Burning. Everything burning. Confusion and chaos. Sherlock saw the silhouette of John Watson on the ledge of a rooftop. An ominous shadow backed by flames and smoke. He called out to him, but was choked by the hot smoke and ash. Sherlock watched in horror as another dark figure approached John from behind. John turned just as the figure shoved him. Sherlock cried out, but then blinked in relief when John grabbed the figures coat and balanced himself again. The whole street was on fire. Sherlock pushed forward through the hot debris, attempting to reach the building across the street that John was precariously perched upon.
All of the sudden, there was an explosion to his right, a dumpster had been blown to smithereens. The metal and garbage turned into shrapnel, and searing pain tore its way through Sherlock's body as a piece of metal lodged itself in his leg. Sherlock's vision blurred, and he stumbled, yet he still inched towards the building in desperate attempts to reach John. He saw a struggle on the rooftop, John and the shadow fought for the upper hand. Sherlock needed to reach him, he needed to help; but he couldn't lift his legs, and the pain in his leg was almost unbearable. He pushed forward, but tripped over a piece of the burning debris that littered the street. Another dumpster to his left exploded, this one closer than the previous one. He was blasted to the ground, the silent world tipping on its side as Sherlock's vision spun. With his body pressed against the ground, he felt the vibrations of the tremoring world, although he heard nothing except for the ringing in his ears. He willed himself to get up again and reach John, but his body felt like lead, and the smoke was enveloping him in a cloud of darkness. Sherlock used the last bit of strength he had to turn his throbbing head towards the roof. The smoke and his fatigue clouded his vision, but he clearly saw a figure push the other from the roof of the building. Sherlock didn't trust his eyes enough to determine whether it had been John who pushed or gotten pushed, but before the figure hit the ground, Sherlock's heavy eyes closed, and the darkness pulled him into unconsciousness.
What was that noise? It was a shrill consistent beeping. It must be the fire alarm. John had probably tried to cook breakfast again. He needed to invest some time in a cooking class, maybe some cookbooks too. John thought he was being impromptu and clever when he did his 'freestyle' cooking, but it usually just resulted in inedible lumps of char. Sherlock didn't mind though, he liked it when John cooked, he thought it was endearing. When John burned the food, they would take a walk around London to search for new breakfast cafes. The beeping continued, and Sherlock frowned. Why hadn't John turned off the fire alarm yet? He didn't want emergency responders to actually show up, because then he would have to explain to Lestrade that they had both been too lazy to go turn off the alarm. Sherlock decided he would let John deal with it and he snuggled back into the blankets to get some more sleep.
Sherlock's quilt felt unusually thin and he shivered. He wished John would come in and lay down to help warm him up. He wanted John to come lay down with him and wrap his strong arms around him, to feel Johns warm breath on the back of his neck, he wanted to lean into the sleepy morning kisses that John would plant along his shoulder. John made everything better. John.. Sherlock thought dreamily. Oh no, John! Sherlock snapped up, it was like the wall in his mind had broken, all the memories and chaos flooding his senses and overwhelming him. Sherlock swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry as he remembered watching a figure fall from the top of the roof. He looked around at the unfamiliar setting. White sheets, a papery thin robe, a disinfectant scent, and an irritating beeping of a heart monitor. Ah, so not the fire alarm Sherlock thought to himself. In his nose was a plastic breathing tube and Sherlock sat up and ripped it out in disgust. A wave of dizziness washed over him from the sudden movement. He considered ripping out the IV from his hand, but decide against it after feeling the dizziness.
In the corner of the room by the door, a figure sat slumped over and sleeping. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "Mycroft?!" Sherlock croaked. His tongue felt like sandpaper and his throat stung from inhaling all the smoke. The man in the corner stirred, then yawned and stretched. Mycroft looked awful. He was dressed in one of his expensive sharp suits, but it was disheveled and grubby. Under the dirty pinstriped suit jacket, he wore stained shapeless white button up shirt. He looked as though he had aged five years and his hair was matted, and prickly stubble covered his jaw, his eyes were red and swollen with sleep. "What are you doing here?!" Sherlock growled as best he could, but it came out scratchy and rough.
"I'm here because I needed to see that you were alive and going to make it through the night, brother mine." Mycroft sneered back at him.
"Where's John?" Sherlock demanded, his voice a little stronger this time.
Mycroft looked at Sherlock for a moment in confusion, but then vanished as soon as it had come. "The doctors want to keep you here another couple days, to make sure your lungs recover from the smoke damage," Mycroft said, avoiding the subject, "but I told them there isn't a chance that they would be able to keep you here longer than you wanted to stay."
"That's not what I asked Mycroft. Where is John?" Sherlock snarled.
Mycroft gave Sherlock a sad gaze and continued to speak. "You have severe third degree burns on your hands and forearms, we need to make sure those don't get infected. You have a major concussion a and deep puncture wound in your calf. In addition to the new wounds, your untreated wounds from the last two and a half years include major scarring from deep lacerations accumulated over time, bent finger caused by an unset broken finger, multiple-"
"What are you on about?" Sherlock interrupted.
"The doctors assessed your wounds from the years you've been gone. They compiled a list of injuries and conditions and their suggested recovery options." Mycroft said softly, giving Sherlock a look of pity. Mycroft reached for the medical clipboard at the end of his bed and began scrawling with the attached pen.
"What are you talking about? I haven't been anywhere." Sherlock responded sharply. "Now tell me: Where is John?" He shot his brother a suspicious glare, his eyes scanning him up and down, cataloging and observing. His eyebrows knitted together in confusion when his gaze fell upon Mycroft's cell phone. Then, his eyebrows rose in realization, and his face fell. His eyes frantically searched the room again and when they fell on the TV, he was filled with dread. Sherlock quickly jammed the call button several times.
"Sherlock... John is-" Mycroft started as a male and female nurse burst into the room.
"Is everything okay?" The man breathed anxiously. He shot an accusing glare at Mycroft, "Is this man bothering you sir?" He asked, concern shone in his green eyes.
"Yes in fact he is. Will you please have him removed?" Sherlock said distractedly. The female nurse started herding Mycroft out when Sherlock spoke again. "Brandon?" The nurse looked up in surprise despite the fact that he was wearing a name tag. "What's the date?"
The nurse glanced down at his watch, "Twenty third of April."
Sherlock felt his blood run cold. The heart monitor skipped a beat then sped up ever so slightly, the last day he remembered was January 4th, 2012, "and the year?" He whispered, bracing himself for the answer that he already knew.
"2014," The man gave him a concerned stare.
Mycroft yanked his arm out of the nurse's grip, brushing off his shoulder, radiating disdain for the nurse who dared to touch him. "Sherlock," He said softly, as though talking to a wounded, frightened animal. "John is gone."
Sherlock's gaze flickered back and forth between his brother and the male nurse, the color had drained from his face and panic and confusion clouded his eyes.
The nurse stepped forward, anxiously fiddling with the machines hooked up to the detective. "Are you feeling alright Mr. Holmes?" He asked. Sherlock turned back towards the nurse, wide eyed and shaking.
"No." He whispered and passed out onto the bed.