|Of Unsound Mind
Author: chasingafterstarlight PM
Sherlock cannot be a figment of my imagination. He is too real, too vivid, too exquisite to have been a byproduct of such a mundane mind. Yet I still cannot seem to cross out the possibility. Am I going insane? Quite possibly. -John-centric, insanity.Rated: Fiction T - English - Angst/Horror - John W. & Sherlock H. - Words: 5,558 - Reviews: 14 - Favs: 18 - Follows: 8 - Published: 03-07-12 - Status: Complete - id: 7905275
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Of Unsound Mind
On Saturday, I hear a knock on the door.
I hobble down the stairs to the door and open it, raising an eyebrow as my eyes fall upon the ever 'prestigious' Mycroft Holmes. He hadn't previously mentioned that he was planning on visiting – not that he ever had before, but he hadn't visited since Sherlock's, well, death. So I must say that I'm a bit surprised. "Mycroft? What are you doing here?"
"How did you – never mind." Mycroft walks in, his shoes echoing against the cold tile floor of my new flat. "Hello, Dr. Watson, I presume. As you already know, I'm Mycroft Holmes."
"Yes, Mycroft, I know." I stare at Mycroft, confused. What is he playing at? "Why are you introducing yourself to me?"
"Ah." Mycroft's hand tightens around the tip of his umbrella, further confusing me. "The doctors – they warned me that you might be like this."
"Might be like what?" I question. "Of course we've met before. Your brother and I solved crimes together, Mycroft." I try to ignore that my voice breaks with even the mention of Sherlock. "I mean, he's dead now and all that, but that doesn't change the fact that he was alive at one point – "
"You see, Dr. Watson," Mycroft interrupts, "we've never met before."
This, I decide, is one of the most ludicrous things I've ever heard. "Of course we have!" I laugh. "You picked me up in your big fancy car with your personal assistant – Anthea, wasn't that her name? She was a bit odd, that one."
"My personal assistant's name is Katherine, and she's a perfectly normal, lovely girl," Mycroft replies at last, his lips set into a thin line. I wonder if I have offended him somehow. I can't have, right? This is all some kind of cruel, sick joke.
"Mycroft," I say at last, my tone imploring, as if he is a five year old that is trying to pull a prank on his long-suffering older brother. "Honestly."
"I am being honest, Dr. Watson, and to continue this imminent streak of honesty, I would much prefer it if you called me Mr. Holmes." He glances at me sharply. "When they said you were crazy, I had no idea it would be this bad. It's as if you've deluded yourself into believing that you actually knew me."
"Mr. Holmes – " My heart aches at the name, but I ignore it. "Mr. Holmes, I did know you. Your brother Sherlock and I solved cases together all the time."
"Ah, but the thing is, Dr. Watson, I haven't got a brother." Mycroft knits his eyebrows together in deep thought. "Not one that I know of, anyway."
I stare at him for a moment, disbelieving. "Yes, of course. He... he, erm, jumped off a building. But he is still your brother. Just... not alive."
"No, I mean, I never had a brother." Mycroft shrugs, looking a bit embarrassed. "This Sherlock Holmes character, whoever he is, is purely a figment of your admittedly overactive imagination, Dr. Watson. Sherlock Holmes does not exist. I am an only child."
I stand still, frozen stiff by my shock. This cannot be happening. Mycroft Holmes, of all people, waltzes into my brand-new flat and tells me that number one, he doesn't know me, and number two, Sherlock never existed.
No, Sherlock cannot just be a figment of my imagination. He is too real, too vivid, too exquisite to have been a byproduct of such a mundane mind. Yet I still cannot seem to cross out the possibility.
Am I going insane? Quite possibly.
"W.. what's going on?" I stutter at last, entirely confused. "I demand you tell me what's going on, My – Mr. Holmes, before I find out for myself."
"Dr. Watson, you're being instated into a medical hospital for your hallucinations." Mycroft flashes me a smile. "Come with me."
Ella stares at me sympathetically. "I guess you've heard that you're going to have to stay here from now on."
"Yes, I have, but I don't understand," I growl. "I told you about Sherlock, did I not?"
Ella nods. "Yet I never once saw him. I just heard your fantastical stories about this man – this dark hero, this fallen angel, this saviour. Really, the terms you used to describe him were almost poetic. It's as if he was your own character..." She trails off, trying to appear deep in thought, but I can tell that she's faking it.
With a scowl, I shake my head. "I didn't make up Sherlock. I swear. We met through a mutual friend, and he set us up as flatmates. Sure, the man was a genius and a sociopath – though, if you ask me, not the second one – but that doesn't mean he's some 'vivid hallucination of a desire from my past.'"
For a moment, she doesn't respond. Then she picks up my list off the table and begins to read from it. "Dr. John H. Watson. Thirty-seven. War doctor, injured in battle and sent off for rehabilitation of injury. Limp – likely psychosomatic." She puts down the list and raises an eyebrow at me. "Dr. Watson, do you ever miss the war? Well, not the war, per se, but the environment of excitement and the thrill of danger."
"Yes," I respond immediately. "Though I don't see how that's relevant."
"Of course it's relevant," she mutters, and for a moment she sounds so much like Sherlock (who is apparently non-existent now) that it actually pains me. I bite my lip as she continues. "You made up this Sherlock Holmes fellow because you were looking for a partner in crime. Someone to get you into dangerous situations."
"I did not," I protest vehemently. Despite my thirst for danger, I would never go so far as to make up a character and pretend he was real just so I could be entertained.
"John, where is he then?" Ella questions, her eyes wide with false concern.
I snap back, temper as high as it has always been. "He is dead. I told you that already!"
"I'd like to see his grave, then," Ella says quietly, folding her hands in her lap. The last thing I want to do is take my therapist to see the grave of my dead best friend, much less the grave of my dead best friend that she believes never existed. But I know that this whole stupid matter cannot be resolved until we see the grave.
The grave isn't there.
A small smile makes its way onto Ella's face, and she scribbles something down on her notepad. Ignoring her, I fall to my knees, my hands beginning to dig through the cold, wet ground. It's impossible, I note, and yet it is happening. The impossible is coming into fruition.
I am crazy. I am insane. I am completely and utterly mad. My only comfort is that he is as well (he was as well, I suppose). I wince at the past tense.
Then I remember that he does not exist.
"It's not here," Ella says at last, her eyes boring into the back of my head. "You see, John, Sherlock Holmes was but a figment of your imagination. Admittedly a very creative one, but still, he never existed."
My face falls into my dirt-covered hands. A wave of emotions sweeps over me – grief, confusion, sadness. I force myself back up, but then something occurs to me. "What about Moriarty?"
Ella's brow creases. "Who?"
"Jim Moriarty!" I repeat impatiently. Of course! Only he could have pulled off all of this, made everyone forget about Sherlock, made me seem as if I was insane. It had to be him. My eyes darken. "He's a villain, the main villain, the guy who made Sherlock seems like he was a fraud."
"I haven't a clue what you're talking about, John," Ella admits, shaking her head. "I think this might be another thing you've imagined."
"I haven't imagined anything!" I say desperately, but I can see from the twinkle in her eyes that she does not believe me.
"Fine," I say at last, with all the strength and determination of a soldier. I stand up straight and look her in the eye. As calmly as possible, I tell her, "I am not insane," and then I walk off, because I haven't got anything else to say to her.
They keep me in the mental hospital. My nights consist of tossing and turning, my head filled with nightmares of the war and my times with Sherlock. I try as hard as I possibly can not to remember, but of course, my efforts are in vain. They always are.
After a few days, I demand to be allowed to go down to the police station. "They'll help me," I say casually. I've learned the art of skillful lying from Sherlock.
"Fine," Ella relents, but she demands that some frizzy-haired guy with wide spectacles named Carl accompany me, as if I'm some serial killer that could go insane at any given moment.
I resent that assumption, but I don't put up a fuss (besides rolling my eyes, much like Sherlock used to do). Carl seems awfully excited to come along, though; I decide that they probably don't let him out much.
Once we get to the police station, I inquire after 'Gregory Lestrade', and they nod immediately, knowing exactly who I'm talking about. I breathe out audibly in relief; at least Lestrade is not a 'figment of my imagination'.
"And who might you be?" Lestrade asks politely as soon as he sees me, and I huff in indignation. Of course he knows me!
"Don't act like you don't know," I retort. "I'm Dr. Watson, Dr. John Watson. And you're Gregory Lestrade."
"Call me Greg," Lestrade replies, exchanging a what-is-going-on-here look with Carl. "Pleasure to meet you, Dr. Watson. What might I do for you?"
I sigh. "Do you know anything about a Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"
"Can't say I do." Lestrade's brow creases in thought. "Friend of yours, I'm assuming?"
"You might say that," I respond casually. He doesn't know me because he doesn't know Sherlock. If, like they said, Sherlock doesn't exist, then I never helped him with cases, and therefore I'd never met Lestrade. He doesn't know me. He doesn't know me.
I feel as though I am about to throw up.
Carl smiles awkwardly beside me. "Are you okay, Dr. Watson? You don't look so hot."
"I know a Mycroft Holmes," Lestrade continues apologetically, "much to my dismay. Though I do think I've heard someone mention a Sherlock Holmes in passing? A professor, perhaps. I'm sorry I can't do more for you."
"No, it's... it's okay," I stutter, taking a step back. Lestrade doesn't know me. Mycroft doesn't know me. Everyone I know because of Sherlock does not seem to know me.
Sherlock never existed.
"Do – you know Anderson and Donovan, right?" I give a small, sheepish smile, putting my hands in my pockets.
"Course I do." Lestrade grins. "There's Donovan now."
"Sir, there's been a fire," Donovan pants out. She lifts an eyebrow upon seeing me but then turns back to Lestrade. "221B Baker Street, apparently."
Lestrade waves his doughnut. "Not my division."
"It's mine," I jump in, my tone low and rough. "My division, I mean. I used to live there... well, sort of."
"It's been blown up," Donovan explains, disregarding me completely. "Some sort of bomb. No one can make heads or tails of it."
I can nearly hear Sherlock in my head, saying "Of course you can't; you're all idiots. Practically everyone is." Disregarding the voice of my (imaginary, I remind myself) friend, I look to Lestrade as he speaks. "This bloke claims to know a thing or two about it."
"Mind if I tag along?" I ask in a small voice, looking to Carl, who gives me the nod of approval.
"Sure..." Donovan trails off, obviously trying to figure out what to call me.
I give a small, thin smile. Donovan does not know me either. None of the people that I have grown so used to know me. "John. Dr. John Watson."
"Come along then, Dr. Watson." Donovan smiles back. Without Sherlock around, Donovan has no reason to hate me. Everything has changed without Sherlock around.
I follow her out the door, Carl at my heels. We are ushered into a police car, and I am oddly reminded of that last run-in with the police with Sherlock, where we were handcuffed together. I bite my lip and wonder why I can't just forget.
Once they get to 221B Baker Street, I am hit with a horrible feeling – sadness, I suppose, mixed with longing. I miss Sherlock, whether or not that arrogant idiot ever existed. For a moment, I just stand and stare at the flat that we used to share, which is now coated with a heavy layer of soot and ash. Then I take a step forward.
"Coming, Dr. Watson?" Donovan raises an eyebrow at me in an inquisitive manner.
"Yes, of course." I blink. It is funny how vulnerable my mind is – susceptible to whatever delusion I wish to dream up, including one of some arrogant consulting detective, the 'only one in the world'. But I'm not normally so vulnerable. I've definitely separated delusion from reality before. What is different this time?
I am not sure what I imagined that I'd find when I walked up those stairs, but what I do find surprises me. The skull is not precariously perched on the mantle, nor are body parts haphazardly strewn around the apartment. It looks like an ordinary apartment, albeit a burnt one.
Inhaling deeply, I step forward.
If Sherlock were here, he would be able to make a deduction about what sort of bomb it was based on the debris and the type of ash, but I, on the other hand, have no clue. I do, however, have a clue of who might be behind it.
"Moriarty," I mutter to myself. I drop to my knees, running my strong fingers over the piles of soot, hoping to find something, though I'm not sure what exactly I hope to find. Soon enough my fingers touch something cold and metal.
I pick up a metal watch, dark with soot. On the face, someone has scribbled four words.
Time is running out.
I end up dropping the watch like it is burning as well, but then, of course, I pick it back up, examining its backside. Someone has scrawled the letter M on the back. I gasp, though I am not entirely surprised.
Quickly, I limp back over to the group of detectives. "I found this," I mumble, handing it over to them and motioning to the M on the back.
"M," Anderson muses, his voice as irritating as ever. "Do we know anyone with the initial M?"
"Moriarty!" I inform them loudly, growing tired of their constant ignoring me. I am not insane. "Jim Moriarty!"
All of them exchange this-guy-is-mad glances and slowly edge way from me, probably sensing that I am on the edge of hysteria. Of course, given my current circumstances, that is to be expected. They all sincerely believe that I have dreamed up a character, someone who never existed, and with him I invented a madman, a villain, because of course every story needs a villain. I firmly believe that they are wrong. I am not insane. I chant this over and over inside of my head.
I believe in Sherlock Holmes. I am the only one.
They have all returned to their discussion, bringing up past criminal masterminds who have the initial 'M'. I no longer speak of Moriarty. Instead, I sit down, place my head in my hands, and allow myself to remember.
In my mind, I see dead bodies and moonlight chases and cups of tea. I see taxi rides and turned-up collars and nights at home in the flat with the telly on. I hear the screeches of a violin, the deep, low voice that I had grown so accustomed to, a gun going off and someone crying "Bored!" I see all that is and was and could have been, and it hurts.
I don't cry. Years and years of military training have gotten me past that. I just stand and stare, an empty shell, a confused, hurting mental patient who has just realised that his (possibly false) memories have been transfused into his being, and are now a part of him, so deep I couldn't get rid of them if I tried.
When I open my eyes, they're all staring at me. I take a look at the flat – burnt, barren, empty – and I blink.
Then I run.
Mycroft visits me the next day. With dark eyes, he says, "They say you're getting worse."
I don't respond. I stare at the ground, my head in my callused hands, my mind a million miles away.
"Your little friend Carl – who seems to have quite the crush on your therapist, by the way – tells me that you demanded to go to a crime scene, yet when you arrived, you blabbered on about some Jim Moriarty bloke, had a moment where you didn't seem to even be in the vicinity, then ran away. They tell me that you are insane." He stops, as if he is trying to gauge my reaction.
Finally, I stare up at him, my eyes as blank as my mind. "I'm not insane."
"I do not believe you are," Mycroft says at last. "I found Sherlock Holmes."
My jaw literally drops. I jump up, more energized than I've been in ages. My limp is momentarily forgotten. "You're kidding! Where is he?"
Mycroft avoids my eyes, which is the first clue that something is wrong. Clearing his throat, he tells me simply, "He is dead, Dr. Watson. Has been for a year or so. Explosion in the laboratory or something. He was a professor at a nearby university. They say that he taught nearly every science there was. People claim he was the smartest bloke they ever knew. You weren't too far off, really. I'm sure you heard people talking about him, and well, you invented the rest for yourself."
"When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever is left, no matter how improbable, must be the truth." I can hear him in my head, saying the phrase that he repeated all too often, as if he could somehow drill it into my head. What is the impossible? Is it possible that this Sherlock, a dead professor, and my Sherlock could somehow be the same? No. Impossible.
That leaves the improbable – that I am delusional or that everyone else is delusional. If only I could figure out which is the truth.
I am sure that Sherlock could.
"I haven't invented anything," I protest weakly. "Have you – did you check out his relations? His family and all that?"
"Yes." Mycroft's face hardens. "This is the part that makes me question everything I have said thus ar, Dr. Watson. It appears that this 'Sherlock Holmes' is my estranged brother."
This interests me. Shooting up, I ask, "Is he?"
"Yes, my biological brother and all. I never knew him. I can't imagine why." Mycroft scrunches up his brow in concentration, then turns to me. "Dr. Watson, do you ever feel like there's something missing? Like there's a whole part of your life that you can't bring yourself to remember?"
"Yes," I answer honestly. If I hadn't been solving crimes with Sherlock, well, what had I been doing? I really, truly, honestly cannot remember a second of it, and that sort of stings.
"Funny." Mycroft sits in silence, so I do as well.
The next day, Mycroft and I go off to see the grave. It obviously does not look like the one I'd gone to visit with Mrs. Hudson just days ago (was it only days ago?). Instead, it's made out of grey rock. Inscribed on it are the words Sherlock Holmes: Clever Professor. There are no dates. I doubt he would have wanted there to be dates, anyway.
I drop to my knees, my fingers tracing the words. Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. Whether I knew him or not, he is dead, very dead, buried underneath the ground. And though I knew this already, it still hurts like a knife driving into my chest, slicing through my veins and arteries.
Mycroft clears his throat. "Is everything all right, Dr. Watson?"
"Yeah," I make myself say at last. "Yes. Have you – have you ever heard of a man named Jim Moriarty? Or, come to think of it, James Moriarty?"
"No," Mycroft says at last, looking deep in thought. "Not a name I'm familiar with. Why?"
I rack my brain, trying to think of the alias he'd been using the last time that Sherlock and I saw him. Richard – Richard what? "Richard Brook!" I blurt out at last. "Have you ever heard of a Richard Brook, Mycroft?"
"Have I?" Mycroft taps his chin. "I believe I have, actually. He works with me. Fairly nice man, though he does often show his expensive pants. Why?"
"Why?" I explode. "He could only be one of the most dangerous criminals to ever hit London, and you're asking me why?"
"Yes," Mycroft says simply. "You're telling me that Richard Brook, a fairly normal, albeit a bit socially awkward, man is a psychopath villain?"
"Yes," I reply simply with a sardonic grin. "Isn't it amazing?"
Once again, Mycroft gives me that look that is beginning to become all too familiar now – that look that implies I am insane, that my brain cells are slowly wasting away into nothingness, just like the rest of me. I grin again, tightening my grip on my cane, and push myself back to my feet. "Do you know where Richard Brook is?" I feel as though Sherlock has rubbed off on me; my tone is far too threatening.
"Yes, he would probably be at the office at this time of day," Mycroft responds hesitantly. "Don't know why you'd want to see him, though, unless..."
He stares at me in shock.
I drop my cane and run.
Once I get back to my flat, I rummage through my drawers until I come upon my gun at last. I turn it over in my hands a few times, making sure I am accustomed to its weight and feel, and then I head out the door. My breath is coming faster and faster by the moment. I smile, because at least I'm getting myself back into shape. (I think that maybe I am a bit too old for this. Just a bit.)
I catch a cab and demand that they take me to Mycroft's place of work. Once they see the gun in my hand, they comply immediately. Perhaps it is a pity that I was not employed by Moriarty. I would've made an amazing villain.
The cab stops and I pause to pay the guy a pound or two before jumping out. Of course, it's surely not enough, yet I can't bring myself to go without paying the poor guy something. He has kids, I am sure, adorable ones, and maybe a wife as well. I give him a watery smile as he drives off, then I breathe in quickly, reminding myself to be strong. I am a soldier, not a counselor. I am not paid to pity people. (Of course, I am no longer a soldier; I am a mental patient now. But I try not to remember that.)
Bursting inside, I clutch my gun against my leg and dash up the stairs, as quickly as possible. I do not actually know where Moriarty works, but this is of little importance... right? Biting my lip, I burst into the first office.
What I see there, I wish I could unsee.
Retreating, I shut the door behind my. My face is burning. I grumble to myself about how I am on a mission, and it is unseemly to blush on a mission, but my face doesn't seem to get the message. I burst into the next room to find an old man, smoking a pipe and listening to classical music. Frowning, I groan.
The next room displays nothing either, and neither does the next. I am near the point of giving up when I find him at last.
He is perched at his desk, nibbling on a chocolate bar, looking all innocent. It kind of makes me feel guilty, but then I force myself to rethink. Moriarty. He is evil, John. He killed Sherlock.
I suddenly feel sick.
"Moriarty," I bellow, glaring at him out of glazed eyes. "What have you done?"
He looks fearful, but the fear turns quickly to confusion. "I'm sorry, but I don't know what you're talking about." It honestly does surprise me that he is such a good actor. "My name is Richard Brook. It's nice to meet you." He offers me a small, quick smile, as if that will do any good.
My hand tightens around the gun. "Don't play games with me," I demand. "Who are you?"
"Richard!" He looks really scared now, and with good reason.
I hold up the gun. "Either talk or die."
"I told you, sir; my name is Richard Brook. I... I haven't got anything else to say. I don't know who this Moriarty person is, honest."
"Don't you?" I snarl. "Do you know who Sherlock Holmes is?"
I am a psychopath. At this point, that much is a proven fact. I have gone crazy; I have hallucinated up a man so amazing, so brilliant that he could not possibly exist, yet I firmly believe it does. And despite the fact that he 'does not exist', I will defend him to the point that I am pointing a gun at a man. I feel this pretty much proves that I am a psychopath. It is fairly ironic that, in the universe I used to live in, people thought that he was a psychopath.
Then something happens, something that makes me believe in my sanity, if just a little bit. Something flashes in his eyes – recognition, familiarity, just something that makes me think that he knows a heck of a lot more than he is letting on. My eyes widen, but he doesn't say anything.
"No," he lies at last. "I don't know what you're talking about, I swear."
The mental hospital people come then. They take my gun and my last pinch of hope with them. Metal handcuffs are strapped onto my wrists, and someone tells me that I have the right to remain silent.
I wish that Sherlock would randomly show up. He would knock out the guards, and we'd run away like the fools that we are. From what I can tell, there are only two problems with their 'you dreamed up Sherlock Holmes' theory. First, if I dreamed him up, why can't I simply dream him back into my life? Second, if he was simply a delusion, what was I doing while I was running around with him? Sleeping? I doubt that someone can sleep for months on end, unless I was in a coma, which Harry claims I wasn't. It doesn't make sense.
None of this makes sense.
The only real explanation, though, is that I am an insane psychopath, so I stick to that as the mental hospital people drive me away. I start to doubt it, though, when I see the look on Moriarty's face as they drive away. It can only be described as an evil smile.
He knows something. I don't know anything. I don't think this situation is fair at all.
The mental hospital is not as fun as it sounds. It is dark and scary and boring, mostly boring, though. I wish I still had my gun so I could try out shooting the wall. Sherlock always made it seem like so much fun. Instead, I lay down on my hard bed and count the sheep on the ceiling. One, two, three. So mundane, yet oddly comforting. I'd always tried so hard for that sense of normality in my life.
Four, five, six.
Harry comes to visit me sometimes. She brings flowers, though I don't really fancy the smell of them. The flowers smell like the cologne of an old person. Mycroft comes to visit fairly often as well, but he doesn't have much to say, normally. That is, until one day, when he shows up with a look that I can only describe as 'insanity'.
"The doctors are saying Sherlock's alive," Mycroft says. His eyes look glazed over, as if he has been affected by some drug or something. "I never knew him, did I? Why am I happy?"
"Mycroft, I..." I trail off. It seems like a bad thing to do, telling Mycroft that Sherlock cannot possibly be alive, that even in my false reality I saw him die. Instead, I just shake my head.
"You have to come quick," he begs, his voice rough. "I don't know what I'm going to do, Dr. Watson, and I know that you want to see him again... even if it's not him..."
I agree at last, not knowing what else to do. Frowning, I turn back to the wall as Mycroft leaves quickly. It becomes evident to me then that I have to break out of my prison. I bite my lip and turn to the wall.
What would Sherlock do?
The window. It's not too far up, and if I stand on the top of my bed there is a chance that, despite my tiny body, I might be able to reach it. Quickly, I force myself on it, then stretch out and out and out –
And then I'm clinging to the window, pushing the pane of glass upward. I wriggle my body through it, wishing that I hadn't eaten that extra piece of cake that day. Honestly, I hadn't realised that I was getting so fat and old.
Once I get out the window, I drop to the ground on the other side and, despite my fears, I start laughing maniacally. I feel like an escapee in one of those horrible jail movies. Glancing around, I begin to run, and I run and I run and I don't stop until I realise that I have no idea whatsoever where I'm going and I'd left my cane back at the hospital.
Taking out my phone, I decide to fire off a quick text to the number that was previously Sherlock's. It scares me a little bit that I have the number memorized, since it probably shouldn't exist, but I do anyway. Fingers shaking, I type: Sherlock. I miss you. I broke out of a mental hospital for you today. I think I'm going insane, but I still believe in you. I think I'm the only one. -J
I figure that, if by some chance he does exist, he'll know my number, and if he doesn't, then this will be fairly funny for whoever gets the text. With a cold, hard laugh, I remember that I am a psychopath, and this just further proves my insanity. John Watson, Insane Psychopath. Who would've thought? I could really give Moriarty a run for his money.
Quickly, I begin to walk again, telling myself that I'll never get anywhere at this pace, and really, Mycroft needs me for some reason. Once the sun starts to set, though, my phone buzzes.
I take it out.
1 New Message.
I press read, and hope squeezes my heart in a rather unpleasant way.
I'm not dead. 221B Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. If inconvenient, come anyway.
I drop my phone.
A/N: First venture into Sherlock fic. I saw on tumblr where someone was like 'what if Sherlock was a figment of John's imagination?' and it turned into this. Of course, I may have a sequel explaining it all (only if you guys are interested, of course). This is for my friends that embrace my Sherlock fangirling – Bluey, Summer, Siddy, Potato, Heather, Leesh (among many, actually ;)). So yeah. Please read and review and don't favorite without reviewing.