Introduction
Diclaimer: I own neither Doctor Who nor Sherlock, no matter how I whish I did. Don't own the video, either.
*A/N* This was prompted by a completely brilliant video by ThePteryx called "Elysium". Please check it out, it's amazing.
My name is John Watson, I'm a British army doctor on pension, and most people say that what I've seen in Afghanistan drove me mad in the end. I don't believe that, but sadly people who have actually lost it always believe themselves to be perfectly sane, too.
My story is weird, and I understand if you stop reading this in a moment. Most people don't believe me. In fact, no one does.
My best friend, Sherlock Holmes, who was a bit of a sociopath, a complete arsehole most of the time and the most brilliant man I have ever known, disappeared through a crack in a wall. There you go. This is the point were you decide that I'm a complete lunatic and you're wasting your time.
You're still with me? Well, that's impressive. Anyway, we were on a case, Sherlock and I, because that was what we did. We were private detectives, or "consulting detectives" as he liked to call it. The Yard had found a body on a construction site, and because they couldn't make anything of it, they called for him. The case itself bored Sherlock within seconds ("27, married, had a lover who killed her because she didn't want to leave her husband, isn't that obvious?") but he showed a great deal of interest in a long crack in one of the walls. It seemed like a perfectly ordinary thing to me, but Sherlock shook his head. "This is by no means an ordinary crack, John. First of all, this is a construction site. This wall has been here for less than two months, and it seems rather unusual that it should be damaged like this already."
"Well, maybe it was some sort of calculation mistake or something," I suggested.
"If it was, they would have fixed it," he answered impatiently and stepped closer to the crack while the policemen removed the body and the forensics packed their things.
Excited as he always was when he came across a mystery, he ran his long fingers along the crack and examined it through his magnifying glass.
"They did try to fix it," he muttered, more to himself then to me. "They tried to patch it up, but it left this crack completely untouched…" He bent down and tried to glimpse through the crack.
"John, go into the next room and see if it goes all the way through the wall."
I knew I shouldn't let him boss me around like that, but as usual, I found myself doing what he told me. The next room was just as empty and unfinished as the other one, but the wall was spotless and even.
"No, it's just on this side," I reported. "Sherlock, what exactly are you doing…?"
He hadn't even heard me. "Check if the window closes well."
He was standing two feet away from the window. I rolled my eyes and examined the small window. The painters had left splatters of beige paint on the frame, but it was perfectly leak-proof, double pane, even.
"It is…?" I said, still waiting for an explanation. None came.
"Close the door and stand here next to me."
I gave a small groan of frustration, but he didn't react to it, so I reluctantly did as he had said. "What now?" I asked, staring at the crack.
"Do you feel it?"
"Feel what?"
"The draft. There's a draft. You've closed the door and it can't be coming from the window, so it must come from the crack, but you just said it doesn't go all the way through."
"That's strange, I'll give you that…" I muttered. "Maybe the wall isn't solid and it comes from the roof?"
"You've seen the roof, John. It's heavy, no architect who has got the slightest bit of sense in them would trust walls that aren't solid to carry a roof like that."
"So where does it come from?" I was convinced he would snap some genius answer at me that was completely obvious, but instead he just whispered the phrase. I was very close to marking it in my diary when he said it, because he barely ever did.
"I don't know…"
He made another step towards it and tore at it with his fingernails as if he was trying to open it. Apparently, the crack didn't like that at all.
It started glowing. I swear, I saw it, a blue light came out of it as if someone had switched on a gas flame inside the wall. I stumbled backwards and stared at the crack, completely puzzled, because next thing, the crack widened. Not like a crack in wall would, more like a wound that was torn open. And the blue light blazed through the room and reached Sherlock.
"John…" he whispered hoarsely. Something strange was happening to him. He seemed to become transparent, or, to be precise, it looked as though he was going to water and flowed into the crack. I'd never seen anything so surreal in my life. Sherlock, much to my surprise, looked horrified.
"John, run," he yelled, and then, in another flash of bright light, he was gone. I backed away from the light, but the crack snapped close just as quickly as it had opened.
And this is how Sherlock Holmes vanished from the face of the earth, and no one has seen him ever since.
~o~o~o~
But that's not the worst thing about it.
The worst thing is that nobody remembers him apart from me, not DI Lestrade from the Yard, not his favourite subject of humiliation Anderson, not Molly from the morgue who had always had a crush on him, not even his brother.
Nobody remembers him.
It's like he had never existed.
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