Author: Emmylou PM
The explosion causes John to forget everything that came after being shot in Afghanistan. He becomes obsessed with trying to gain his memories back. The problem is that his mysterious flat-mate seems equally obsessed with making sure he doesn't. COMPLETERated: Fiction K+ - English - Romance/Angst - John W. & Sherlock H. - Chapters: 7 - Words: 14,410 - Reviews: 181 - Favs: 226 - Follows: 143 - Updated: 09-18-10 - Published: 08-15-10 - Status: Complete - id: 6240001
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Title: Being Selfish
Disclaimer: Sherlock (this incarnation) belongs to the BBC. I (and the other 7 billion people in the world) own the originals because they belong to everyone (yay!)
Summary: The explosion at the pool causes John to forget everything that came after being shot in Afghanistan. He becomes obsessed with trying to gain his memories back. The problem is that his mysterious flat-mate seems equally obsessed with making sure he doesn't remember.
A/N: Well this is the last one folks. I never meant for this to get as big as it did, but I'm not sorry it has and I hope you have enjoyed it.
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221b Baker St felt no more familiar to John this time than it had during the brief period he had lived there after his hospitalisation. Other than the unusual difference of Sherlock's coat being in residence there was no real change. He shut the door behind him as quietly as possible (it was nearing eleven after all), hesitated by the coat rack, and then hung his jacket up. This achieved he padded upstairs as quietly as possible.
He had barely raised his fist to the door when a sharp voice from inside called out; "For god's sake, don't hover outside John! It's not like you at all."
John had had a vague idea that Sherlock might pretend not to be in (admittedly difficult with both his coat hanging up and the sound of music and footsteps coming from within.) Wrong-footed, he opened the door.
He was about to say something snide along the lines of 'well I don't know how I'm meant to act, thanks to you', but the sight that greeted him momentarily stunned him.
"Jesus! What the hell has happened in here? It looks like a bomb's hit it."
Sherlock was sprawled dramatically on the couch like a Victorian maiden overwhelmed by one-too-many waltzes. He opened his eyes and glanced around for the merest second, clearly deciding that the chaos wasn't worth his notice and that John wasn't worth deigning with reply.
"So," he said bitterly. "My brother's been getting his claws into you, has he? Whatever he said it was a lie."
"But it's not a lie though, is it?"
"No. But if you pretended it was then both our lives would be easier and Mycroft would be a whole lot less smug."
"How did you know I'd even seen him?"
"Oh please. I just saw you getting out of a non-descript black car from the window. Who else could it be? Unless you've gotten chummy with Sir Alan Sugar recently."
That effectively stalled the conversation. John looked around the room in silence for a moment, taking in what looked like several chemistry labs and the contents of a palaeontologist's attic. It was hard to imagine the place tidy, despite the fact he'd lived in it for a few spotless weeks.
"That *is* my chair, isn't it?" he said suddenly. John jerked his head to the rounded chair he had first been drawn to.
Sherlock snapped his eyes away from contemplating the ceiling, but gave no more than a half-hearted shrug. "Technically they are all my chairs, since you don't live here anymore."
John moved towards the chair and sunk slowly into it. "So..."
"So...what?" said Sherlock snidely. "Has the mere presence of your buttocks in a familiar seat brought the memories rushing back?"
"No, but it's a lot comfier than your chair. And as of now, I'm moving back in."
Sherlock sat up and narrowed his eyes at John. "Oh are you? What will Evie have to say about that?"
John raised an eyebrow. "Well apparently you manipulated her into liking me, and me into liking her, so I guess you can manipulate her into being fine with it."
With a huff Sherlock dropped back down into a laying position.
"Don't be ridiculous. I manipulated you into meeting her knowing full well you'd both leap into each other's arms. The rest was your own dreary natures at work."
"Look, I just want to be able to make an informed choice about Evie. And you're stopping me doing that for a really stupid reason."
"According to your brother you have a crush on me and are worried I might damage your thinking super-powers."
Sherlock's eyes widened. "Did he actually phrase it that! Has that assistant been letting him read romance novels again?"
"I may have paraphrased," said John sarcastically. "Though apparently her love-life is still a disaster. Maybe you should have set me up with her."
"You wouldn't stand a chance unless you have a yacht you've been keeping quiet about. Though she might settle for a small castle and a Bentley."
"Oh, didn't I mention those? It must have slipped my mind in the amnesia."
They shared a brief chuckle, and for a moment things seemed comfortable between them. As quickly as things had warmed, Sherlock froze again.
"So what exactly is Mycroft expecting?" he huffed. "That you'll move back in, we share a dreamy kiss, and all your memories rush back? Possibly while 'I Don't Want to Miss a Thing' plays powerfully in the background."
"I don't think..." John trailed off and wrinkled his nose. "What the hell sort of films do you watch?" He shook his head to clear the bizarre idea. "The point is that if I move back in, it's my choice. And if I choose to follow you around and make your life a misery until you tell me what I want to know, that's my business too."
There was no reaction from Sherlock. Feeling bold, John continued. "And I'm pretty sure I'm not gay, by the way."
Sherlock eyes, which had been languid, snapped open. "Well...good for you."
"But I'm told that you've never been interested in anyone. So we might both be wrong."
"Sounds like the sort of fat-headed thing Mycroft would say."
"He did, but I phrased it better."
Sherlock breathed deeply at sat up with sudden life and energy. "Is there a point to this touching heart-to-heart?"
"I was just thinking that if you wanted to try kiss me, it'll probably be a helluva lot less awkward without my memories than with them."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Do you want me to kiss you?"
John shrugged. "I have no idea. It's a bit of an experiment."
To John's surprise Sherlock laughed. Then he went silent and thoughtful within the same breath. "Yes," he murmured. "An experiment."
He stood and prowled over to where John was sitting. As John pulled himself to his feet his only thought was that he'd forgotten how tall Sherlock was.
There was a brief awkward moment where they gauged how this was going to work, where their faces needed to be and John reminded Sherlock to close his eyes. Then they pressed their lips together.
It was a dry kiss, with minimal movement and neither seemed sure how long it was supposed to last for. After an acceptable length of time they stepped away from each other.
"Well," coughed Sherlock. "That was..."
"Rubbish?" finished John.
For a second time, Sherlock laughed. This time in a huff of amusement. "Yes. Shocking."
"Bit like kissing a stern headmistress," said John.
"I had a headmaster, but yes. The comparison stands. Did any of your memories return?"
"No." If anything his head felt blanker. "Though I can always put 'I Don't Want to Miss a Thing' on to play if you think that might help."
"A mistake then," said Sherlock.
John nodded. Sherlock was right. This was awkward.
"Mind you, I wouldn't mind having another go. Just to make sure. There was room for improvement." Where that had come from, John had no idea, but he blurted it out in one long rush.
They shared a speculative look.
"I concur," said Sherlock.
They leaned in for another kiss. This time there was definite movement on both sides.
"That was... slightly more satisfactory," said Sherlock.
Neither of them had stepped away from each other this time. John inclined his head in a way that somehow suggested 'more'.
"Absolutely," said Sherlock breathlessly.
One Month Later
John and Sherlock still hadn't had sex yet. In John's mind, this was probably the last thing anyone would want to know about their relationship, but his conversations with Harry and Mycroft (blatant in Harry's case, veiled in Mycroft's, cringe-worthy in both) proved otherwise.
That said, what they had done, they'd done really, REALLY well.
John was actually beginning to get annoyed that this prying into his almost-sex-life was overshadowing his bigger news. His memories were back, and in tip-top shape bar from a few missing hours after the explosion which he doubted would ever come back. He remembered the flat, he remembered Sherlock, he remembered Mrs. Hudson and he had gone through the initial freak-outs that had come with it all. Sherlock was still laughing about John's conversation with Sally.
John was quick to stress to Harry that this returning memory had more to do with hours of conversation with Sherlock than the exciting sexcapades she had assumed. Sherlock had still annoyingly refused to tell John too many details, but he'd know how to lead John's mind down the right paths that would return those memories.
"It's only a variation of cognitive interviewing," he'd yawned late one night. "I've never enjoyed that sort of detective work, but the method has it's uses."
John would have been tempted to consider the whole matter as resolved happily and without any loose ends, but whenever he tried to think like that he guiltily remembered Evie.
The sensation was similar to the feeling he felt whenever he went passed Edmonton Street, where he has once wrecked his rented flat during a drunken student binge. To this day his insides twisted with guilt and shame whenever he rode past it. It was a similar feeling whenever he thought about Evie, and it didn't make him feel any better that Evie had, technically at least, dumped him.
He had gone to Evie the day after he had moved back in with Sherlock. He hadn't even managed to explain that he was moving out before she announced her own plans.
The Bishop had phoned her yesterday (John tried to ignore the knowledge that at that moment he'd been in a gay bar) and asked her to head up a new year-long project out in Africa. He'd only called to test the water, but Evie had jumped in feet first and agreed there and then.
In the few hours before John had turned up she had already had her injections and begun packing her stuff up.
"You could come with me," she offered. Her tone suggested full well that she knew it wasn't going to happen. He said 'no', and she nodded. "I wasn't...I wouldn't have expected you to come. So don't feel guilty."
John was feeling guilty. He was completely failing to tell her the truth – that she was being dumped for Sherlock Holmes. He had a brief scuffle with his conscience and came out victorious – no woman (no matter how saintly) wanted to be left for another guy.
"Just so you know,,,if I'd met you four months earlier, I would have been going with you," was all John managed. "But things are...I'm different now. My memories are coming back."
She smiled weakly and took a deep breath. "You were right when you called me selfish,2 she confessed. "Because I really...I love you. But even if you loved me, I still wouldn't have stayed."
That was all that either of them had to say. They hugged, John collected his stuff, and when John left her house and took a deep breath of fresh air.
His relief lasted approximately two seconds because Sherlock Holmes was leaning against the gate outside, texting. The same Sherlock Holmes he'd left at 221b Baker Street an hour before.
"I'm going to Holland" said Sherlock without looking up.
John paused. "What?"
"Holland. Diamond theft. I didn't get you a ticket. I've got a dreadful feeling it will be dull. Holland always is. Besides, you have work and all those other things you like to do."
John narrowed his eyes. "Like you've ever cared about that stuff before," he snapped. "You just want to bugger off and do dangerous stuff without me. I don't suppose you care how things went with Evie either."
John could almost see Sherlock's mind whirring as tried to remember why he should care about Evie or any conversations connected with her. "Oh that. How did it go?"
"She's going to Africa."
Sherlock slid his phone shut. "That seems an extreme reaction."
"She was already going. She was guilty about leaving me, but not much."
He stepped out of the gate and the two of them begun a slow walk toward the main street where they could catch a cab home.
"So you're saying that she was too selfish for you then," said Sherlock. "Or possibly not selfish enough to put herself first."
John stared t Sherlock incredulously. "You purposely hide my memories from because *you* have a crush that might interfere with your work, then you bugger off to Holland without me a day after my memories start coming back, and now you're casting judgements about selfishness?" John heaved the bag of stuff he was carrying at Sherlock. "For that, you can carry this."
A/N: That's it peeps. Please let me know what you think. Thank you to every single person who has loyally followed this. You made writing this twice as fun and pushed me on when I was fed up and panicking!
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