A/N: hello boys and girls and others!
this is basically my first fanfiction i post on here and i am unsure if that was a right decision or not *sweats nervously*
i would appreciate constructive comments so much and if i have made any mistakes, please feel free to tell me (y'know if anybody ever reads this)
you are all such precious muffins!
i am sending you lots of love from my computer.
- red owl feathers.
P.S. i do not intend to have Sherlock as a mentally unstable figure. the way i portray him in this chapter is only to describe how he visualises John and how the others get it all wrong. i am sorry if i have written something unpleasant, please tell me if i have.
P.P.S. the first two chapters kind of give you the wrong idea of what the fanfic is about, so if you are patient enough, read on, kind reader, read on and enjoy, because it does get better
CHAPTER ONE.
"How are you today, brother dear?"
There was a grunt in response.
"Mycroft, what are you doing here? Oh and please, do tell that bloody nurse to get the food tray away."
Mycroft sighed and turned his umbrella in his hands.
"You have to eat eventually, Sherlock."
The younger boy continued reading the Daily Mail.
"Not necessarily." He lingered on the first n and turned his gaze to the next page.
"You still haven't answered my question." Mycroft looked at his brother sternly. "What did the doctors say?"
"Funny thing, doctors." Sherlock put the paper down and met Mycroft's eyes for the first time since he had entered the room.
"Always so ghastly boring and sometimes completely wrong. "
He shot Mycroft a look. "John dated a girl who wanted to be a doctor once."
Mycroft blinked at the mention of John's name.
"Ah yes, that… John fellow "He grimaced "he's still around?"
"Yes. " Sherlock got up from his bed and his hospital gown stretched onto his tall body, the wrinkled bits leaving marks on the pale fabric. He walked over to the window.
"He's- "
"Not real? Yes, everybody in this hospital apparently has the job of telling me so. Even that patient that left two days ago. He should know. Compulsive liar. Cheating on his wife also."
He touched the ends of the blinds with the tips of his fingers. His head was cocked to one side.
"I still don't think it's only in my head, Mycroft. He seems too real. Too… vivid, at least." He frowned and suddenly turned around "And why is everyone treating me like a child or at least a person who has difficulties understanding?"
"You will soon no more have the privilege of those people taking care of you. You will be going back to school-"
"Privilege?" Sherlock demurred.
"-in two weeks."
"That's fantastic." The boy grunted sarcastically.
"But, you'll be moved. To a boarding school."
"Well, that's news."
Sherlock didn't seem quite interested in the conversation anymore. He was reading his paper again and took a pen from the drawer beside his bed and encircled something.
"Baker and Stubbs Boarding School to be exact. I have to get that." The older Holmes brother was referring to his phone that was vibrating in his pocket.
Sherlock wasn't paying attention to his conversation and Mycroft seemed to want that to happen because he had retrieved to a corner of the room. His brother however, overheard something about the "Korean elections" and "national importance". Boring, as ever.
"I have to go."
"Okay."
"Take your meds."
"Manageable."
"Don't blow up the rooms with chemicals you find in the supply room."
"A bit burdensome. And boring."
"Goodbye, Sherlock."
The boy already had his hands brought together at the fingertips under his chin. Mycroft just exited the room.
Meanwhile, in Sherlock's head, a café came to the picture. Opposite him a boy was standing in a chair. He had sandy blond hair and big blue eyes. A plate with some dish was positioned in front of him and he was holding a fork. Steam arose from a mug and the liquid inside was probably tea. Peppermint? Logical, it was John's favorite.
John.
"Ah. Glad to have you back." He smiled and took a bite of his meal.
"Mycroft was just around." Sherlock muttered in an explanation.
"Oh, what did he say?" John's words were muffled because he was chewing.
"He told me not to blow anything up."
"That's boring."
Sherlock chuckled. Soon enough John started doing the same.
"So anything interesting?" the first asked out of politeness mainly.
"Well, given that I am inside that ridiculous head of yours I am never bored. I met a man, in fact. He was German. Probably lived around the beginning of the 20th century. His name was… Fritz? Fritz something? He seemed nice at first. We had some tea. Then he tried to kill me with a knife." John raised his eyebrow in question.
"Fritz Haarmann. The vampire of Hanover. Killed around 27 young boys and men between 1918 and 1925." Sherlock gulped down some of his lemonade.
"Cool." John took his cup and brought it to his lips, but before he took a sip, he asked "Just so we know, what happens when I, hypothetically speaking, die? Do I come back to life or…?"
"I don't know."
"Should we try it out?"
"How about no." Sherlock shook his head a little.
They were walking down the street.
"What do the doctors say?"
"Are you related to Mycroft in some way, he asked me the same thing."
John snickered "I'm pretty sure I'm not related to Mycroft."
Their shoes hit the ground as they paced down the street.
"They say I have schizophrenic tendencies." Sherlock put his hands in his pockets.
"That's rubbish."
"I know."
"People with schizophrenia tend to have problems with thinking straight and often feel unsure and intimidated by other people. As far as I know you're by far the most brilliant and arrogant person to grace the world."
He turned to his side where Sherlock was frowning a little and the corners of his mouth turned slightly up.
"Anyway I'm going back to school." Sherlock chided.
"You don't like school, I'm guessing?" John implied.
"Obviously. Everyone is very boring and petty. I don't care about who was prime minister 200 years ago or who is sleeping with whom."
John hummed something and cleared his throat.
They were sitting on a bench.
"In fact they're moving me to another school."
"Sherlock, dear, would you like me to take care of the tray for you?"
Sherlock opened his eyes and blinked a couple of times. It was almost dark outside. He realized the voice was coming from a third party and saw a flash of white, which was one of the nurses. She was standing beside his nightstand.
"Yes, please." He murmured.
It was around 8 o'clock already. Time flew either very fast or very slowly in his mind palace in spite of the real world.
He told the nurse to turn on the lights in the room and took his newspaper again.
Mycroft had told him not to call Lestrade and ask about cases, but Graham's presence was to be felt nevertheless.
A small picture was staring at him from the newspaper's sixth page. The article was about some serial suicides the Yard had been investing recently.
They were baffled. Of course they were. They always were when something interesting finally showed up. Sherlock sighed in frustration. Something was happening at last and he couldn't have anything to do with it. Instead he had to sit in bed and read about it in the papers that had no important information. You could never trust the media.
Tomorrow he was going to think about the case. Probably go out in the garden, although it seemed like a stupid thing to do. He prayed to god Mycroft wouldn't come to visit.