The sky was dreary. Shades of grey swirled around each other, smiling into their neighboring cloud. Their ambiguous nature pelted drops of cool, invigorating liquid. They splashed on the cement, darkening the area as if they were leaving fossils of themselves. Some were not so lucky. Some hit the sides of buildings with tremendous force, while others slid down the fronts of windows, trailing behind were the vestiges of their lives.

When John awoke, that was what he heard.

It was an interesting combination. The beating of the heart monitor played a simple tune with the rain. The rain held the harmony while the monitor covered the melody, a soft intimation of the mood in the room.

His eyelids were heavy, weighed down by pain and sleep – the body's natural response in attempt to keep itself alive. When he managed to open them, the room was a flurry of blurs and out of place colors. After blinking away the imaginations, a small hospital room came into his vision. Oh yes, he thought. He was shot. And he lived. That's good.

"John?" he heard a familiar voice say. It was Sherlock, John realized a few seconds later. His brain was a little slow, but he excused himself due to the fact that he wasn't exactly one-hundred percent.

"Yeah," he croaked, and then realized how dry his throat was. Before he could ask for something to quench his thirst, Sherlock held out a cup of ice chips. John gladly took the cup and shoveled some little bits of the refreshing saviors into his mouth. He let them melt in his mouth before he tried to speak again. "How long was I out?"

Sherlock glanced at his watch. "A few days, give or take. You woke up a few times, but only to let out a few incoherent mumbles. I doubt you'd remember."

"Jeez, days. Really?" John asked, rubbing his eyes.

"You lost a lot of blood."

Something struck a chord in John and he almost jumped out of his bed in realization. However, a shock of pain shot up his ribcage in warning and kept him from doing so. "You said…you said that you remember who you are."

Sherlock's lip twitched and his eyes met with John's. "Yes," he answered.

"Everything?" John inquired, his curiosity overriding the pain that slowly became a lull, dull sting. It must have been a combination of the distraction and the painkillers in his system.

"Mostly."

"Can you stop pelting me with one word responses?" John must've been trying to confirm Sherlock's announcement – looking for familiarity in his speech, his movements – for the lack of comprehensive retorts made him itch.

Sherlock jumped out of his chair and paced the room, throwing his hands up as he spoke. "What do you want me to say, John? Yes. Yes, I remember everything. I remember getting thrown through a glass window, I remember not remembering." He stopped walking and faced John. "Bit of superfluous verbatim, wouldn't you say?"

"I just wanted to-"

"Yes, you just wanted to make sure I actually could remember and wasn't making it up to satisfy you. I'd criticize your lack of trust in me, but that's just you by nature."

John smiled, his grin making a mockery off his situation. "Welcome back."

John was released from the hospital a week later, told that with some rest, he would fully recover. Sherlock returned from a follow-up doctor's exam a day after John got back, and surprisingly, he didn't complain about having to go in the first place.

Which was another thing.

It took John a while to realize, since he was wrapped up in his own recuperation, that Sherlock wasn't quite the same. It wasn't anything that could be noticed by a random passerby, or even an acquaintance of Sherlock's, but John was well accustomed to the temperature that Sherlock radiated off, and now, it had increased a few degrees. Sherlock was warmer, in a sense. He said please, thank you, and other niceties that he couldn't be bothered with before. It wasn't until a midsummer's evening many months later when John realized the impression that the events of last autumn had imprinted upon Sherlock.

It was one of the hotter days that London had to suffer through over the past few months, so activity had significantly decreased – including crime, which gave Sherlock and John a break from their detective work. John was significantly more profuse about it than a certain Sherlock Holmes.

The domestic sound of the fans pelted cool air around the living room at 221B, where Sherlock and John were settled. The soft breeze chilled the few beads of sweat around John's temple as he typed contently on his computer, recording the details of their latest case. Sherlock was knee-deep in his study of the Sacred Feminine of Hinduism, since his lack of knowledge on the subject extended the time it took to solve their latest case, or so Sherlock had said. John had thought it to be one of the more interesting cases they had had over the years. Whether it was because of the history they had learned while solving it or the fact that they got to leave the country for once, he wasn't sure.

"John," Sherlock said, peering out from the top of his book.

John hummed a response, beckoning Sherlock to continue. His eyes left the computer screen and focused on his flat-mate.

Sherlock shifted in his seat, obviously stiff from the child-like position he had been reading in. "Your side wound still bothers you from time to time."

"All wounds do," John replied simply.

"I suppose you're right," he agreed, shifting his gaze to the setting sun just outside of the window. It was a mix of swift yellows that managed to feel sour on his eyes, but they were balanced with the sweetness of the oranges and reds of the watermelon that the sunset also produced. It was quite beautiful. John knew Sherlock was appreciating it, even though he thought it didn't matter.

"What's on your mind, Sherlock?" John wondered.

Sherlock huffed a laugh. "I'm sure you wouldn't appreciate me delving into that topic of discussion."

Rolling his eyes, John shook his head. "You know what I meant."

Sherlock got up from his chair and walked over to the office table, where he grabbed his violin case. After unclasping and unzipping his instrument free, he grabbed out the bow and tightened it. He rubbed the rosin over the hairs with such concentration, that John found himself unable to look away. It was amazing how Sherlock could be so focused on one particular thing and still remain agile to everything else. After tuning and adjusting his shoulder rest, Sherlock lifted the violin and settled it under his chin, starting on a scale that John didn't know. It was during Saint Saens's Marche Militaire Fracaise that John realized he hadn't seen Sherlock pick up his violin since before the amnesia. He was about to ask, but was interrupted by Sherlock's deep rumble of a voice.

"No one can look me in the eye. Not Lestrade. Not Mrs. Hudson. Not since my temporary memory loss. Have you noticed?"

"No, I haven't."

"Didn't think you would have." Sherlock brought instrument down and tucked it underneath his arm, plucking at a string once or twice.

There was a brief air of silence before John cleared his throat. "I noticed that this is the first time you've picked up your instrument in a while."

"No," came the response.

"Sorry?"

"I would never let an instrument of such great strength sit untouched for the better part of a year. That would be a misconduct of the highest sort."

"So, you have played it, then," he said flatly.

"I've played scales and tuned it regularly, but otherwise, you're correct. I haven't played a piece, original or not." He turned around and faced John. "I will applaud you on your observation, but remember the details. They are what count."

John pursed his lips. "Why haven't you played? Is there are reason?"

Sherlock took a lengthy breath before replying. "Playing helps me think."

You also compose when you're sad, John wanted to say.

"So, what," he said instead, "you haven't been thinking? I know that's not true."

"Music is an art – an art that lacks appreciation. For a while after I regained my memory I didn't feel like myself. Moreover, I felt… unable to contribute. So, I didn't play."

John pondered that thought. "What changed?"

Sherlock pointed his bow in John's direction, a gesture of praise. "Nothing changed! That's the point, John. Nothing changed."

Shaking his head, John replied. "I don't follow."

"I've seen myself from an outside perspective. I've seen what I look like to other people – to strangers." Sherlock set down his violin on top of his case, freeing his hands.

John tossed the idea around, doing his best to keep up. "I thought you didn't care what other people think."

"I didn't," Sherlock replied plainly.

"And you do now?"

Sherlock turned his head. "It's not quite that simple."

"Things with you never are," John mumbled.

Sherlock almost smiled. "It took me some time to come to my revelation, but alas, I have reached it. I knew I was acting differently since we both returned from our visits to the hospital. It seems I have subconsciously changed the way I present myself. It's not an extraordinary difference, but enough for me to notice." He looked at John. "And for you to notice."

John slipped out of his chair, stretching his back as he got up. "Seems like you've caught the wind." He moved towards the kitchen. "Would you like coffee?"

"Please. And 'caught the wind'? Is that some sort of saying?" Sherlock asked, almost mocking his friend.

After grabbing out two mugs from the cabinet, John threw the already ground beans into the coffeemaker and leaned against the counter, facing Sherlock, who had come and rested his side against the doorway of the kitchen. "Sort of. It's based off of getting the wind, which is learning something that was otherwise kept secret. Catching the wind… well, to me, it's more personal. Wind is arid. It's everything that humans represent that isn't physical. To catch the wind, you have to see the wind. Do you get what I'm saying?"

"Sounds like gibberish, but if it makes you happy: yes, I understand that ridiculous explanation. Barely," Sherlock said, scratching at a piece of dried paint on the wall.

John furrowed his eyebrows. "Good, I guess."

"John?" Sherlock asked, grabbing his friend's attention.

"Yes, Sherlock?" John responded, pouring the steaming liquid into the mugs, watching the undulations make their way out of the coffee mug.

Sherlock reached over to grab the sugar and John ducked, facilitating Sherlock's quest. He then sneered, "The wind is hateful,"

And in that moment, John surprisingly agreed with Sherlock. It wasn't a first, but it was definitely a rare occurrence. Not only was the physical wind of nature hateful (which wasn't much fun, John had to admit), but the emotions that extended from the human, and were shot across into an open vacuole of insecurity. Those were synonymous to a vessel that was blowing gasoline. Although they may not be pretty, or get much credit for that matter, they propel the machine into a vast area of new beginnings that bloomed from unreasoned risks and sudden endings, a greatly torturous thing for Sherlock, John imagined. But John knew that even the great consulting detective Sherlock Holmes was subject to those feelings. However, it didn't really surprise him that Sherlock was able to overcome that part of life.

"Yet somehow," John replied, smiling, his hands warm against the cut, "we manage."

-End-

A/N:

Sorry for the long wait on this one! Finals hit me harder than expected, but I got through them! Thanks for reading and sticking with me! This chapter is unbeta'd, so if you see any mistakes, please let me know!

Hope you enjoyed. If you liked this story, or my writing, I post dabbles on my Tumblr: .com. There, you can also see future projects. :)

-Maddie

P.S. The piece Sherlock plays is super fun. We played it in city orchestra, and I had a blast. It's on Youtube, if you'd like to hear what it sounds like.