Remember Me (John/Anthea friendship)

Sherlock received the text message just as his taxi was pulling up along a narrow and rather deserted country lane less than a mile from the mansion. Much to the annoyance of the driver, he'd had the taxi drive all along these roads back and forth several times taking different routes on and off the main road. A small farmhouse in the middle of a field had attracted Sherlock's suspicions. There was no car outside, yet there was a little yellow light in the window, and it was certainly in an ample spot to hold up before making some kind of attack on the mansion, which was visible in the distance. His phone bleeped. He removed it from his pocket and texted back quickly.

I'm onto it. -SH

Sherlock paid the taxi driver and got out, pulling his coat collar up further against the bitter wind as he watched the cab lights fade into the distance and he was left in the darkness, his eyes focused on the small light from the farmhouse. He vaulted over a hedge and into the field, trampling through the grass. He approached the building from behind, hoping to remain out of sight to whoever was residing inside. As he got closer he ducked down and made his way towards the door on all fours, clinging to the side of the walls. He could hear movement inside that confirmed his suspicions.

Sherlock paused slightly upon reaching the front door, then took a deep breath and shouldered it open, falling onto the hay covered floor and nearly knocking over the man holed up inside, who was just unpacking a rather large sniper rifle. The man was considerably surprised by Sherlock's attack, surprised enough to not react immediately and Sherlock was able to throw a punch to his right cheek. He flew backwards into the wall, then regained his senses and adopted a fighting stance similar to Sherlock's. For a moment they circled each other like opponents in a boxing ring, then the man launched himself and laid his hands round Sherlock's neck. Sherlock kicked him in the kneecap and he fell to the floor and Sherlock quickly repositioned himself behind the man with his arm locked tight around his neck. The man's hand reached out for a hand gun that was just within his grasp. The snapping of the assasin's neck and the shot from the hand gun were almost instantaneous.

Sherlock staggered back, his hand instantly going up to the wound. The bullet had hit the lower part of his neck, somewhere near his collar bone. It was bleeding profusely and rather painful. He bent over the dead assasin and picked up his gun, just in case he should come across anyone else, then headed to the door. Mycroft's mansion was in the distance, its lights bright and welcoming. He hadn't planned on making an appearance there tonight, but it was a damned sight closer than the nearest hospital and besides, John would be there. And John was a doctor. Surely he'd remember how to remove a bullet and stitch up a wound. Sherlock set off, staggering through the fields, leaving a trail of blood behind him and growing weaker by the minute. He didn't mind too much though. He'd done his job, and that was all that mattered.

Anthea finished her scotch and was writing the report for John's psychiatrist - they recommended that he was put on sedatives and medication. Anthea refused and explained that things were challenging here.

That's when she heard a faint gunshot in the distance, hand gun presumably. She pressed the security alert that turned the lights off and Anthea got the team ready, she opened the draw and got out her own handgun then proceeded to see John then her job was to find out the cause of the gunshot.

She went towards the door, got out her night vision binoculars and looked around then noticed a figure in the distance - she held her ground and raised the gun. The security team was behind her waiting for the attack.

((I don't understand, has she gone to John's room at all? Is he with them? Is he still asleep? Is he supposed to come out hearing the commotion? 'Cause you mentioned John but didn't specify ^^;; )

((Sorry - would like John to hear the commotion and his army instincts kick in..then seeing Sherlock injured..then you can use your imagination)

As Sherlock got nearer to the mansion he put the handgun down the waistband of his pants, and raised one arm above his head, waving, whilst his other hand gripped his bleeding neck wound. He was losing blood fast and was feeling quite faint, trying to focus through his blurred vision as he pushed through the hedging and into the main grounds of the mansion. The security lights blared on and he continued to wave his arm above his head, hoping that Mycroft's security men will have realised it was him by now. He made it halfway across the lawn before his legs gave out and he sank to the floor, rolling onto his back, grimacing at the pain.

John had heard the gun shot, again flashes of memories had swum in his vision, but he didn't faint this time.
This time he pushed himself to stand up, and walked towards the commotion.

He saw the security men, his whole body tensing up, what the hell was happening here?
He saw Anthea and walked towards her.

The figure in the dark was still a few metres away from the door, but John felt he recognized it anyway.
It was the man in the picture.
It was his supposedly dead boyfriend.

"No!" he shouted, running towards the other as he fell on the ground.
"Get me a medical kit!" he shouted to the people around.

He felt his heart beat in his chest as he saw the bloodied body on the floor.

Not again...

He pushed his hands on the wound to stop the bleeding and started barking orders until he could get him inside and stitch the wound.

Anthea was in shock and disbelief that it was in fact Sherlock, she was expecting him at breakfast - he was clearly injured so she grabbed the medical kit automatically from the security team and began running, she felt a presence go past and it was John. She pursued the doctor.

Anthea ran and knelt down next to John and Sherlock;
"John, what do you need?" she then passed the medical kit to John.

Whom was showing the first signs of recovery since his head injury.
She then shouted down the radio for immediate assistance and to check the perimeter.

"Help's coming."

Sherlock was drifting in and out of consciousness. He felt the cool grass underneath his head, he could make out figures around him, people shouting, a commotion. He forced his eyes open and saw John huddled over him, a concerned expression, barking orders.

"John...." he grinned and lifted up an arm to touch his friend's shoulder. It was the last thing he remembered before he passed out completely.

John felt like he was suspended in space, the injured man's eyes were a deep intense grey and he could see recognition in them, he could see affection. And when he touched his shoulder a shiver ran up his spine, when he whispered his name, John looked at him desperately.
"Stay with me," he said, leaning on him to check his breathing, fingers dancing on his body to check for any other injury.

"Let's get him back to the house, I need light," he shouted, pointing at a few men to get help, they didn't dare hesitate, and together, they carried Sherlock inside.


((skip to when Sherly is stitched up in John's bed? Unless you want to describe the medical procedure Anthea? I am rather clueless XD))

Anthea assisted getting Sherlock comfortable as well as acting as nurse - MYcroft insisted that his employ should have field medicine training just in case, however she never thought it would be Sherlock.

After the procedure Anthea assisted John to make Sherlock comfortable. Her whole body was filled with dread and anticipation from what the future held. John may have remembered it all - everything was now at risk.

She spoke to John and then went to the kitchen to make tea, and added some scotch to hers and John's. She passed the teas and decided to call Mycroft; they needed time alone.

"John, if you need anything. Am just in the office."

((Can skip to the bonding time))

John was worried, very worried.
His hands had moved instinctively when he had worked to tend to the man's injuries, but he would have not been able to say what he was doing exactly.
He was sure he had done well, but he couldn't help what he was feeling for this stanger man.

He nodded at Anthea when she made to leave the room.

He seemed to be awake now.
"Sherlock, your name is Sherlock, right? How are you feeling?" He asked, fingers touching his wrist to take his pulse.

He wished so much he could remember him.

Sherlock woke up groggily. He had no idea how long he'd been out. He remembered getting shot, the long walk to the house, collapsing into the grass, and John's face. That was all. He opened his eyes and tried to sit up. There was a dull throbbing in his neck. His hand instinctively went to touch it and he felt the soft bandages wrapped around. He was in a bed. As he opened his eyes and became adjusted to the bright ceiling lamp he immediately noticed John sat by his bedside. He sat up quickly and suddenly.

"John!...yes, yes...I'm Sherlock. You remembered my name?" he asked eagerly. "How much else do you remember? How are you? Oh...and I suppose I should thank you for saving my life. Again."

John instinctively drew back when Sherlock sat up, sudden movements always putting him on edge.
He tried to will himself to relax, but the other man's eager eyes somehow made things worse.

"Careful," he mumbled, motioning to the bandage.

"I... mm... no... Anthea mentioned you..." he admitted, scratching his head, he felt an headache was coming. He wondered if the man would mention the fact they used to be together. Or maybe they still were? Was it why he was back?

"I... don't remember much... my family... a bit about the war..." he frowned when he remember what he had been said before. "Anthea said you were dead?" he muttered, biting on his lower lip. "Was that figuratively?" he wondered out loud, was it because Sherlock didn't want to have to do with him any more? It was quite a strange lie either way.

Sherlock frowned. It was hard to watch his friend in this state, his mind a blank, struggling to recall random snatches of information. He couldn't even remember their first meeting, Sherlock realised with a sharp pain across his heart.

And he couldn't remember what happened at Bart's that day. Was that a good thing? Sherlock knew he would have to explain things, but would it make it easier or harder now that John had no knowledge of previous events.

"There was a man...trying to kill you," he began shakily, then grew in confidence as he continued speaking. "His name was Moriarty. He said if I didn't kill myself he would kill you and two of my friends. He already had three assasins set up, ready and waiting. I'd dealt with him in the past and knew he wasn't just joking around. But I was one step ahead. I'd anticipated his move and managed to make arrangements to fake my own death, thereby managing to save my friends and myself. Simple really."

Sherlock hesitated at John's confused expression, wondering if he'd said too much too soon. "Erm...you OK?"

John looked at the man as he talked, frowning increasingly as he tried to understand. It all seemed surreal to him, and distant, it didn't feel part of him at all.
It was clear on his face that he had no memories of the events.

He blushed though, when he realized the man had done everything to save him and his friends. Was that love?
"You were very brave," he said, and moved slightly closer.

"I am sorry, I just... I don't remember..." He muttered and reached out his hand, squeezing the other's. "But mm... Thank you... I probably wouldn't be alive today if you hadn't protected me..."

The blank expression on his friend's face was obvious and Sherlock sighed heavily. This was difficult. It hurt to see John this way, but there was nothing he could do except be supportive right now.

Sherlock smiled and allowed John's fingers to envelop his. "It's OK," he replied. "You've saved my life too. Twice now. The first time you shot a cabbie through a window. You're a crack shot with an army revolver." He grinned.

Suddenly he struck upon what was quite possibly a brilliant idea. "John," he cried, "I've just thought of something. You used to write a blog. You wrote up every single case we ever worked on together. Oh...maybe I should have said. I'm a detective. You used to help me on cases. We lived together. Anyway, you should go online and read your own blog. It might help to bring back some memories, and even if it doesn't, at least you can learn about all the adventures we got up to."

John looked rather worried as he listened to Sherlock words. "I killed someone?" he asked, feeling himself swallow hard, his heart starting to beat faster in his chest. He couldn't control it. "So it's true, I am a bad person," he exclaimed, standing up, pacing the room nervously. He knew he had to calm down if he didn't want to faint, but the man was giving him so much information it was overwhelming.

"Stop!" he snapped, holding his head, it hurt, it was pulsing, it felt like it could burst any moment, and for a long moment he could only breathe.
In.
Out.
In.

Sherlock jolted up in bed at John's reaction, sliding his legs out from under the sheets and onto the floor. He stood up and moved over to his friend, wrapping a protective arm around him as he hyperventilated.

"It's OK..." he murmured softly. "Just breathe John...I'm...I'm sorry. Erm...sometimes I speak too quickly, and I don't know when to shut up. Er...come and sit down..."

He led John back towards the bed.

"You weren't a bad person. You're not a bad person. You're a great person, a brilliant person. Kind, brave, loyal, honest. You're the most amazing person I know. Yes you killed a man, but you did it to save me." He smiled warmly at John and gave him a little cuddle.

John's breathing calmed instantly when the man wrapped an arm around him, his warmth and scent were able to relax him, and he couldn't help but think that his body recognized him even though his mind had forgotten him.
It felt almost like a miracle.

"I just... need time... to process everything..." he muttered, wishing he hadn't freaked out like that, the man was probably going to think he was crazy.
Maybe he was a bit though.

He sat down, instinctively leaning towards Sherlock, he was rather sure he was allowed to.
He rested his head on the man's healthy shoulder and sighed.
Even though he didn't remember anything about him, in that moment he felt less lonely.

He smiled back at him, tentatively. Was this man always so nice to him?
"It's easy for you to say that, you are clearly biased," he said, almost a tease.

He wanted to know about them, about their first encounter, their first kiss, when they decided to live together, but he knew that if he asked now, the possibility of having another attack were high.
Maybe it would be better if he just didn't remember at all.
They could create new memories.
That, if the man still wanted him...

"Can I sleep with you tonight?" he asked, looking at him pleading. He knew the answer to this one was important, it would determine whether Sherlock considered them to still be together or they broke up before the fake death ordeal.
He was a bit scared of the reply.

Sherlock held John close to his chest, his arm wrapped tightly around him. He was almost like a child, he reflected silently, a lost child without any parents or any home, and Sherlock needed to protect him. He suddenly felt the need to take care of John, to look after him, to nurture him back to health. Yes, Sherlock had been shot but John was suffering much worse.

"Don't worry," he said firmly, determined. "I'll help you."

He frowned a little when John asked if he could sleep with him that night. It was a strange request. They'd never slept together in the past. They'd always had their own separate rooms. But they were close. As close as two friends could be, and the idea of sleeping in the same bed as John didn't seem odd or weird to Sherlock. It was only strange because John had never asked such a question before...but then...everything was new now, everything was different.

Sharing a bed wasn't a problem for Sherlock. Why should it be? John was his friend and right now he needed comforting and protection. He'd been through a traumatic ordeal and Sherlock was the only one who ever truly understood him anyway. Sherlock was quite convinced that he was the only person who could help John. He met his eyes and smiled.

"Of course you can," he replied with a small nod. "Whatever you need John..."

John couldn't help the happiness and hope that sparked in his chest at Sherlock's words. It was a pure feeling, something he had rarely felt when he had his memories because of the many hardships he had encountered.
It was clear Sherlock still wanted him, and John was very grateful, because he knew for a fact that he could easily fall in love with this man again.

"Thank you," he said, burying his face in his neck, searching for shelter. His words meaning oh so many things.
"I know it's hard, and I am different from what I was... But I hope you'll still like me anyway... Because I know I like you even though I can't remember our past..." He confessed, hiding his gaze.

Anthea headed to the bedroom, and tapped on the door. She was carrying tea, sandwiches and a laptop.

She was nervous, and was concerned about what was happening. Mycroft was pleased to hear that his brother was not seriously injured and that the pair was reunited. Anthea felt like she needed to apologize and explain.

She waited outside patiently.

Sherlock patted John softly on the shoulder, trying to be as comforting as he possibly could. Affection didn't particularly come easy to Sherlock but he felt in John's case he should try and make an exception. Suddenly he felt himself pushed back onto the bed slightly as John practically threw himself into Sherlock's chest, nuzzling up to his neck. It was all he could do to wrap his arm around him and gently squeeze his hand.

"Of course I still like you," he replied with a shrug. It was obvious. Why wouldn't he? "You're the only person I care about..." he added, feeling an unusual desire to express his emotions. "I'm just so glad to have to alive, if you don't remember things it doesn't matter. We'll work on it."

Just then there was a knock on the door and they broke off from their cuddle. "Come in," Sherlock called out.

Anthea heard Sherlock calling and she entered with the tea, sandwiches and laptop. She smiled at them both, they seemed to be having an emotional reunion.

Anthea turned to Sherlock; "How are you feeling?" Then passed the laptop to John with a small smile.

"After discussion with Mycroft, he suggested showing John his old blog and his written notes."

She stood there casually, taking in the atmosphere. After a stressful evening - it was almost surreal seeing them chatting.

You're the only person I care about..

John's heart throbbed at the words, starting to beat faster as a wide smile appeared on his lips, finally, now he knew that someone cared about him, he wasn't alone in the world as he had felt he was.
This man cared for him.
Sherlock cared for him.
And he knew it meant a lot that such an extraordinary man would like him of all people.

He wanted to say so much, but he was interrupted by the knock on the door, Sherlock was quickly pulling away, he figured they weren't a couple who was affectionate in public, so he moved away a bit, giving the other man a bit of space.
He looked at Anthea, frowning at his laptop, he was curious, but afraid at the same time.
He didn't know if he was going to like who he had been before the accident.

He realized something then, and turned to look at the woman. "Did you know Sherlock was alive?" he asked, frowning.