John wakes up recovering from his wounds and illness in Afghanistan, just like he remembers. Except John wakes up also remembering Sherlock Holmes and their adventures together. They tell him none of it could ever have happened. At first John believes it must be a deception, a conspiracy.

But what if it is true? What if John really dreamed his whole friendship with Sherlock Holmes?

Eventually John realizes he really has been just wounded in Afghanistan, that it was all some insanely detailed, real-seeming dream. And that breaks his heart a bit, because Sherlock and him—they were great, their adventures amazing, their bond deep. Sherlock had been larger than life, all of it brighter somehow than the world around him now, more like…more like a vision than a dream.

As John struggles through his illness and recovery, he mourns the loss of the best friend he's ever had, and of a life more exciting and full than any he expects to ever find again.

And yet, there is a part of him, just a tiny part, that he lets hope. It's the part of him that grew up an avid fan of Dr. Who, that wants to believe in the miraculous, and loves to dream about the impossible. At night, alone with his thoughts in the darkness, John lets his mind drift to alternate realities and visions and destiny.

Sherlock has the same vision, as if they really lived those months together before being thrown back in time.

Mycroft doesn't take it seriously, reprimands such irrational thinking.

So he keeps it to himself after that. He continues taking cases, trying to build a career for himself. He crafts his image as a sane, logic-driven, reasoning machine of a man.

And he never breathes a word to another soul about the phantom army doctor with nerves of steel and a kind heart and a thirst for Sherlock's kind of life.

After all, who else would he tell?

John has tried research. He finds nothing online about any Sherlock Holmes, no Science of Deduction website full of ridiculous articles on tobacco ash and callous patterns. There is no such house number at 221 on Baker Street. He tries news reports; none of their cases can be found, at least not the version he remembers.

When he is sent back to London, he is just a little bit tempted to go to Scotland Yard and ask for Detective Inspector Lestrade…but given the failure of his research, he suspects he'd come off looking like an absolute nutter.

And maybe he is…But as he wanders the streets of London, he keeps an especially careful eye out for a tall, thin consulting detective with pale skin and pale eyes and a long sweeping coat.

When they finally find each other, it is a quite by chance, on a random street full of people going about their ordinary, simple lives.

Sherlock see's John first, walking with that beautiful, wonderful limp and that silly, stupid cane. He freezes, forgetting to so much as breathe, as the miracle unfolds of John Watson, the only man he's ever dared call "friend," walking into his life for the first time. John glances around, casually taking in his surroundings; the habit of a military man, one Sherlock is achingly familiar with.

They are mere strides apart when John's glance finds him. John stops, stares.

Please, please know me.

"Sherlock," John breathes.

Sherlock closes the distance between them and holds out his hand. "John Watson," he says.

John takes his hand and shakes it, grin wide and eyes wider. And then he is giggling, that high-pitched, breathy laugh.

And Sherlock can't help but laugh with him.

They laugh until they're wheezing and hunched over with their hands on their knees.

"This is the most ridiculous—ridiculous thing that's ever happened to me," John gasps.

"And you invaded Afghanistan," Sherlock quips.

John gapes at him.

Sherlock grins, straightening and regaining his breath. "Chinese?" he invites.

"Starved!" John replies instantly.

The two fall in beside one another, at ease where they belong.

"You're recently back," Sherlock observes.

"Shipped home last month," John confirms. He notices Sherlock eyeing his cane dubiously.
"It's not psychosomatic this time," he informs him, lest he formulate some plot to make John forget it again. "I actually got hit in the shoulder and the leg."

At Sherlock's startled look of alarm, John smiles fondly. "It's getting better. I won't need this forever," he reassures.

They've settled in at the restaurant. John rests his crossed arms on the table, relaxed. "So, do we have a case on, then?" he asks conversationally.

Such a surprised hope springs into Sherlock's eyes, John has to catch his breath.

They pick up their friendship right where they "left off."

A city renovation project has just been completed in the Marylebone district, streets changed and houses renumbered. To their delight, but hardly their surprise, one of the houses is now 221 Baker Street.

The Yarders are astonished by the sudden addition of a partner to the consulting detective's side, confused by the familiarity between the supposed sociopath and the doctor.

John and Sherlock tell them they're old friends from Uni.

They tell Mycroft he's an idiot, and continue to rib him for his disbelief long after he's accepted the reality of the situation.

They solve cases and have wild adventures; different from the ones they'd envisioned, new.

And they're brilliant together, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson—brighter than the stars.