AN: Really sorry if you are waiting for other stories of mine that I should probably be updating, but... I had this great idea and couldn't ignore it. Anyway. Please enjoy. I own nothing.

1

John was lost in a dream that was quickly turning into a nightmare. His feet slammed against the concrete as he flew from the cab and onto the street. What was that idiot pulling this time?

St. Barts hospital rose in front of him like a massive tombstone and on the very tip, if he squinted, John could see a dark figure balanced far too close to the edge. The man's dark cloak fluttered in the wind and he tossed a cell phone to the ground.

Nononononono! John knew what the man was about to do and although he wasn't quite sure why, his heart fell through his feet. He screamed a name he couldn't hear. The wind shoved and whispered to him even as John ran forward, anguish tugging out his guts. Falling is like flying, just with a more permanent destination.

Suddenly the scene changed and John found himself sitting in an armchair, his laptop sitting in his lap. His fingers flew across the keys.

I've never been happier to see anyone than I was to see Henry Knight. Sherlock had been bored. And trust me, you don't want to be around him when he's bored. He's hyperactive, rude, arrogant and a real pain in the behind.

Who was Sherlock? John thought. What a weird name.

John didn't have time to think about this because the next thing he knew, he was whisked away again. There was a woman standing at the end of a long, thin hallway, and the man stood a bit to the right wearing the same dark cloak. It was night in the hallway. John stood from the wheelchair he sat in, fixing his mussed up hair. The blonde woman caught his eye and absolute anguish flooded her features. He loved her but didn't know why.

John was numb. How could she do this to him? How could she betray him?

Suddenly white flashed through his vision and John found himself at yet another baffling scene.

The recoil from the handgun was mighty, but John was used to it. He was a soldier. He'd pressed the trigger without hesitation and the bullet flew through the window, slamming into the left shoulder of an elderly man. Taxi driver.

There was the dark cloaked man again, in the room with the now dying old man.

Faster and faster images and clips whizzed by John.

There's a head in the fridge… None of the cabs would take me! She says it's psychological, quite correctly, I'm afraid. Beep. Beep. Drops of blood. Give me a second and I'll get my phone out of my pocket!

"Staying alive!" At a pool. Stuffy coat...

Beep. Beep.

"I was a SOLDIER!"

"You were a doctor!"

"I had bad days!"

BEEP. BEEP.

"It's all in your mind, John…"

"Would you like some coffee?" HOUND … Drugged?

"I'm your…. best friend?" Shocked. Blue eyes wide.

"Yes, yeah. Of course you are." That was the truth.

BEEP! BEEP!

Burning eye. Plop. Coffee. Sip. "How was that, then?"

Charles Magnussen. "... Unless you let me flick your eye. Try to keep it open, alright? There you go!"

SHERLOCK!

All at once the voices and images stopped and John was left gasping. Sherlock… now he knew the man's name. He was his best friend, even though John wasn't sure how. A moment ago he was certain he had never seen him before, but now he knew he would never forget the man's face. Never.

John's eyes flew open to be met by a harsh white light. He gasped and the air raced down his sandy throat. His throat felt like crap, to be perfectly honest, and his entire body was numb. He could only barely make out the faces of several strangers surrounding him. Soon their voices met his ears, as if from underwater.

"He's awake!"

"Hello, John."

"You're going to be alright."

"You were in a coma.

"It's been about a month."

"It's a miracle!"

Everything afterward came in disjointed pieces. Blue gloves. White coats. Strained faces. Can't move. Light is so bright. Hospital? Why?

As he closed his eyes again, John remembered. He had been in a battle. War.

Oh yes, he was a soldier. He'd gotten shot.

That's what he got for trying to be a hero. Distantly, his leg ached. Wasn't he shot in the shoulder?

No time to think on that. He survived, apparently. How?

And where was his friend? Sherlock would be here if he was in the hospital...

But before the answer could arise, John melted back into oblivion.

"Let him sleep. Now that he's come out of it, he'll be alright."

It took several weeks of therapy for John to walk on his own, and yet, he still felt he need to use a crutch. His leg would often ache spontaneously, and although his doctors concluded that there was nothing wrong with it, John didn't believe them. It hurt, didn't it? That meant something was wrong.

Of course, that was the least of his problems at the moment. The first time they told him, John thought it was some sort of sick joke.

He'd been asking for Sherlock since he woke up. John figured the selfish idiot was probably holed up a home and hadn't realized he was awake. Finally, a nurse gave John an answer; however, her words were far from satisfactory.

"Mr. Watson, we ran your history."

John frowned, confused. "Okay?"

Sympathy, no, pity filled the nurse's greenish-blue eyes. "This is going to be hard, Mr. Watson, and I am very sorry. Coma patients often suffer from delusions, a lack of mental clarity-"

"Excuse me?"

Now the nurse sighed. "You never lived at 221B. You don't have a blog and as far as we can see, you've never met a Sherlock Holmes."

John's stomach fell right to the floor. "No," he said slowly. His tongue felt thick and sluggish. "No. That's not true. He's my friend. I- I know him."

Carefully the nurse stepped forward and laid a hand on top of Watson's. He didn't have the strength to move it. "When would you have had a chance to meet him, John? You've been in Afghanistan for over two years and before that, you lived hours away from London! Besides staying in a hospital in London for a bit, have you ever even been to London?"

Gulping, John let his head fall backward onto the pillow behind him. Had he? Had he ever been to London? For a moment, John was certain that he had, but when he tried to draw on the particulars of the visits, he drew a blank.

The memories were incomplete like-

"A dream, Mr. Watson. Sherlock Holmes doesn't exist. He never has."

No. That wasn't true. It couldn't be.

John could see the detective's figure in his mind's eye. He had the color of Sherlock's eyes memorized. They were a brilliant blue, sharp and dissecting. His best friend's coat smelled like a laboratory somehow mixed with mint.

Sherlock's voice was sharp in his ears. But I'm so bored, John!

Could he have imagined all that? Was he really that creative, to come up with someone as brilliant and simultaneously idiotic as Sherlock Holmes.

Fear crept up his throat at the thought, but John quickly hid the emotion and ignored the nurse until she finished her duties and left. Only then did he let out the true extent of his panic.

Shivering, John forced himself to sit up, but the effort proved too much and he collapsed back on the bed. Pathetic, that's how he felt right now. Pathetic and useless, unable to prove his best-friend's existence, actually, unable to even sit up in his bloody bed!

And he was alone. Harry didn't bother to visit, although she reluctantly paid the hospital bill and did give him a call. But John didn't want to talk to Harry. He didn't want to talk to anyone. Anyone except his best friend.

Now it seemed that even Sherlock had deserted him.

Not that is was exactly his fault.

Despite his denial, after weeks of physical and mental therapy, John slowly slipped into what felt like reality.

It was pounded into his head every day.

Sherlock Holmes is a figment of your imagination.

Sherlock doesn't exit.

Sherlock was never real and it was about time John accepted it. Besides, there was no such thing as consulting detectives. How could he be so stupid?

"In all probability," his therapist murmured. She sipped a cup of tea. John had been moved to a rehabilitation center in London by this time. "This 'Sherlock Holmes', was your mind's way of coping while you were asleep. You say in your dreams you… fought crime?"

"Solved it. Sherlock was a detective."

"Ah," the therapist nodded slowly like he had just said something very profound. "Your mind could have been giving you a physical image of your fight, or attempts in fighting, against the virus in your system."

Without warning, John chuckled. "Well, that's rubbish! Couldn't I have come up with someone more helpful? He was a pain in the behind like you wouldn't believe."

Gently, the therapist smiled. "I see you are referring to your friend in the past tense. That is progress."

John frowned. Had he? His adventures with Sherlock felt so long ago, buried and blurred by the events of the last few months, while everything else, although muted and boring in comparison, was solid. Actually, most of his 'memories; were so locked away, he only caught glimpses now and then. The therapist's explanation made sense and John was a doctor. He knew delusions and strange dreams were common in coma patients. He also knew he was extremely lucky to have recovered so well.

The therapist was right. They were all right.

Sherlock Holmes wasn't real.

This was real. Here and now. No detectives. No mysteries. No… anything.

He was John Watson and that was it.

AN: Right, so that's the beginning. I hope you like it. Please leave me a review:)