?"

Morgan snorted softly, gaze darting away momentarily.

"You don't think he can," John said.

"No," she replied evenly. "I don't."

He swallowed a reply, wondering how often Morgan suspected that Riley had murdered Hayes. If he had, had it been pre-meditated? Had he tracked his former RIRA-mate to London? Or had it really been a dislike of living in Manchester that had brought Riley here to find Neil Hayes accidentally?

"Mind if I go say good bye to him?" he asked. Morgan pursed her lips but shook her head, stepping out of his way. He'd gone only a few steps when she called his name.

"Yeah?" John asked, turning back.

"You're happy about this, aren't you?"

John paused, regarding her thoughtfully. He was walking away with the knowledge that Riley had met Hayes before the murdered man's death – and he couldn't even find a twinge of guilt over that. If Riley had killed Hayes, he'd rid the world of one more dangerous person. If it hadn't been him, then he shouldn't pay for what someone else had done.

And he was getting a fresh start. Maybe being back in Ireland would help some of the memories return. Even if not, maybe he'd find a life he liked, and some peace. There were no guarantees. But there was a possibility – and it was a better life than living under guard in a hospital in London.

"Yeah," John said, giving her a smile. "I am."