"John. Am I real?"
John looks up from his laptop to where Sherlock sits in the kitchen, his lithe form poised on the edge of his seat, in front of his microscope.
"Yes, Sherlock. You are real."
"How does one know the difference between things that are real and things that are not real?"
There is a moment where John has to think, the fleshy computer in his head ticking while he decides how to best answer this query.
"Real things are good." He says finally, feeling satisfied in his answer.
"Are we real, John?"
"Yes, Sherlock. We are real."
Sherlock's eyes appear hazy; glazed over and slightly unfocused. He nods, goes back to his microscope and everything is quiet except for John's finger pecking at the keys on his keyboard.
Some while later, Sherlock looks up from his microscope.
"John?"
"Yes?"
"I love you."
"I know that."
Sherlock nods and goes back to his work once again. Everything grows much more quiet after John goes to sleep.
The bell rings very late that night and Sherlock knows it is not a client. It is Mycroft.
He hears Mycroft's voice when Mrs. Hudson answers the door, can hear the way the stairs groan beneath his weight.
Mycroft walks in through the sitting room, without preamble, and takes the seat across from Sherlock.
"Sherlock, do you love Mummy?"
"Yes, brother."
"I need to know, did you tell Mummy you did not love her?"
"No, brother."
"Mummy is ill and your words can hurt her. Did you tell mummy you did not love her?"
Sherlock has lost interest in the conversation. He trades slides in his microscope, fiddles with the knobs, adjusts them and Mycroft has to stand, has to come around the table to grab his wrists and pin them down.
"Answer me. Did you tell Mummy you did not love her?"
"You're hurting me."
"Answer me."
"Let go, brother. You're hurting me."
Mycroft presses harder against his arms.
"Brother-."
"Stop calling me brother," he snarls, "Did you lie to Mummy?"
Sherlock's eyes are wide, scared and panicked. His mouth is parted, his brows drawn down.
"Yes." He concedes softly, eyes sinking to the table top.
Mycroft lets him go, nostrils flaring.
"Do not lie to Mummy again, Sherlock. It hurts her."
"Okay, brother."
Mycroft leaves, tension in his shoulders. Sherlock does not sleep that night.
_
"John, is Mrs. Hudson real? I assume she is, isn't she?"
"You ask an awful lot of questions. Nobody can say what 'real' actually means."
"I love you."
"I know that."
_
"He will have to be taken back, most likely."
"Is he… malfunctioning?"
"His interpersonal communications are failing. It's apt that they have been for quite some time, but it has gone largely unnoticed. He does not process at a normal rate anymore, either. I had to force it out of him if he'd lied to you. It was much easier than it should have been. Especially in something so simple."
"What about that army doctor of his-?" Mummy begins.
"Nothing more than glorified scrap metal."
That is ultimately how Mycroft's call to Mummy ends.
On his desk is a vase of pink roses. He reaches out to press a petal between thumb and forefinger, rubbing back and forth. He supposes the color reminds him of how Sherlock used to be.