Hello, Sherlock fans!
I literally came up with this idea at midnight and wrote it down as quickly as possible. I know the writing isnt the best and the chapter is short, but i swear it will get better. I just needed to start this and get something down quickly. So, this chapter is out here right now for you to evaluate. Right now what I really want is reviews. Tell me if you like this idea and if i should keep going with the story. And i promise it will get ten times better. If i get a lot of positive feedback, ill keep going. If not, ill just trash the idea. So please, honest opinions! And thank to any who review or follow!
-Your fellow Sherlockian
"I'm sorry?"
"I'm afraid it's true, Mr. Holmes. Or rather, not true, if you get my gist."
Sherlock leaned back in the leather chair, scrutinizing the man in front of him. His mind unconsciously picked out the details of the psychologist's life (in his mid forties, two unhappy marriages, recent pay cut, etc.); but he did not really process them as he usually did. For once in his life, he was too preoccupied to think clearly.
"When did these...conversations with yourself start?"
Sherlock didn't even bother to look up. "I don't have conversations with myself. I have conversations with-"
"With John, I know." Sherlock watched as the psychologist began to tap on the desk with increasing speed; he was irritated and wanted to go home. Something important must be happening tonight, a party or a special occasion.
Using his observations, Sherlock decided to seize his chance. "Well. That was certainly...enlightening. Thank you for your time, but I really must be going."
"Wait!" The psychologist held up his hand urgently. "We're not done..."
"Dr. Freud," Sherlock whipped around and gave the doctor a simpering smile, "do you really want to miss your anniversary dinner? I don't think your wife would be very happy. And you can't afford to lose another one. Literally."
Sherlock spun around on his heel and reached for the door, his last image of the doctor one of the man's mouth flopping open like a dying fish. He smiled to himself, and headed back to Baker Street.
O O O
Sherlock opened the flat door as quickly as he could and rushed up the stairs, trying to avoid any confrontation.
"Sherlock!"
He winced, hearing his name. Too late. Looks like he would have to talk after all.
"Hello, Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade." He dipped his head in mock politeness.
"Oh Sherlock, how did everything go? I know it must be hard for you realizing that he-"
"It went well, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you." Sherlock cut her off abruptly.
"You always had your funny ways and we never really questioned 'em, but this one, well this takes the cake," Lestrade put in.
"I'm going upstairs," Sherlock didn't wait for an answer, merely bounded up to his flat. He needed an escape from all this.
As soon as he reached the top, he let himself go, let out all the emotions. He fell to the ground, shaking in fear and horror.
"John..." He whispered.
It wasn't possible, was it? That he, with all his brilliant deductive skills, had overlooked something as great as this? There had to be so many clues, so many obvious things that his brain had hidden...how?
Sherlock heard a chuckle from behind him. "Loony, isn't it? Absolutely batty. I mean, I always knew you were brilliant, but this? I agree with Lestrade. This takes the cake. You were so bloody brilliant that you fooled yourself."
Sherlock looked up at the man standing behind him, tears in his eyes for the first time since he was a child. "John...how... How did this happen?"
The man smiled and shrugged. "How should I know? We just found out that I'm not even real."