Remember Me (John/Anthea friendship)

"Mm, I would hate to become boring to you, so maybe we should just avoid that," he commented, moving gladly as Sherlock pulled him closer, his senses suddenly more awake as their bodies brushed along each other, it felt so good in the morning haze.

As Sherlock started kissing down his neck, he realized that was quite a sensitive spot for him, chills were running up his spine and he felt like he could melt against his lover.

"Mm, feels so good," he muttered, running his hands over the other's chest, brushing over his nipples, and then to the back and down, grabbing his butt and squeezing it with a satisfied sigh.

Sherlock let out a small squeal as John's hand squeezed the cheeks of his ass. He hadn't been expecting it and it felt rather good. He instinctively pushed his hips towards his friend and his own hadn dragged him closer, pushing their bodies together.

He wanted to ask how many times a day couples were supposed to have sex but he knew the question wouldn't exactly go down very well. John was certainly giving all the signs that he wanted more and Sherlock could hardly complain, he was already beginning to feel a twinge between his legs. All those years without sex had probably starved him, he contemplated. Now he was ravenous...he just wanted to devour more of John, as much as he could manage.

"I'm enjoying this," Sherlock muttered in a surprised tone, voicing his thoughts out loud. He suddenly regretted it and quickly added, "I wasn't sure it would feel the same. But it does. Just the same. Just as wonderful."

He smiled inwardly, quite impressed at how normal and romantic he could sound when he wanted to.

John smiled hesitantly at Sherlock's words, not sure whether he should get offended that his boyfriend would think less of him just because some time had passed, or whether to think again that he missed the person John used to be. Either way, Sherlock was soft and willing against his hands and John wanted nothing but to bury himself into him again. He knew everything else didn't really matter, his boyfriend wanted him and he cared for nothing else.

He had no idea how anyone would want to ruin something so special, how he could go out to find someone else when he had Sherlock at home, his pale perfect body and those grey and blue piercing eyes.
"I love you, Sherlock," he whispered, his fingers moving to circle the inside of his lover's thigh, moving closer to his crotch.

Sherlock's heart pounded at John's words, shivered at his touch. He had said them himself the night before, initially it was all part of the game but things were beginning to feel different.

He did love John. At least, he thought he did. Sherlock had never been in love before, so he had no idea what it felt like, but all the chemical signs were there. He'd always cared for John as a friend, cared so much that Moriarty was able to manipulate him into faking his own suicide.

But now he was beginning to think about John in a different way. His heart fluttered when he came near, his body tingled, he'd enjoyed having sex with him and wanted to do it again and again, emotions and thoughts that took him completely by surprise.

But now John loved him. Perhaps he'd always loved him, perhaps these were his true feelings bubbling to the surface, perhaps he had felt this way even before the accident.

"I love you too," Sherlock whispered, reaching up his hand to brush gently down John's cheek, then heading southwards brushing across his shoulder, his side and down to his ass, squeezing it gently before leaning in for a kiss.

It took John one whole week to admit he was ready to go back to their shared apartment. He was happy with Sherlock, he was happy with what they had even though at times he still needed to be reminded of a few things, and he was extremely scared of everything else.

At times he would stop, in the middle of a sentence or an action, and he would have new memories to account for, but nothing that had to do with the relationship he had with Sherlock. He knew that if he went back to Baker street he would trigger memories about how they got together, and he would probably learn about his cheating as well, the mere idea was enough to make him feel nervous.

He spent the last day at Mycroft's place literally on edge, clinging to Sherlock and stopping for a kiss even more often than usual, because he knew that the next day, he could be a different person, and he could very well be back to being the jerk he used to be.

The taxi ride to Baker street was silent, and he was clinging to Sherlock's hand almost viciously, torn in between telling his lover everything about his doubts before it was too late and swearing to himself he'd never go back to his old ways.

Sherlock was intensely nervous about going back to Baker Street. At first he was excited, he couldn't wait to get back there, to maybe help John trigger some memories, get his old friend back.

But then he knew that if John remembered, he would remember that they weren't a couple, that they never had been, that Sherlock had lied to him and continued to perpetuate that lie for a whole week.

As it happened Sherlock loved being John's boyfriend. It was amazing. They kissed, they cuddled, they held hands, they made love, they talked quietly to each other, laughed, joked, confessed their love. And it wasn't stupid or pointless like Sherlock always thought love was. It was exciting and special.

If they went back to Baker Street he not only risked losing that, he risked losing John altogether if he flipped out, angry, and decided not to even be his friend anymore. It didn't bare thinking about. Sherlock loved John, despite all his previous cynicism about emotions, and he needed him now more than he ever had.

He could sense that John was nervous too, and they clung to each other tightly in the back of the taxi. "This is it," Sherlock said, gently squeezing John's hand before leaning forward to pay for the cab. He got out and held the door open for his friend, his boyfriend, taking out his old set of keys and walking towards the big black door. This would be the first time either of them had been back in nearly three years.

John would have found Sherlock's nervousness suspicious if he had been his old self, but that day he was too worried about his memories coming back to realize how his boyfriend seemed to be just as affected by their coming back to Baker Street.

The building felt familiar, the black door as well, but John couldn't really place it, his head still felt empty.

It was only when he stepped on the stairs and into their apartment's living room that something clicked.
Images flashed into his head, him reading on his favourite armchair, Sherlock by the window playing the violin.

"You play the violin?" he asked, surprised, something that they never really talked about in the week they spent pretty much in symbiosis.
They weren't real memories, but more detached images of their past life. Nothing to worry about, he told himself, not questioning the fact that none of them pictured him and Sherlock in intimate positions.

Walking up those seventeen steps to their old flat was a strange experience for Sherlock, but also exhilerating, exciting. The familiar scent hit his nostrils. Mrs Hudson had been baking. He wondered how their landlady would react to Sherlock's sudden reappearance, but for now he just wanted to get upstairs and watch for John's reaction.

He kept close to his former flatmate to make sure he was coping OK. It was easy to tell he'd remembered something, although Sherlock was quite surprised when the violin was mentioned. He'd been worried, expecting something much worse.

"Uhh yes...yes I do," he grinned and looked round the room, trying to spot the instrument. "Hmm...maybe it's..." He headed over to his room and opened up the door, pausing a moment. Everything inside looked exactly the same. It was as if he'd never gone away, and he realised John must have preserved it that way even after he'd 'died'.

In normal circumstances he would have wanted to thank John for this display of friendship and loyalty, but right now a more immediate problem had presented itself. How was he going to explain to John that they had separate rooms? Surely he wouldn't be able to keep up the illusion of them being a couple for very long...

Sherlock's violin was resting on the bed. He undid the clasps on the case and removed the instrument and bow, fiddling with the tuning pegs fondly as he carried it back through to the living room. He positioned the violin under his chin and began to play one of his own compositions, a favourite of his that he'd often played for John in the past, and he wondered what kind of memories it would invoke.

John's eyes followed Sherlock feverishly as he came back into the room, the violin in his hands looking familiar as if it was his own, he knew that this moment was going to be crucial, but he could not imagine what he would experience next.

Then the detective was playing, tall and proud in front of him, beautiful, perfect.
As the music started, John felt like he had been stabbed in the guts, but the blood was not rushing out, it was rushing in, the feelings he felt he had always had for Sherlock were rushing back and filling his heart to the brim, even more than before, they were choking him, robbing him of his breath.

It was hot warm love, respect, affection, lust, and it felt like Sherlock was shining in front of him like some sort of God.

And then, just as suddenly, there was the pain, the separation, ripping his heart out and stealing his beat.
He had to step back, he had to reach out his hand to support himself and not fall, his eyes hazy and his head and heart pounding painfully.

"Jesus..." he whispered, how could he have doubted his feelings for Sherlock?
He was made of them, it was like there was nothing else in him.

Whenever Sherlock was playing he shut out all his problems, worries, fears, all those little thoughts nagging him, all he could see and hear and feel was the music, which was why, when he stopped, it was often much easier to look at cases and mysteries with fresh untired eyes. It helped him.

That day, it was helping him forget about his worries over John, and over their blossoming but very new relationship. He wanted this to work, more than ever now. He closed his eyes and for a few minutes there was nothing but the soaring melody, and he was secretly pleased to note he still didn't drop any notes, despite being out of practice.

When the tune came to an end. Sherlock opened his eyes, grinning. The smile quickly faded however, when he saw John almost bent in two looking quite stressed and full of emotion. He instantly lay down the instrument and went over to him, wrapping his arms round John's shoulders and pulling him close for a hug. "Are you alright?" Sherlock asked, concerned, kissing the top of John's head.

When he felt Sherlock's arms wrapping around him, his heart skipped a beat, it felt like the first time, even though he knew that by now he was supposed to be quite used to it. He looked up at his lover's face, his heart filled to the brim with passion, and he couldn't help his shaky hands to cup the other's face and pull him closer.

He kissed his lips, warm and wet, eager, and then he attached himself to him with a passion that was peculiar of his old self. Even though his memories were still far from complete, his feelings were now back, alive and throbbing.

"I missed you so much," he whispered, just a split second before he kissed him again, devoured his mouth, he wanted everything of him.

Sherlock was a little surprised at John's eagerness, he hadn't been expecting it. He'd assumed that John had recalled some old memories from Baker Street and had started to realise they weren't a couple after all, although apparently that wasn't the case.

Sherlock sighed happily into the other's lips, his hands wrapped round John's back and meeting in the middle, dragging them closer and tilting his head into this kiss with a moan. He felt like he'd got quite good at kissing in the past week. It certainly seemed to please John anyway.

"I missed you too," Sherlock mumbled softly in between kisses, and it was quite true. "More than anything, John. You were what I missed, more than anything or anyone."

He moved his hands gradually up his boyfriend's back, one of them eventually falling into the short sandy blonde hair, running it through his fingers as they kissed. Finally he broke away and clasped John to his body in a firm, tight hug. He never wanted to let go. "I love you."

John's heart felt large and heavy in his chest, it was filled with feelings he could not recognize, a longing he did not understand, and the love he felt for Sherlock was overwhelming.
It was almost painful to part from his lover's lips, and when he looked at him, his blue eyes were gleamy with the grief that was still lingering in the back of his head. He had really believed Sherlock was dead.
"I love you, too..." he whispered, returning the hug, keeping him close.

"Everything is confused... in my head... but... it's all in my heart now... how scared... how lonely I was when you were gone... it was hell, Sherlock, hell..." he whispered, nuzzling his ear softly.

Sherlock rubbed his hands slowly up and down John's back, wishing things didn't have to be so complicated, that it could just be him and John forever, nothing to get in the way.

He bent his head slightly and pressed his mouth against John's neck, parting his teeth to bite and tease him, hesitating when he heard his boyfriend's words. John was starting to remember feelings, remember how much it hurt.

"I am sorry, John," Sherlock whispered genuinely, pulling back to look into his eyes. "I never wanted to hurt you. And I will never. Ever. Leave you again. We'll stay together now, no matter what...yes?"

Right now he needed John's reassurance more than anything, feeling sick with insecurity and guilt. "Would...would you like me to make you a cup of tea?" He asked gently, wanting to break this intense moment between them.

It was almost impossible for John to conceive a life without Sherlock, and even having him step away for something so silly as a cup of tea felt like someone punched his heart. He had to wonder how he had managed to stay without him at all, he was sure now that he had believed Sherlock to be dead, he could remember the grief, and for a moment he wondered whether his accident had been caused by his will to self-destruct.

The insecurity in Sherlock's voice stuck out in that moment, and John couldn't help but feel guilty, had he made his lover unsure of his feelings? Or had he really been cheating on him in the past?
"Yes, Sherlock, I... I want to be with you... hell, I don't think that could ever change," he commented with a reassuring smile, still oblivious of the real reason behind his boyfriend's words.

He nodded. "A cuppa would be nice... do we have any biscuits?" he asked, walking behind Sherlock as he moved to the kitchen, he wasn't going to let much space in between them.

Sherlock smiled slightly at John, still unsure and worried. He just wanted his new boyfriend and old flatmate to be happy, to want to stay with him, to promise not tom leave. He couldn't imagine a life without John, not really, not anymore, and especially not after everything they'd been through.

He busied himself making the tea and briefly wondered if it was wrong of him to think about sex anymore. Suddenly every time he looked at him these images flashed through his mind of John screwing him senseless. He wanted to try it the other way round too, but he was too afraid to ask. Sherlock had read somewhere that most gay couples had their set ways of doing things, one of them preferred being on top, whilst the other preferred being on the bottom. How could Sherlock know what he preferred if he hadn't tried them both? Yet how could he ask John without exposing his own lies? It was a daily dilemma that occupied his thoughts.

He handed John the finished tea and forced a smile, trying to just enjoy the moment. He realised, though, that it was only just beginning. They'd only just arrived in Baker Street and already John was starting to remember some things. And they still hadn't dealt with the little problem of the rooms, and the fact that it would be obvious he and John had slept separately. Sherlock kissed his boyfriend's cheek and began searching his mind for an appropriate lie, knowing that every lie he told would ultimately get him further and further into trouble, but unable to stop himself just yet.

"I'm really not sure whether we have biscuits or not," he muttered, glancing over at the cupboards. "This is the first time I've been back since...since...well, I'll check." Sherlock began opening all the cupboards and searching around until he managed to locate a half empty packet of biscuits. "Ahh. Apparently we do," he smiled and offered one to John. "Don't know how fresh they'll be."

"How long have I been gone?" he wondered out loud as he looked at the packet of biscuits, and the words were hardly out of his lips that he had another flash, Mrs. Hudson placing tea and biscuits in front of him and him shaking his head and looking outside.
He frowned at himself.
"Everything reminds me of something here..." he mumbled, and looked at the doors. "I didn't think it was possible..."

"Where did we sleep?" he asked suddenly, and moved towards the stairs. "We were just flatmates at the beginning, weren't we? Then I must have had my own room?" he asked, knowing he just had to deal with it eventually, the images in his head needed answers and he knew he wasn't going to be able to keep them at bay any longer.

Sherlock hesitated, a frown dancing across his forehead. "I...um...well, I've been gone for...for three years, but, you only had your accident a few months ago. I guess you were living here on your own before that."

He scratched the back of his neck, feeling that strange emotion in the pit of his stomach again. Guilt. He would make things right. He had to. Everything would be OK. "I guess...you'll start to remember more and more."

Suddenly, Sherlock realised he had a way out of the room sitatuion. John already knew that at one point they had just been friends, that they must have had separate rooms. And if John had thought Sherlock had died, it would make sense that he might go back to his old room, that he might not want to sleep in the room they had shared together.

"Yes, I'll er...I'll show you the room," he smiled and took his boyfriend's hand, leading him first towards his own room, which he was quite interested to see himself, having been away for so long.

He opened the door and led them both inside, his heart giving a small leap in its chest. "You kept it just the same," he whispered, quite touched that his friend had left everything untouched, exactly the way it was the day he left. The only difference was his chemisty equipment, stacked neatly in the corner instead of littering the kitchen like it normally did.