Sherlock Holmes was ill. This alarmed him.
It wasn't that he hadn't been ill before; even the great Consulting Detective got colds and headaches. But they'd never bothered him, never been a massive inconvenience to his Work.
But this, this was different. Every time he stood up, his head span. Where ever he looked, his vision faded in and out of focus. And then there were the voices, the voices he hadn't heard since he was a teenager, cowering for his life whilst his father...
Sherlock shook his head at the memory, not wanting to remember now, not wanting to remember ever.
But here he was, curled up on the sofa, revisiting things he thought he'd long deleted from his mind palace.
He was safe now, he was happy. Bored, yes, but wasn't he always?
Nothing made sense. Strange. Things always made sense to Sherlock Holmes. Unless...
Unless he was going mad. But he, the great Sherlock Holmes, the world's only Consulting Detective, wouldn't simply be going mad. Madness is so human, so ordinary, so
He wouldn't go mad. He wasn't an idiot, he wasn't stupid, he would never believe the voices were real.
But you did once
Sherlock shook his head again. He didn't want to remember that, he couldn't remember that, he musn't remember that. Memories made him sad, and sadness made him weak, and the great Sherlock Holmes was not weak.
He could feel his heart beat rising in panic, his breaths quickening, his brow dampening in sweat.
"NO!" He shouted out loud, glad he had the flat to himself for once.
Why wouldn't it stop?
Why was he going back there?