John, wake up. "Please"

Wake up

"Sherlock?" Mycroft spoke but received no reply. Sherlock was still at John's bedside, collapsed into a chair. Week three now and John showed only minor signs of waking up. "Sherlock, you need to eat" Mycroft insisted.

"I can't leave him Myc, after all this and what he's done for me, I can't--I can't--"

"Look Sherlock, calm down, he will wake soon, there is solid evidence for this, I also managed to track down the culprits of the Moriarty video, just some computer 'geeks' hacking into the systems. So Moriarty is no longer a threat. Look, I'll get food up here and you are to eat it, okay?" Mycroft said in his usual monotone and maybe if Sherlock had been more focused on the world he would have noticed the worry in his brothers voice.

"I'm-im afraid Myc" Sherlock whispered and for once Mycroft was reminded of the Sherlock he used to know, vulnerable and innocent, the boy who wanted to be a pirate. His little brother.

"Sherlock, it's gonna be okay, I have made sure of it, we have the best doctors on him and constant surveillance--"

"Not everything is controlled with power, whether he lives or dies isn't dependent on power!"

"Sherlock I'm sorry, I'm sorry I wasn't there for you when you were firing up, for going to university when you probably needed me most, I am sorry lock" he made the endearment clear, Sherlocks childhood nickname, cap'n Lock and first mate Myc.

Sherlock looked up in shock at the name before sending a small weak smile at Mycroft and then turning his attention back to John.

"Thankyou Mycroft" Sherlock whispered before he left again, watching out of the corner of his eye as Sherlocks hand slid into John's cold one and then he wrapped his other around them.

Mycroft left to get a nurse to bring up some food for Sherlock and make sure he ate it, he'd been surprisingly well behaved and hadn't had any lash outs. He'd listened to the nurses but the only advice he'd pushed aside was anything involving leaving John's bedside.

Sherlock continued to hold John's hand in his own, it was something he'd grown accustomed to- John's hand laced with his own- even though the fingers that were laced with his were cold and unresponsive they were a sign John was still there with him, when he work from a fitful sleep after reliving it all and John was still there. He felt that he could keep some control over John's health.

Sherlock spoke to him, talked to him about Rosie, about Mary, apologized over and over. He told him of Mary's death, the funeral that was set to happen in two weeks time. He hoped that all the information was passing through. Little did he know that every piece of information was like a chopped up jigsaw puzzle to John's brain and that it was being fitted wrongly and twisting his mind with the truth.

It was the next day when Sherlock was woken from his sleep by a mumble. A mumble from the man who had been in a coma for three weeks now. John was mumbling.

"John?" Sherlock asked in shock and awe.

"Ma-Mary?" John asked confused.

"No, it's me, Sherlock" the detective answered uncertainly before reaching over to press the call button. The doctors needed to check him.

"Sherlocks dead" John mumbled.

Sherlock stopped breathing. No. He wasn't dead was he? At least he didn't think he was. He'd been with John since he got back from Serbia. He'd been in the backseat with John's pregnant wife as she was giving birth. Why did John think he was dead?

Nurses came in, pushed Sherlocks hand gently away as he stumbled backwards into the wall and had to struggle to hold himself up straight.

They began to ask John questions. Checking his vitals and he appeared perfectly healthy but he was certain that Sherlock Holmes was dead.

The nurse came back over to Sherlock and informed him of John's condition.

"He's perfectly healthy but is currently experiencing Transient Global Amnesia, its rare but he still seems to believe we're in the previous year, it will ware off over the next couple of days, there is no permanent damage, but he may not remember recent events." The doctor explained, Sherlock nodded lamely and the doctor left.

Sherlock came back over to John and John locked eyes with him, shock written over his face.

Sherlock breathed deeply. In. Out. In. Out.

"Sherlock?"

"John, I can--" Sherlock began but John cut him off.

"No, you were dead, I watched you jump, you were dead!" John exclaimed as he sat up straighter in the hospital bed, his arms shaking from disuse.

"John, you have a daughter, what about--"

"I don't have a daughter, I've never had one!" John hissed, "why are you lying to me, Sherlocks dead, I don't have a daughter!"

Sherlock paled, he ran out the room, nausea hitting him hard as all the shock and managed to get to the toilets and sat curled up around the bowl, retching, his stomach empty from not eating. It ached and it made him curl in on himself. He collapsed against the wall, shaking and sobbing and tears streaking down his unwashed face. Sticking in three weeks worth of stubble.

He sat there, rocking back and forth for what could have been minutes, hours days. He lost count. It didn't matter anyway. John didn't remember. John thought he was dead. This John wasn't his John.