Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or John, or any of the other characters. That belongs to the BBC network channel, Moffat, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do, however, want to say quickly that I'm not alone in writing this. A good friend of mine, Katja, helped me write it. In fact, without her starting the prompt of 'what would happen if John lost his memory,' this never would've happened. It was a duel effort, and I wanted to make sure she knows she's getting just as much credit for it. Thank you, Katja~.
Oh, and, in case you're wondering as you read.. I'm making the chapters kinda short, because I never know how long I have on the computer I'm using. I do apologize, but each story bit does connect to the next chapter.

It was one explosion. Not even a big on, by the normal standards of Sherlock, but it managed to hit John on the head, knocking him out. He woke up much later in the hospital, blinking and groaning, only to find a strange man sitting by his beside. Sherlock leaned over and forced a smile, not having slept until he was certain John was awake. "John. Wake up and answer my question."

John merely blinked, looking up at Sherlock in a confused manner. "Who're you exactly? And where am I?" He glanced around, squinting at all the white. "Why am I in a hospital? Did something happen while I was on patrol?" He looked to Sherlock, waiting for answers to his quickly asked questions.

Sherlock stared at him, leaning back. "John…" He swallowed, shaking his head. "Memory loss. Of course. What do you remember? Name, general history up until now?" He was trying to look collected, clenching his fists out of sight.

John sat up slightly, running a hand through his hair. "All I can remember is being out on patrol in-" He stopped, looking at Sherlock. "How do you know me? I don't remember you at all." He looked a little suspicious, not entirely sure he knew Sherlock, but not distrusting, because something was nagging at him, he just couldn't place it; it gave him a migraine to try and place anything. He snorted mentally. 'Of course,' he thought. 'The fellow did say memory loss... But I feel fine. Nothing unusual... Just him.'

Sherlock sighed. "We live together. We're flatmates. You left the army nearly two years ago, but do try not to panic. The John I know would never sink to panic, but, well, these are rather extraordinary circumstances..." He swallowed. "It's understandable that you don't recall me, I am rather new, relatively. I'm... I'm Sherlock Holmes. You're best friend." He paused, searching for any sort of memory, before sighing. "I'll just... fetch a nurse."

John looked rather astonished. 'I... Left the army? Two years ago? How.. Sherlock Holmes? Flatmates? Why I've never heard such rubbish,' was John's first thought, but seeing the searching look and hearing the sighs, he paused his thinking. 'Maybe.. He's being serious. he sure as hell looks it,' he thought idly before responding to Sherlock. "Yes... I think that'd be best for now..." He looked at Sherlock's face once more, having looked around the room again, trying to recall anything the man had just told him. Nothing came to mind, much to his disappointment.

Sherlock sighed and got up, bringing in the doctor moments later. "Dr. Watson," the man greeted him, as Sherlock stayed in the background, vigilant. "How are you? Your flatmate said that there was some sort of amnesia?"

John nodded. "That seems to be the case, yes." He noted quietly that Sherlock stood off to the side, staying to the shadows as though he were trying to watch and remain hidden. "Though, had he not told me, I wouldn't have been any the wiser. I still don't recognize him or remember anything about us being flatmates. Last thing I recall is going on patrol. But he said I left the army near two years ago." John's expression went from relaxed to tensed and puzzled as he talked, looking to the doctor for some sort of answer.

The doctor nodded, looking over John's chart and sighing. "Tell me, do you remember being assigned to a patrol going to flush out some insurgents in the lower caves south of your base?" he asked, glancing up. "I'm trying to determine when your memory blanks, you understand. That mission took place shortly before...Well, shortly before you left the military."

John nodded. "Yes, that's it. I can't remember anything after reaching the caves. When I woke up here, I assumed there had been a collapse of the cave, and that we made it out and stayed the night just to ensure that we were stable."

The doctor sighed and nodded. "No. Your team completed the mission, but you were injured. Shot in the shoulder. They invalided you home. That was two years ago." He made a note on his clipboard. "It appears your mind tried to erase all trauma, starting with the earliest. That explains the blank."

John looked up, surprised. "You've got to be joking," was all he could say. He was shot? And sent home? That explained having a flatmate.. But that didn't help him at all. He still couldn't remember a thing. "Will.. I get my memory back? At all?"

"Hopefully you will, but brain injuries are tricky," the doctor explained, sighing. "You might remember some, or all, or none. It's a lot of chance involved, I'm afraid."

John's face fell. "Right.. I expected as much.."

"Well, we'll need to do some scans and then you should be able to go," the doctor said, looking to Sherlock. "I take it he'll be going home with you, Mr. Holmes?" Sherlock seemed to fidget in his spot. "Well," he started. "If he wants to, yes. I understand if he wants to stay elsewhere."

John shook his head. "No, I'd like to see where we lived. Maybe it'll trigger something."

"Right.. I'll just.. Wait." And with that Sherlock turned, fleeing the room. The doctor sighed at his fleeing figure. "He hasn't slept a wink since you've been brought in. I'm surprised he hasn't collapsed from exhaustion yet." He shook his head. "Do you need a wheelchair, or can you walk?" He asked, looking to John.

John looked a little surprised. "He hasn't slept?" That didn't seem surprising once he said it. He didn't know why, but something told him the man that fled the room, 'Sherlock,' he reminded himself, didn't sleep often anyways. Or eat often, if the lean, near bony yet somehow still healthy, body structure was anything to go by. He couldn't fathom why he wouldn't sleep, or why he sat there, or so the doctor said. John shook his head a little, remembering the doctor's question. "No, I don't need a wheelchair. I'll be fine." And with that small statement, followed the doctor out the room, wanting to get the scans done and over with.

"No, he hasn't. Your other friends tell me that that isn't very unusual with him, I'm afraid, although the nearly stifling concern certainly is. He insisted upon seeing every single graph, which I unfortunately had to do, since you named him your next of kin a year or so ago. Apparently you had no family that you could rely on. Anyway," the doctor shrugged and led the way to the scanning room, helping John get situated. "You know the drill. Stay still and stay quiet and this should be done soon." He walked into the monitoring room and jumped. "Mr. Holmes!"

"I wanted to see the scans come up."