Sherlock woke up, aware that the world had changed, but unable to put his finger on why. Something just felt…wrong. He went into the living room, and realized he couldn't remember what had happened last night. A most irritating sensation.
John staggered into the kitchen three hours later, and made himself some tea.
"John," said Sherlock. "What happened last night?"
"What do you mean? Don't you remember?" John looked concerned as he realized he couldn't remember either.
"No. How odd. No one can. I've texted Lestrade, Mycroft and—" he suddenly froze, not out of realization or fear, but out of post-hypnotic suggestion. They stayed where they were, like statues in the living room, but before two minutes had passed, they shook their heads.
"—even Angelo—" Sherlock put his hands to his head.
"You alright?" John came somewhat closer.
"Headache," came the muffled reply. "I never get headaches. Why am I getting headaches?" He jumped up and ran to the window. Nothing. He switched off the telly (when had he turned it on?) and sat to ponder this new development.
The same thing happened again every morning for the next few weeks, and gradually Sherlock noticed a few patterns. The crime rate had drastically decreased. People seemed more aloof. He himself was having trouble mustering up the enthusiasm to destroy things out of boredom. The world was becoming an emotionally neutral place. He hated it. Too peaceful, too nice, too clean.
A few weeks later and the hypnotic broadcasts would ensure he didn't hate any longer. Hate was a vile thing. Love was weakness. Sherlock Holmes didn't care any more that he had no crime to solve or mystery to unravel. John didn't care that Sherlock didn't care. The world was plain, stark and beige and flat, and nobody cared one bit.