Amnesia

Chapter 3: Rehabilitation

Sherlock woke the next morning feeling entirely better. His headache was faint, and he was a little tired, but aside from that, the other symptoms we re all gone. He turned over in bed, stretching his long limbs out as far as possible. He opened his eyes and saw John, completely asleep. He smiled slightly, or about as much as he was he was capable of doing, and got out of bed. He changed into a burgundy pajama set and pulled his tan house coat over his shoulders. Sherlock set out down the hallway, closing his bedroom door behind him and venturing to the kitchen. He saw that Mrs. Hudson had already brought tea, and it was still hot. She'd made it just how he likes it; milk and two sugars. He took it off the tray and sat in his chair, sipping it gingerly. He sat for a while, drinking his tea and letting his mind wonder from the bright sunlight hitting the back of his neck, to the way the light hit John's chair, to how John's eyes looked in the light.

That was Sherlock's newest addiction. Thinking about John all the time. It was hard for him to concentrate on cases, experiments, clients. Especially if John is in the room. He distracts him. Meddles with his thoughts and makes him...

He really never had any 'urges' (as John likes to put it) before John came into his life. He knew what society perceived as attractive, so he couldn't help noticing someone (mostly men) that were pleasing to the eye. But John Watson was a completely different story. He had a bright smile, pretty eyes, and as he heard people say when he walked in the street with John, a lovely arse. Not only was he attractive to Sherlock, but he was kind. So very kind to Sherlock, but he never let anyone walk all over him or overstep their boundaries. He was rough, but smooth around the edges. Dominant, but never pushy. Sherlock always knew that John had most of the authority in their relationship. When John says jump, Sherlock says how high. That was something that was never spoken of between them, but it was a standing rule in the John-and-Sherlock relationship. Sherlock always loved a firm hand, but nothing compared to that of John Watson. He had never met anyone as willing to stand up to him as John. And he admired a man who could think for himself. Not to mention John is quicker than most of the people he associates himself with.

Sherlock had been lost in thought for a while, and before he knew it he was standing beside the window, playing his violin. He was unconsciously composing, playing the way his thoughts were wondering. Slowly when he was thinking about John, speeding up the pace when he was thinking about cases, somewhere in between when he was thinking about the situation at hand.

John walked into the room slowly, rubbing his eyes and yawning, his shirt untucked and wrinkled. He fell asleep last night in Sherlock's bed, after he read all the letters Sherlock and John had written to each other, sent or unsent.

He walked into the kitchen and grabbed his luke-warm cup of tea. He tasted it, but decided he'd rather not reheat it anyways. He stretched and walked over to where Sherlock was playing violin.

John had always liked it when he played. Especially in the morning, because it was like a peaceful alarm clock. It helped him wake up in a good mood, it calmed him down when he'd had a bad day at the clinic, or when he was tired and needed a nap.

He remembered the first time he heard it; he thought he was dreaming. John walked into the room and found Sherlock playing the instrument intently, not even reading his music sheets. He watched the way he slowly waltzed around the room, sliding the bow with slender fingers. It captivated him. He'd watched Sherlock for hours before he even noticed John was in the room.

John watched Sherlock, his eyes closed and his fingers gently guiding the bow. He sat in his chair, watching Sherlock and trying to wake himself up.

"Good morning, John." Sherlock said, fully aware John had come in.

"Morning. How're you feeling?" He said, his voice gravely.