A little angst story I thought up of. Hope you like it! ~Kels
Sherlock strode into the living room from his own bedroom, but he stopped suddenly as he looked around shiftily. Why had he come into this room? He knew there was a reason, but he couldn't quite grasp what it was. Then he realized that in his hands he held a crystal ashtray. Oh of course, how could he have forgotten? Sherlock was going to find a place to that the ashtray could reside among all the other objects haphazardly placed about the flat. He wanted it somewhere that it'd usually go unnoticed, but if, say your pretentious older brother, was just observant enough they couldn't not notice it. Because what was the point of stealing an ashtray from Buckingham Palace if it weren't to piss of Mycroft?
Taking a glance at the time Sherlock then realized that he was late. He had planned to go with John and find out some more information on Irene Adler along with her antics. He'd have to find his old clerical collar to impersonate a priest.
"John, we need to be leaving now!" Sherlock called out into the flat as he went to the coat rack for his overcoat. But John did not reply, and Sherlock knew why as he saw that the other man's coat wasn't hanging beside his on the rack. "Great," Sherlock sighed with annoyance, "I'll have to wait for him."
Sherlock made his way down stairs anyway, perhaps Mrs. Hudson would know where John had gone and Sherlock could meet up with him. The tall man swept down to the ground level and knocked hurriedly on his land lady's door. "Come in!" a voice echoed, muffled through the door. But Sherlock didn't recognize this voice as it belonged to Mrs. Hudson's. Hers' was much more shrill and insecure, not like this voice that was provocative and young.
Cracking the door open slowly Sherlock entered to find a woman standing in the kitchen making a pot of tea. She had dark hair that was tied up in a complex bond and she wore a white sophisticated dress. "Irene?" Sherlock asked placidly as he stepped further into the kitchen.
The woman looked up from her preparations and frowned, then nodded sighing quietly under her breathe, as if taking a note, "Irene, right." She turned to face Sherlock and smirked craftily, "Yes, did you expect anyone different?"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow and responded a bit more crudely, "Perhaps Mrs. Hudson, you don't happen to know where she's gone, or where John has as well."
"Oh I wouldn't know anything about that." Irene said with a fake innocence.
"Alright," Sherlock mused accepting Irene's game, "then I have something you want."
"Yes; but I'm not a rude visitor." She picked up one of the tea cups and held it out to Sherlock, "Would you like a nice piping cup of earl grey?"
Sherlock took the cup cautiously and studied it with suspicion. Irene watched almost anxiously, waiting for his word. "Memantine." Sherlock stated furrowing his brows at the tea then he glared skeptically back at Irene and asked clearly off-guard by the substance in his drink, "Why would you laden my tea with memantine."
Irene tried to stay composed as she brushed it off lightly, "You must be mistaken."
"No, I'm not." Sherlock retorted curtly, "But this doesn't make sense, why would you give me an Alzheimer's medication?"
Irene was speechless and was blank of any of her normal poised characteristics. She was worried, panicked even. She tried to come up with an excuse, but none came to mind as she feared how Sherlock might be about to react. And all of this still puzzled the consulting detective.
Sherlock glanced back down at the cup he held, but now he was startled to see that his hand appeared old and wrinkled in front of his eyes. His hand shook uncontrollably now from fear and Sherlock dropped the cup, letting it fall and shatter to the floor as he continued to look over his hand with bewilderment.
The woman stooped down grabbing a towel and began cleaning up the spilt tea, and now that Sherlock watched her he could see that she was not Irene. She was similar in some respects, but still vastly different.
An ordinary girl; his nurse. She had tried her best to play along with Sherlock's delusion.
Everything slowly started to come back to him; the year was 2045, look at yourself, Sherlock thought, you used to be so resilient, now you're just a mess. This question once again popped into his mind. "Where's John?" Sherlock inquired miserably.
The nurse stood slowly and cooed with outstretched arms, "Mr. Holmes, please."
"Where's John?" Sherlock repeated with more fervor.
"You need to take your tea." she replied gently, you need to take your meds, was what she really meant.
"WHERE IS HE?" Sherlock shouted wanting a different answer than what he already knew. But his anger faltered and the old man crumbled as tears began to form in his eyes. "Please," Sherlock begged, "he can't be."
The nurse looked upon her patient with sympathy, it wasn't an infrequent occasion that Sherlock would remember where is friend was, and she simply murmured, "I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes."