Hello, my lovelies! I've had this spinning in my head for the past 12 hours and thought I'd jot it down. I like where it's going, it might end up with multiple chapters/stories in the long run, but for now it's just a one-shot. Crossover with Life on Mars (UK) and Sherlock, both © of the Beebs. Title comes from Bowie's 1978 album, Stage. It's my first crossover fic, tell me what you think!

Sherlock hovered over the typewriter, his fingers hesitating. He had to make this perfect, to make it right, but no matter how many times he wrote this letter it never turned out how he wanted it. Wadded up balls littered the desk and floor around him, testaments of his want to get it right. He pulled the last paper out of the machine and laid it on the desk in front of him.

John,

I don't suppose you will find this, but if you do, know this: I remember.

I remember everything: Baker Street. St Bart's. Lestrade. Mrs Hudson. Molly. Moriarty. You.

I want you to know that I remember, that I never forgot, that I never will forget.

I don't know how I got here; the last thing I remember of that day was jumping from the roof of Bart's. I remember the air whipping around me and the deep wrenching feeling in my gut melt away as gravity dragged me to my fate. I remember reaching out to you as I saw you run towards me. I don't think I would do that again. I know you don't have the real reason why I did what I did, but perhaps if I get back... when I get back, we can talk about it all you want as you always want to drag things out of me.

There is no way for me to say this without sounding completely off my rocker, but from all my observations, everything points to the fact that somehow I have travelled back in time. I am in 1978. There I said it. I'm most likely in a coma somewhere, but everything here seems real. I cut myself shaving last night and I felt the sting of aftershave on my cheek, it felt so real. I know you know by heart my phrase "When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth," well I am here to tell you that time travel is impossible and I still haven't found the truth. I have no idea where or how or why I am here, except that I am. I suppose I have to deal with knowing that I will never figure this out.

I woke up in different clothes on a different street, but it was still St. Bart's. Everything is different here, but the same, if that makes any sense. There's no one I know here and no one knows me, which is odd to feel again after all the publicity in the last month... well last month for you, not me. I don't know if I'm going mad, but what I do know is that I am most definitely lost without my blogger.

It feels like I am in a dream, but I can't seem to wake up. I walk past familiar places but it's all different. I inquired at Baker Street for our flat, but it was taken up by a family of 3. The boy reminded me of you. I wonder if I could find you here, in this place. I wonder if I could find me. If I found us, would it rip a hole in the dimension of time, like all those science fiction shows you bang on about?

I found Lestrade. He's a young DC at the Yard, just beginning his first year in the position, and he is a gullible twat if I ever saw one. It is amazing how people can change over the years but still stay the same... If I get back I should commend him on becoming somewhat of a competent human being, he has come quite far. I'm more or less working in their morgue, the knowledge level of hygiene and protocols are horrendous. Molly would faint right out if she saw what was going on here.

I'm scared, John. What if I never get back? What if I'm stuck in this Neanderthal place forever? If this is a dream, what happens if I die here? Will I wake up in the right time, or will I just go deeper and farther back? Will I just die? Are you a dream and this is my real life? I must admit it is getting hard for me to distinguish between reality and … whatever is not real anymore. The longer I stay here, the more I am convinced that I dreamt you up.

I'm trying my best to stay positive, but it is a very different place than I remember. Childhood puts a rosy tint on everything; either that or becoming an adult makes you jaded. Perhaps a little of both. I got a flat around the corner from our place. It's above a small shop that smells of chips, it's the corner grocer in your time. It's no 221B, but it does the job for now. I'm not planning on staying long, and it's a good thing because the wallpaper makes me queasy.

I hope I do make it back. This place is changing me, and I don't like it. If you find this letter, know that I'm trying to make it back as soon as I can. Know that even if you are a dream, I will never forget.

Sherlock Holmes

January 27, 1978

He stared at the paper in front of him. He supposed if there ever was a letter that could do his situation justice, this would have to do. It had a lot of his soul into it—admitting he was scared, afraid and confused—but it was the truth and that was the only thing he had left to hang onto right now. Sherlock folded it up carefully and placed it into an envelope. Now the only thing to do was to somehow get it to his blogger 34 years in the future.