Chapter 1: The Impossible
Doctor John Watson had never been asked to believe in amazing or impossible things. He had been in the war. He'd seen impossible cruelty and amazing heroics. He was a friend of Sherlock Holmes. That alone was impossible and amazing wrapped into one.
Sherlock had never asked John to believe the things he accepted as fact, but then again, John rarely questioned Sherlock. He simply followed the amazing genius on faith. Now, Sherlock was asking (one might say "begging," if Sherlock Holmes could beg) John to believe something that was downright mad.
John didn't want to believe Sherlock was mad. He felt that madness meant something entirely different to the consulting detective, regardless of what Sally Donovan thought about it.
"I tell you," Sherlock was pacing back and forth, occasionally brushing against the mantle in his haste. He was anxious and excited at the same time, his eyes and hair wild. "This man was me! But, he wasn't me! Arrrgh!" Sherlock growled and threw himself into his armchair. "I swear, John! He was here last night!"
"You mean while I was on my date with Sarah?" John asked, trying to remain calm. The last thing he wanted to do was give the obviously stressed detective the impression that he didn't believe him.
Which wouldn't have been true. John did believe him, even though the story seemed farfetched. He was merely testing Sherlock's boundaries.
"Yes," Sherlock snapped, his teeth clicking together noisily. "He sat right where I'm sitting. Like this, mostly," Sherlock leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. It was his thinking pose. Then, the demonstration over, he snapped forward with the swiftness of an agitated snake. "He had this demonic grin."
"Well, I believe you," John said with a sigh.
Sherlock's eyes brightened. "Good. You know I never lie to you."
"Once, you did."
"Ahh. Baskerville. But it was for a case, John. I never lie without good reason."
"I know." John folded the paper and put it aside, leaning forward towards the consulting detective, who moved back in the chair an inch. "What I don't understand is why you're so worried about him. I mean, what could he possibly do?"
Sherlock's hands trembled on his knees and his eyes widened, his lips parting just slightly. He swallowed, and John thought he detected fear. Fear? Since when was Sherlock afraid? Not since Baskerville had John seen his friend in such a nervous state! "Everything, John," he whispered between anxious swallowing, "there's no one who can ruin my name better than someone who looks just like me."