Ok y'all... since I am semi blocked on the other two stories...

This one is gonna be a bit... different. But the idea has been brewing around in my head for a while now. Just a bit of fun, really. Hope you all enjoy!

As always I own notice. Damn and blast it! :)

Chapter 1

Sherlock scanned the view of the city with trepidation. So many things could go wrong. This may be the last time he will lay eyes on his beloved city.

He hadn't had to conjure fake tears as he had spoken to John. They were all too real. But Sherlock had no choice. John would be left broken, but at least not dead. Small comforts. He didn't dare take one more look down into the terrified face of his best friend. Couldn't afford to second guess himself. He was going to have to fall, and concentrate on HOW to fall. He couldn't allow distraction.

"SHERLOCK!"

Sherlock took a deep breath and extended his arms, eyes on the sidewalk, angling himself to the fall as the sidewalk seemed to rise up to meet him. There was really only two basic ways this could end. Either he would breath his last, or not.

His whole body tensed out of instinct as his mind prepared for the unavoidable pain of impact.

It didn't come.

Just as he turned to land on his side, and saw him pass the roof of the ambulance port, the whole of his vision became a blinding white.

In the next moment, he found himself laying still on a hard surface. He blinked against the light that seemed to seep out of every corner. He sat up quickly, his mind automatically trying to deduce just what was happening.

He was clearly unconscious. Perhaps concussed and the white like was how his body translated the pain. Spinning his head around he took in the feel of this place. Suddenly he smiled to himself arrogantly. His mind palace! His mind retreated here while his body was wracked with pain. Yes, that must be it. Soon, he would hear Molly's voice telling him to wake. Mycroft would collect him any moment and...

But why was everything so unfamiliar? The room itself was stark white, no furniture and a solitary door on one wall. It stood out quickly as the only color he could see. He got up hesitantly and walked to the door. It was covered in what looked like a couple of years worth of dust. Something seemed to be written under the dust. Sherlock lifted long fingers to wipe at the words, hoping to have some clue. When he did, his brows furrowed in confusion and his heart thrummed loudly in his chest.

221B

He slowly turned the knob on the door, expecting to see the glass plated door just beyond. He did not. The door opened into the living room of his Baker Street flat. He looked about the flat, his confusion growing. This is wrong. Its all wrong. His flat in his mind palace was considerably more tidy than the one in reality. But this one looks exactly as he'd left it. Papers tossed here and there, books and/or experiments stacked on almost every flat or semi flat surface.

There was also one very noticeable difference. He was not alone, and the other occupant was not John.

In HIS chair beside the fireplace was a man. Face buried in a paper, legs crossed and foot doing a small seemingly subconscious jig. Sherlock didn't speak, choosing instead to deduce what he could before making his presence known.

First of all, the man was dressed in a pair of jeans that had seen better days. Worn for comfort not for style. An equally well worn t-shirt was topped by a dark cardigan sweater. Sherlock's gaze swept down and his eyes widened as he saw simple tennis shoes encasing the most god awful pair of striped socks that didn't really match any of the rest of the ensemble. His fashionable senses made him give an involuntary hiss, drawing the man's attention.

The paper lowered so Sherlock could see his face. Snug little jaunty gray cap covering neatly trimmed reddish hair. His face...

Sherlock took a step backwards in surprise as he stared into his own eyes.

"Who are you? " He demanded.

The man gave him a warm grin and tipped his head.

"Welcome home, Sherlock Holmes. Make yourself comfortable. You'll be here for a while. "

The man rose up and laid the paper carefully on Sherlock's desk, heading to the door.

"I asked who you were. " Sherlock said impatiently.

"I'm you. Sort of. Now, stay here and relax. Don't leave this room until I come back for you. "

"Wha... "

Before he could ask another question, the man gave him a wink and disappeared through the door. Sherlock followed, throwing the door open. Instead of seeing the previous room now, though...

This was more like it! He saw a long familiar corridor. Doors lining either side of it. His mind palace... good.

Don't leave this room indeed. Like Sherlock Holmes took orders from anyone! He took a rebellious step forward, then another. Finally he reached a door he knew would contain information on Moriarty. He might as well try to get some work done. Once he woke up and healed, he would have to go after his network. Not a moment to waste!

He turned the gold knob on the door and opened it.