Doctor John Watson sat in the living room of the flat on 221B Baker Street, sipping tea and just listening the hum drum of life outside. He heard the cabs drive by, the chatter of anonymous voices, the wind against the window. All of it calmed his mind. The silence was welcome. Sherlock was out at the moment. He had been out for a while now. John began to wonder when he'd be returning...
"John!" he heard the deep voice call just as he was drifting off into fantasy. "John, I'm back!" he called up. He hadn't heard the door open or close, nor had he heard the footsteps up the stairs, for the next thing he heard was a whisper right in his ear. "John..."
John turned around to see Sherlock standing before him. He was wearing his usual getup: button down, jacket, coat, scarf. "Morning, Sherlock," he said. "I was beginning to wonder when you'd return."
"Well wonder no longer, dear man. I'm back," Sherlock said with a smile.
Sherlock Holmes. Flatmate of John Watson and the most brilliant consulting detective to walk this Earth. Well, ONLY consulting detective to walk this Earth. He was an extraordinary man, Watson thought, though no one else seemed to notice. That appalled Watson. How could they not see how great he is? He was smart, no doubt about that, handsome in an off-beat sort of way, and charming through his own methods. Yes, he was everything John needed. He was adventure. He was meaning.
And he was standing in the living room staring at him. "Watson, are you even listening?" he asked.
"Oh!" said John. "Sorry. I must've been wandering. I'm sorry. What were you on about?"
"Well I was asking you if you had plans for tonight. I was hoping you'd like to go out on a date."
"A date?"
"Yes, a date. It's when two people who like each other go out and have fun, or so I've been told," Sherlock said with a smile.
"I'd love to," John replied, probably too eagerly.
"Fantastic. Best be getting ready, then."
John looked up and suddenly it was dark out. Puzzled, he wondered where time had gone. Oh, well, he thought to himself. It mattered not. He best be getting ready!
John scurried up to his room and searched about for his best jumper. It was a new one, one Sherlock hadn't seen yet. It was nice, black knit. Very soft. He remembered having bought it for a specific reason, but the exact reason had slipped his mind. He put it on with his nicest trousers and a blazer. All black. He was about to head out, but he felt decidedly empty-handed. He never went out without bringing a gift for his date, of course! He grabbed a bouquet of flowers that happened to be ever so conveniently sitting atop the bedside table and headed out.
Sherlock was waiting by the door, wearing the same thing, but smelling a bit different. He smelled delightfully icy, but strangely also like sweets and tarmac. It must be a new cologne or something, John decided. He handed Sherlock the flowers. Sherlock took them without saying a word.
"Ready?" Sherlock asked, somewhat impatiently. Just like him to be impatient.
"Yes," John said with a smile.
Sherlock took John out for a simple dinner. It was nice. The two actually engaged in conversation not about John himself or any case they had been currently working on. They just sat and laughed, and reminisced together about all the fun they'd had in the past. Everything went just as John had always wanted it to go.
At the end of the evening, the pair stood outside the flat. Sherlock moved to unlock the door, but John grabbed his hand and spun him round. "You, sir, obviously don't know what happens outside your date's door at the end of an evening."
Sherlock looked around, puzzled. "No, I guess I don't..." he said.
"Well," Watson said, "let me show you..."
He leaned in and could feel the temperature radiate off of Sherlock. Something wasn't right, though. In the stead of the usual human warmth was a noticeable cold. It didn't just feel like the cold of the night air, but the chill of death. It was horrifying. Suddenly Watson's whole body began to tingle as he was plunged into blackness and back out into the open.
He wasn't outside the door of the flat, but found himself lying on the dirt. It had just begun to rain, which is likely what made John react and wake from what he guessed was slumber. He must have fallen asleep somewhere. He sat up and rubbed his head. He found himself wearing all black. He saw flowers lying in front of him. His eye slowly wandered up to a reflective dark surface, on it printed only the words "Sherlock Holmes."
Suddenly reality struck poor Doctor Watson as all the pieces slipped into place and everything made sense. He didn't want it to be, but this was what was real and what was just happening was merely a dream.
"Now, now, Mr. Holmes," John said, tears rolling down his cheeks, "This isn't quite what I had in mind for the end of the evening."