Chapter Text
The last thing Sherlock remembered was standing on a roof. Crouching really. There wasn’t supposed to be any danger that night. Just some light recon work. He was just waiting to see who did or did not come in or out of the warehouse and at what times. And then there was a sound behind him, footsteps that he hadn’t heard until it was too late. Then there was the blunt object on his head, and the sharp pain that rendered him unconscious. That was the last thing he remembered.
Well. To be completely accurate, the very last thing he remembered was a soft voice, right next to him, saying, “It’s alright, Sherry. Rest now.”
-
Sherlock reached up and touched his head where he could remember being hit. He was not surprised to find it covered in bandages. He tried to open his eyes, but the lights above were too bright. He took a moment to gather his thoughts. He had been attacked. He was lying in an unfamiliar bed with gauze on his head and bright lights above him. He was in a hospital. Probably the one closest to the warehouse. Yes, the one Watson works at.
“Hmm, Ether,” a voice next to him said. It droned on. “Morphine. Potassium Bromide? No, thank you.”
Sherlock turned his head to the side, finding the lights not as harsh at the new angle. He managed to squint them open. Standing by the medicine cabinet next to his bed was a person. A person he knew. A person he had hoped he forgot.
“Jon?”
Jon turned to Sherlock, a smile on his face. But it wasn’t him who spoke next.
“Oh good! You’re awake.”
Sherlock glanced down to the door. Watson had been previously sitting at a little desk near it. He stood up and crossed over to him.
“I was worried that blow may have knocked you into a coma,” Watson said. He leaned over the bed, blocking those horrible lights, and started checking over Sherlock’s bandaging. “Luckily it seems you got away with just a concussion.”
“Yes, lucky me,” Sherlock mumbled.
“Here, can you sit up?”
Watson offered Sherlock his hand and pulled him to a sitting position. The world around him tilted for a second, but then everything was right.
“You know, you could have died,” Watson said. He continued examining Sherlock’s head, probably checking that nothing was bleeding. It didn’t feel wet.
“Wow, Sherry, check out this view huh?”
Sherlock jumped a bit at the sudden intrusion in his thoughts.
“Sorry,” Watson said, his touches turning gentler.
Sherlock looked as far as his eyes could without moving his head. Jon was standing by the window, peeking out. He let out a low whistle. “Nothing better than a hospital that overlooks a cemetary, ey?”
Sherlock looked back at Watson, feeling the room start to spin again. What is he doing here? Why now?
“Just going to run through a few tests,” Watson said. He fished a small torch out of his pocket. “Follow the light with your eyes, please.”
“Ugh,” Jon groaned. “Why do doctors always insist that blinding their patients is really the best way to check their vision?”
“Quiet,” Sherlock whispered.
“What was that?” Watson asked.
“Nothing,” Sherlock said.
“It’s not nothing,” Jon said. “You just told him to be quiet and he wasn’t even talking. That’s rude. You should apologize, Sherry.”
Sherlock felt the confusion in him twisting to anger as a subtle growl rose in the back of his throat.
“Now, let me check your reflexes,” Watson said. He walked back over to his desk to grab the instruments he needed.
“Oh yes. This is the perfect opportunity for a good joke.” Jon sat on the bed next to Sherlock. “When he hits one leg, try and kick the other one out instead.”
“Shut up!” Sherlock shouted, before he had the time to try and stop himself. He sat frozen on the bed, knowing what this must look like to Watson. He gulped and faced his friend. “A ringing,” he said. He pointed to his head. “In my ears. Must be from the hit I took.”
Jon scowled. “Did you just call me a ringing in your ears?”
Sherlock sighed. “Watson, my good fellow. May I have a moment alone to gather myself, please?”
Watson gave him a suspicious glance over, but nodded. “Of course. I’ll be right down the hall in my office if you need me.”
“Thank you.” Sherlock smiled and gripped the sheets of the bed tight as he waited impatiently for Watson to leave the room.
“You know, he seems pretty alright. For a doctor, anway.”
Sherlock took a calming breath. He couldn’t bring himself to look at the presence beside him. “Why are you here?”
“How should I know? You’re the one who called me.”
Sherlock opened his mouth to argue the fact, but he couldn’t quite remember if that was true or not. It certainly didn’t sound like something he would do. “I did?”
“You did.” Jon got up and paced around the small room. “You were all ‘Jon please help, I need you’. So,” he gestured around him, “here I am.”
That definitely didn’t sound like him. “Why on Earth would I do that?”
Jon shrugged. “You got me. What happened before you were here?”
“I…” Sherlock stared at Jon with an open mouth and a furrowed brow. He remembered the roof, the footsteps, the pain. But he couldn’t remember why he was on the roof. He clearly was on a case. Yet he had no memory of it. “Watson!”
Sherlock stood up, ignoring the rush of blood in his head that filled his ears and dizzied his vision. He raced out to the hall, catching Watson just before he entered his office. Panic gripped at his heart, and he grabbed Watson’s arm in an attempt to stabilize himself. “I can’t remember anything that happened after the client showed up. I don't even remember them!"
Watson looked him up and down. “Well, it’s not uncommon for those with a head wound to suffer some slight memory loss. I can certainly fill you in on what I remember. But I’m sure the memories will come back to you in time.”
Of course. It all made sense now. Jon was here. Sherlock’s memories weren’t. He turned back to Jon with rage in his eyes. “No,” he said, softly at first. “No! Get out! Go away! I’m not playing this game with you again!”
“Sherlock?” Watson asked from behind him. “Is everything alright?”
Jon held up his hands defensively. “Woah, easy, Sherry, easy. I’m not doing anything.”
Sherlock grabbed the front of Jon’s shirt and slammed him up against the wall. “You’re lying again. You know exactly what happened during this case and you’re keeping it from me!”
“I know just about as much as you do, Sherry. Honest!”
Sherlock pulled back an arm, hand in a tight fist. It was caught by Watson before he could do anything with it.
“Really, Holmes, you must calm down. What's gotten into you?"
Sherlock stiffened and looked up and down the hall. There weren’t many people, but those that were there gave him weird looks as they passed.
“You’re right, Watson.” He let go of Jon. “Terribly sorry. I think my mind is a little tired, is all.”
“Taking a brick to the head will do that,” Watson said.
Jon laughed softly. “I like this guy, Sherry.”
Sherlock ignored him, as he should have done all this time. “When will I be clear to return home?”
Watson gave him a wary look. “I’d say you’re physically capable, as long as you take things easy. However-”
“Good. Then I’ll grab my things and meet you there.” Sherlock turned and started back for his room.
“Sherlock-”
He looked back, walking backwards as he smiled. “And if anything bad happens, then it’s a good thing my housemate is a doctor, right?”
Watson looked like he wanted to argue, but he gave up the fight he knew he’d lose. “Fine. Yes. I’ll meet you there when I’m done. Do be careful.”
“I will.”
-
Sherlock had walked home, hoping that the fresh air would clear his mind a bit. Jon had not shut up once since leaving the hospital. He had to make a comment on every little thing. Those trees. That bird. These people. It was annoying and irritating. And to think, Sherlock had once missed that constant chatter in his head.
“Wow, Sherry, nice place,” Jon said. He stood in the center of the sitting room, smiling as he observed the space. “It’s so…brown.” He chuckled. “Good to know your sense of style hasn’t changed much.”
Sherlock tossed his coat off on the armchair and sat down, picking up that day's paper. He looked at the date and nearly choked on his own spit. He had been out for two whole days. With a sigh, he got up and started searching around for the last two days’ papers as well.
“Over here, Sherry,” Jon said. He waved and pointed at the table by the door where the newspapers were. Sherlock now knew they were there, but he wouldn’t give Jon the satisfaction of acknowledgement. He spent a few seconds searching other places before feigning surprise at finding them.
“Oh, very mature,” Jon said as Sherlock settled in his chair again. “Fine. Two can play this game.”
Jon crouched on the floor next to the chair. He rolled up his sleeve and then placed a hand before Sherlock’s face, just inches away. “I’m not touching you,” he said, in a sing-song voice. Sherlock huffed and tried to read anyway, but everytime he moved his head, Jon moved his hand. “Still not touching you~”
Sherlock groaned and shoved the newspaper to the side. He got out of his chair and crossed over to the window, picking up his violin.
“Oh, a concert!” Jon sat on the table behind Sherlock, eagerly waiting. “I hope you got good these last couple of years. But I can’t imagine anything you couldn’t pick up right away.”
Sherlock took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and started to play a deep, slow melody.
“Oh, pick a different song, Sherry,” Jon said. “This one’s so boring.”
Sherlock continued to play. Maybe he could bore Jon back out of existence.
Jon, however, would not go so quietly. First he started humming a jaunty tune, and then he started playing one, the sounds of a discordant guitar filling Sherlock’s head. Sherlock growled and put his violin down, storming off to his room. He slammed the door shut.
“You do know I can just walk through doors right?” Jon asked, appearing at Sherlock’s vanity, sitting in the chair, feet up on the table.
Sherlock shook his head and laid himself down on his bed. He closed his eyes and tried to deepen his breathing. Maybe he was just tired. Perhaps some rest would be good for him. And when he woke, if he was lucky, Jon would be gone.
“Hey, Sherry,” Jon whispered. “Remember that time just after we had moved back to London with Mycroft? It was storming outside and this tree branch kept knocking against our window.”
Sherlock turned on his side and placed a pillow over his head. Not like that would help. Jon’s voice was clear as day in his mind.
“Yeah, yeah, I told you it was a monster, trying to break in so it could eat our toes.” Jon laughed. “Ah, you weren’t convinced, of course. Never could get you to believe in monsters, hard as I tried.”
Jon was quiet for a moment and Sherlock let himself relax.
“C’mon, Sherry. You brought me here, the least you could do is entertain me a little.”
Sherlock shot up, flinging the pillow to the other side of the room. “I did not bring you here! I don’t know why you’re here, but you will go away!” He grew dizzy, the room spinning at his sudden movement and sudden outburst. His head started to throb, and he reached up to grab the spot where he had been hit. He touched something wet.
“Easy now,” Jon said. He moved to the bed, grabbing Sherlock’s shoulders to steady him. “Take it easy. You’ve agitated your wound.”
“I know I have.” Sherlock used his free arm to shove Jon back. “Get off me.”
“I’m just trying to help.”
“I don’t need your help,” Sherlock said. “That’s what we decided, wasn’t it?” He looked at Jon, memories of the past bringing tears to his eyes. Tears he hasn’t felt in years.
“Yeah,” Jon said. He shrugged. “That’s what I thought we agreed on. But I’m here.”
“Why?”
“I really don’t know.”
Sherlock studied Jon, his eyes, his face, his posture. He seemed sincere enough. It’s possible he was telling the truth. Or maybe that was just wishful thikning of an old friend. Sherlock sighed heavily and laid back down.
“You want me to change your bandages?” Jon asked.
“You can’t,” Sherlock reminded him.
“Oh, right.”
Sherlock stared at the ceiling, trying to ignore how downcast Jon looked. “Watson should be home soon. He can take care of it.”
“He seems nice,” Jon said. He pulled his legs up, hugging his knees to his chest as he watched Sherlock. “I’m glad to see you’ve made a good friend.”
Sherlock nodded. “He’s the best.”
Jon smiled and nudged Sherlock with his foot. “Better than me?”
“Yes,” Sherlock said, without any hesitation. He gulped and looked at Jon, expecting to see him saddened. But his smile had only grown.
“Good.”