Chapter 1.
"How long has this been going on John?" His Therapist leaned forward in her chair.
Rain spattered against the window outside.
"I don't know." He said quietly.
It was the truth, he'd lost all sense of time since he'd come back from Afghanistan a year ago...or was it two years? It could have been last month for all he knew.
"I moved in with Sherlock soon after I got back and..." his voice caught in his throat
"No John, you didn't move in with anyone."
She must have seen the anger in his eyes because she moved back slightly before letting the next bombshell fall.
"There is no Sherlock Holmes."
A Week previously
"I'm going out, need anything from the shop?"
John rounded the corner from the hall into the kitchen, slipping into his coat as he asked his flatmate the question. Sherlock was perched on a stool by the countertop looking through his microscope.
"Not unless Tesco have started selling human blood..." Sherlock muttered to his experiment
"Well, not since the last time I checked." John replied "Right, I'll be off then."
Sherlock looked up and smiled "I'm going to Bart's later. Need to run some tests so I won't be in when you get back."
"Ok."
John walked the short distance to the Tesco express down the street with his hands in his pockets and head down against the wind. The weather had been terrible lately; he'd decided to go out to the shop because the downpours of the last three days had settled down at last. It was nearly dark and the sun had sunk below the buildings on the other side of Baker Street, leaving a cold chill in the air.
He got milk, bread, beer and some other groceries – determined that this time they wouldn't be usurped from the fridge in favour of human remains. He decided against using the self service checkouts due to previous disagreements with them, instead placing his items on the conveyer belt to go through the a cashier's desk that was run by a human instead of a machine.
As John got to the front of the queue and his purchases rolled forward to the cashier he found his lower jaw hanging slack.
"Mrs Hudson!?"
"Oh, hello John. How are you today? That will be seven twenty- one please." His landlady smiled at him...from behind the till...wearing the uniform of the shop with a name badge...as she put his groceries in a carrier bag.
"Wha...what are you doing here?"
Mrs Hudson's smile dropped and she looked at John with a concerned expression.
"I work here."
When John was unresponsive she continued,
"You come in every Wednesday and Saturday and buy the same things. You have done for the last year."
John's heart felt like it had dropped to his feet.
"No...No I don't. You're my landlady. Me and Sherlock...you own 221B Baker Street?" His voice got quieter as the sentence progressed, and he realised there was a queue of people behind him craning their necks to see what the fuss was about.
Mrs Hudson laughed, "Own a flat on Baker Street? Oh I wish! The prices must be hideous. No you've got me confused with someone else dear."
John ran a hand through his hair.
"You don't know me? You don't know Sherlock? Is this...is this a joke? You were downstairs when I left! In...In your kitchen making... tea."
He was almost shouting. He didn't care about the rubberneckers anymore, something weird was happening.
The security guard behind the desk by the door looked as if he was going to come over, but Mrs Hudson held up a hand to him then turned to John.
"I don't know anyone called Sherlock...what a silly name. I'm going to ask you not to be so loud. There are other customers waiting, Seven twenty-one please." Mrs Hudson's voice was controlled and harsh, so different from the sweet old lady John had come to know.
People in the queue were whispering and muttering, shaking their heads.
John got his wallet out in a daze, handing over a ten pound note. Mrs Hudson put the change in his palm and then saw him off with a curt "Good evening."
John walked down the pavement, every footstep feeling heavier than the last. His head was in a mess; this was like some strange, twisted dream. His carrier bag swung from his left hand as he trudged on, trying to make head and tail of what Mrs Hudson had said. None of it made any sense, she was still in Baker Street when he left and he hadn't been to that shop for nearly a month – he definitely didn't go there twice a week like she had said.
His pace quickened as he rushed back to the flat, wanting to find Mrs Hudson pottering around in her downstairs flat. Wanting to prove that what had just happened was a figment of his imagination, a hallucination, anything. It couldn't be real. Sherlock had probably drugged him in an experiment or something stupid.
John unlocked the door and rushed up the stairs to 221B shouting,
"Sherlock! Sherlock!"
But he wasn't there. There was just the lounge, looking odd without the outline of Sherlock draped across the sofa in a sulk, pacing up and down by the mirror ranting, or poised on the edge of his chair in thought.
A deep, familiar voice floated to the forefront of John's mind
'I'm going to Bart's later. Need to run some tests so I won't be in when you get back...'
Damn. So he couldn't consult the consulting detective on the events of the evening. He wouldn't be back until late – he always crashed in at some ungodly hour when he went to the lab, or stayed there the whole night until Molly called in the morning recommending that John convince him that he needed sleep.
There was still the Mrs Hudson issue to be dealt with, John dumped the carrier bag on the side, rushed down the stairs and knocked on the door of 221A. It was closed, that was unusual. After not getting a reply he knocked again, rapidly "Mrs Hudson? Mrs Hudson?"
The door opened at last.
A fat, balding man stood in the doorway with one hand leaning on the doorframe. He was wearing only dirty jeans and glared down at John.
"Whadayu want?" He grunted, his chins wobbling as he talked.
John was taken aback; this was most certainly not Mrs Hudson. Looking past his elephantine frame he saw that the flat that he knew to be decorated with flowers, patterned wallpaper and doilies was full of rubbish. Empty pizza boxes and grimy surfaces were all John could see. The layout was entirely different than John remembered; it was like it wasn't even the same flat.
"Sorry, um...didn't mean to disturb you its just, do you know a Mrs Hudson? The lady that lives here?"
"I ain't never heard of a Mrs Hudson. I've lived here five years mate, just me. You've got the wrong address I can't help you."
With that the door swung shut, slamming centimetres away from the tip of John's nose.
John walked slowly back up the stairs to his own flat, feeling like his whole world was crumbling around him. His breathing was too fast; he tried to slow it down – doctor's instinct telling him he was going to have a panic attack if he wasn't careful.
He collapsed onto the sofa, rubbing his face with his hands. There had to be an explanation. There had to be.
When he looked up Molly was standing in front of him.
"Molly? What? How did you get in?" He gasped.
It was Molly – but then it wasn't. She was too pale and staring blankly at the wallpaper behind his head.
"Sherlock doesn't like my lipstick...makes my mouth too small...Jim wasn't my boyfriend...I ended it...I made coffee...I don't count..." She released a torrent of words related to things John had heard before, repeating herself like a robot, talking too fast – like Sherlock would in the middle of one of his deductions.
"Molly, are you okay?" John stood up and made to put a hand on her shoulder, but then she was gone. Vanished. It was as if she'd just dissolved into thin air.
John blinked a few times, trying to get things straight.
He looked dumbly at his hand.
"Molly?" he said tentatively to the empty room
"Sherlock I need you to come home, now. I don't know what the hell is going on. Mrs Hudson isn't in her flat and Molly just disappeared...please Sherlock...I don't know what is happening...call me when you get this."
He terminated the voicemail then leaned back against the wall by the door. It was the third message he'd sent in the space of five minutes, each one sounding more and more desperate. Why wasn't Sherlock picking up? He became aware that he was sweating, maybe he was ill? Maybe he had a fever and his brain was just playing tricks on him? John pulled off his oatmeal coloured jumper and threw it in a bundle on the floor, the flat suddenly felt boiling hot.
He sank down the wall until he was sitting on the floor and forced himself to take slow breaths, his heart felt like it was going to burst through his chest.
"Oh dear, John...what's happened John?" It was Mycroft's voice that rang in John's ears; the irritating enunciation of every syllable rattled its way through his skull... yet Sherlock's brother was nowhere to be seen.
"Stop it...Stop it... I know you're not there Mycroft" John said to his knees as he pressed his forehead against them. He was genuinely terrified now, what was happening to him? Hearing voices that weren't there was not a good sign and then there was the ghost Molly and the Tesco Mrs Hudson...
Tears began to fill the edges of John's eyes and he grabbed at his hair trying to stop himself hyperventilating. The rational part of his brain was telling him there had to be some reasonable explanation...there had to be.
Soon everyone he knew was starting to talk over each other in his head, their chatter filling his brain and he couldn't stop it. Molly, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, Sherlock, Donovan, Harry. Even Anderson put in an appearance and was shouted down by Sherlock's voice. He couldn't tell what they were saying; they were just talking and talking on and on. They got louder and louder, John could barely think, they were painful to listen to. His head felt like it was going to explode.
John ended up rocking backwards and forwards, grasping either side of his head and trying in vain to pull the voices out. Tears streamed down his face,
"Stop it, stop it, stop it, now! ...oh GOD PLEASE! GET OUT!"
A/N
Thankyou for reading, next chapter will be up soon! I'm really excited about this one as it's such an interesting concept to play around with. Reviews much appreciated - even if you hated it :)