The detective swung the door to the flat shut, excitedly stripping his coat and scarf and stowing them on a hook upon the wood. Happiness radiated from his semblance as he put his hands together in a tight grip, turning his knuckles pale with the pressure. He was alone in the flat and making diminutive humming noises. This was the recurrent aftermath of a particularly intricate and thought-provoking case jam packed with a number of red herrings. It had taken Sherlock mere hours to acquire the information necessary for the criminals' arrest, yet this case proved to be radically draining, mentally and physically. He'd find his mind clouding over, his concentration begin to falter. As an irregularity to his persona, he was finding it harder and harder to dismiss. He avoided telling John as he predicted a surplus amount of fuss, and this led to him being alone in 221B once more. Even as he was filtering through the thoughts he could feel a clouding sensation in the back of his head. He began to become aware of the blood pumping in his ears and the churning of his empty stomach. Thud, thud, thud, in his ears, over and over again. It was getting louder, faster, his heart rate stimulating. He span on the spot, a picayune amount of sweat beading on his temples. He braced the cold glass of the window, staring into the streets, but the streets were no longer visible. Thud, thud, thud. The streets were covered in a white haze, rolling and swirling through the atmosphere, augmenting rapidly. Thud, thud, thud. His heavy breathing was audible now, as he forced a scream from the dry pits of his throat. Thud, thud, thud. Somewhere in the distance the door to his flat opens, Mrs. Hudson walks in, flour on her face, apron on, dough still glued to her fingers. Her voice is an echo, magnified. It bounces around his cranium causing him to tug at his scalp with fistfuls of curls.
"Sherlock? Sherlock!" The words are like knives, slicing painstakingly slow behind his eye sockets. Thud, thud, thud.
"What is going on!" he retches, a small amount of bile rising in his throat. The sound of his own voice is making him nauseous, dizzy.
Thud, thud, thud. The pain is ripping through every inch of flesh in his body, his nerves are tingling and muscles aching. His eyes are streaming and everything's on fire. Thud, thud, thud. And then it came. One last ear-splitting echo.
"You're waking up."
And everything stopped. The thud of his heart resided. The nausea melted from his burning skin and his whole body collapsed in relief. Muscles relaxed, his throat gained moisture once more. The pain in his head ebbed away leaving a dull ache yet when he opened his eyes he didn't see 221B. He didn't see anything at all at first. Not the concerned face of his landlady, or the characteristic furnishings of the flat. Not the bison skull on the wall or the science equipment in the kitchen. He could feel himself blinking, leaving flares of silver and brown painted across his sight.
Battling through evidently valiant attempts to clear the visual hindrance he felt his body become weak, numb, tired. His thought processes lethargic and groggy. Feeling to the tips of fingers and toes began to disappear and all energy was drained. This was a feeling the detective had never experienced; alert and attentive, yet fatigued, empty. Burning up, while violent shivers shake through his form. Suddenly there are shadows, vague black outlines in front of him and then gone again in an instant. Some moving, some stationary, all whispering. Tiny little whispers causing his ears to prick up and listen closer. The sound is monotonous, repetitive, dulled. Gradually, oh so gradually, the volume begins to rise. Rise like the buried panic, rise like the hairs on his arms. The mans limbs feel exposed, uncovered. This whole situation is not making sense, the ends of the shoelaces not forming pristine bows. It felt like a thick layer of fog had settled over his brain, stemming any and all comprehension.
And then he heard it, and it felt like someone was slapping him in the face. It's quiet at first but then it becomes clear; his name. His name is being said, and not only that, it's being said by the one person he is looking for. The one person who can make him feel better, the one person he craves.
John Watson is saying his name.
He can hear the mumbled string of word vomit in between his name being said vaguely, but he is saying his name. Just the right octave, just the right pitch, just the right tone. John Watson needs him.
And he's fighting. Jumping over obstacles that aren't there, running in a race he won't win. His lungs are burning like he's entered a marathon but he keeps on fighting. He's punching holes in the demons that intercept him, the barriers that slow him down.
John Watson needs him.
And all at once everything is happening, he's bursting through the white tunnel at the end and falling down into a pit of confusion and anger. He's sitting up and screaming for John, his John, his John Watson. He can feel the air rushing through his hair and his fingers buzzing. He's screaming from the pit of his dry, scabbed throat yet no noise is coming out, no, noise is coming out. An agonizing wail that doesn't belong to him, it's much higher in pitch and louder in volume. He feels his eyelids peel and instantly he is blinded by white light. Somewhere in the distance he can hear people talking, machines beeping. He is overridden with panic and confusion made worse by a room unfamiliar to him coming into view. He is not in 221B, surrounded by a loving mixture of clutter and cases, but in a hospital. He's in hospital, in a hospital bed, needles in his skin, hooked up to machines. Blinking away the flares and now tears, he sees a man leaning over him, clutching a book and wearing a brown suit and checked shirt. He has ginger hair, a roundish face a pink cheeks. But perhaps the most terrifying thing of all, he is speaking with John's voice.
"Scott? Scott, can you hear me?"
He is overridden with confusion, his whole body burning in anguish and panic. Why does this man speak with a voice which does not belong to him? Scott?
And as he feels doctors and nurses rush and speak is hushed tones, he becomes aware of just how small this bed is. Just how small his legs feel, just how small everything feels.
And everything is too much for him to comprehend, and he can feel himself thrashing about, lashing out at the crazy man with his short, stubby arms he has now acquired. He slightly notices the sound of buttons being pressed in a row, something being turned up. It makes him feel sleepy, drained of all the energy and adrenaline the anger filled him with. He feels his eyelids become heavy and begin to droop, his arms flop by his side, the slicing sensation in his head ease off. He's falling asleep, gradually. Gradually the confusion is easing away, the panic is taking an early retirement and the anger has sat in the back seat.
The last thing he saw before his mind was elapsed in darkness was the writing on the cover of the book the freckled, bespectacled man held.
"A Study in Scarlet - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle."
He woke up what seemed like a few minutes later, but evidently a few hours had passed, causing the daylight which had blinded him to fade, casting dim orange and pink tones across the walls. The surrounding machines created skeletal shadows and as he lay, numb, in the bed sheets the disorientation began to wear off. He struggled to piece his thoughts together, the information seemed too nebulas to find the pattern. Blocking out the distractions in the room he began to work with the scraps. The voice he spoke with was not his, it was almost child-like. The body he rested in was not his, it was small, fat, and unhealthy. The bespectacled man who read from a book so enticing, almost recognizable, familiar, spoke with a voice that did not belong to him. Of course you'd hear about these things, people going out of their minds, convinced they're different people. But suddenly the feeling of fog over the brain came crawling back to him, and he fought to keep consciousness.