John sat in Sherlock's old chair, running his fingers along its arm, feeling the worn fabric and remembering the consulting detective. Sherlock had fallen off Saint Bart's a month and a half ago, and John refused to cope. He would have terrible nightmares of Sherlock's death, but recently, he'd been having other night terrors. He would see flashes of dull coloured domes, blue lights, and hear screeching metallic voices. Most of all, he would feel an unbearable pain pulsing through him, disturbing what little sleep he was able to acquire at night. After these night terrors, John felt a dull pain within him. If Sherlock were still here, these night terrors wouldn't be happening. Not even his visitors could comfort him after his best friend's death and the night terrors, but one person in particular was able to help just a bit. John eventually left Baker Street to live with the one person that provided him with the slightest bit of comfort. This person was his sister, Harry's, ex-girlfriend Clara.
John had always been relatively fond of Clara, and for the next two months after Sherlock's death, she was there for him, and everything ran smoothly. Until the third month after Sherlock's death. Clara was asked to become a part of the ship crew the Alaska, and brought John along as the ship's medical doctor. Not a week later did the ship crash, and the entire crew was killed, leaving John and Clara alone. They used the two rooms that weren't destroyed as their separate living quarters. The two would visit, until other visitors came in the night, banging on both their doors, screeching horribly in a metallic tone. The times between their visits were prolonged, and John's night terrors continued, this time more vivid.
The last time Clara had visited John, she'd installed a simpler version of the communication device in her living quarters. John could communicate with Clara, and the strangers that had appeared one eve. There was a man in a brown suit with a red bowtie and brown hair that was styled in a large, yet subtle wave upon his head. There was also another man and a woman. The second man had light brown hair and blue eyes, and the woman, had long fiery hair and green eyes. The trio of strangers often spoke to Clara, and the conversations would be relayed through his communication device.
"Clara, is there anyone else with you?"
John stumbled over to the communication device, furiously pressing buttons. He finally got the microphone device working.
"Hello. I'm here as well."
"What might your name be?" Inquired the man with the bowtie.
"John Watson." John replied confidently.
"We're almost to where your ship has crashed. We just have one more doorway until-"
The man's voice trailed off, before he continued sadly. "I'm so sorry. I am so, so very sorry."
"What? What is it, Doctor?" Clara's voice came across concerned.
"You're a Dalek. I'm so sorry. You must've dreamt this portion of your life up to try to cope."
John's night terrors flooded his mind, this time, crystal clear. He remembered being taken while he was deployed in Afghanistan, and sent to the Dalek Crucible ship.
"You will obey!" One of them shrieked in its horrible metal voice, when he refused to obey their commands. "Extermina-"
"No." Another replied, its voice deeper and more warbled. "He must be converted while living."
John had then been strapped down and sent through the most unbearable pain imaginable. It took two full days to convert him, through which he barely made alive. He felt detached, or unravelled, similar to a ball of yarn. He drifted in and out of consciousness, yelling mostly in agony when awake. He was sent to the Dalek Asylum as a defect, for he could feel pain and other emotions Daleks weren't supposed to feel. He remembered one time when he drifted into consciousness; he was in London again, in a flat, waking up after a bad dream about Afghanistan. John had believed that the whole Dalek encounter was just a dream, until he had to cope with Sherlock's death. It was sadness that reminded him of the true reality, bringing back the Daleks in night terrors.
This meant that Sherlock Holmes was never real.
Author's Note: Hello! :D Sorry if I just internally wounded you. I thought of this at midnight of the third of January, so I wanted to elaborate a bit on the idea of Sherlock being a figment of John's imagination. Hope you enjoyed having the feels!