Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. They belong to people with big names and corporations with bigger names. No infringement intended.

Author's Note: I originally conceived this as a "what if Sherlock was framed?" story. Ended up with this, which could continue as a multi-chapter fic, or it could be this more ambiguous stand-alone. I welcome any feedback as to whether it should stay stand-alone or be continued (I am honestly fine with either.) Thank you!

Morning. Stiff back, crick in neck. Leaning on…what? Something sharp. No, not sharp – hard, hard edge digging into my scapula. Not lying down. Sitting. Legs splayed, one asleep. Body feels leaden, limbs like dead weights. Clutching…something. Plastic, small enough to wrap my fingers round. Curl fingers and feel wetness. Sticky. Lift heavy eyelids to let light in; vision swims. Close them with a moan. Head feels…cottony. Too light and too heavy. Like aftermath of a high but worse. Ten times worse. One hundred times worse.

Test eyes again, fight to keep them open. Staring at…familiar cracks. Ceiling. My flat. Blink, try to clear vision. Head feels trapped in vise when I move my eyes. Fight it anyway. Lower them to ascertain position and see -

John. On the floor, in front of me. Face down.

Bloodied.

Not moving.

Not breathing.

Adrenaline kicks in, swing asleep leg behind me, scramble to my knees. Bring hands in front to support my weight and notice my right hand.

Clutching my pen knife. Still wet with blood.

John: bloodied. Still glistening. From stab wounds.

No. NO.

Adrenaline switches to panic, lunge for his shoulders, turn him over and -

It's not John.

Blink. Loud exhale sounds like a sob. Sympathetic nervous system calms down a notch while I examine the body.

Recent dye job (some smears onto my left hand); seven, no…nine stab wounds in chest and abdomen (crime of passion) , jumper looks exactly like one of John's, jeans are same brand, shoes…inexpensive, generic. Similar age, slightly stockier build, clothes meant to look similar, but…faint odor. Fresh haircut, newly scrubbed skin. Was homeless until recently. (Slight movements still feel like someone trying to squeeze out my eyeballs by pushing at my temples.)

Footsteps on stairs – multiple sets. Four, no, five…six? (Head still cottony. Give it a shake and grit teeth against the resulting explosion of pain.) Voices hushed, tense-sounding, male. Hear John's voice first (relief in waves – the resemblance of the dead man before me is uncanny), Lestrade, Dimmock, two other vaguely familiar voices: lower-level, usually only brought in to arrest…

Oh.

Am still hunched over dead body, perfectly commonplace tableau. Except the body has been made to look like John, crime of passion, multiple stab wounds, bloodying my living room, and me still holding the sticky pen knife.

This looks…not good.

Men burst through the door, Lestrade draws his gun, cocks it at me, yells at me to drop it.

Stupid, stupid. I didn't do this.

I drop the knife, raise my hands over my head and see –

John. (Still relieved.) Shock at the knife in my hand gives way to horror, then pain when he sees the body.

Pain? Why pain?

John. I didn't do this.

Lestrade is asking me questions, but I don't hear him. Can only look at John who cannot tear his eyes away from the body. Lowers his gun as he draws closer, then finally looks at me.

Sadness. Hurt. Anger. Fear.

I didn't do this. I didn't do this!

"Okay, then tell us where you were last night, Sherlock!"

Lestrade, exasperated. Realise I have spoken aloud and have failed to answer his questions.

"I was…"

Think. I was…

Where was I?

Search memory: blank. Slate wiped clean. No recollection of last night.

"I…" It isn't like me to leave sentences unfinished, but am momentarily disconcerted by not having access to my memories since…

"Okay, fine. How about yesterday afternoon?"

Search again…blank. Nothing. Search for yesterday morning, anything from yesterday, any bits that could –

High-pitched laughter. Woman's voice. Me saying, "For my friend." Knocked over cartons of –

The image falls to pieces. I chase after them, but it is like locating a single piece of confetti after a thousand have been released on a gusty day. I can only watch them swirling overhead, can only guess at their meaning.

"I remember a woman's laughter. And…cartons." My voice is quiet, and I sound calm. (I am not.) Lestrade gives a heavy sigh, shakes his head. Forensics is swarming the body, photographs snapped. General murmurs, furtive glances between the body and John.

"John Doe."

My head swivels over, locks onto unknown member of forensics team. He gestures at the body.

"No ID."

Wince at the connection. Not John. Not John.

Catch Donovan's eye (when did she come in?); normal expression of contempt is replaced by horror. Then: sees me looking; takes a minute step back.

Become cognizant of feeling in the room. Am used to being surrounded by emotions from people at a crime scene. Contempt. Annoyance. Frustration. Anger. Revulsion. Even hatred (Anderson). Sometimes grudging respect and gratitude. (If John is there: admiration. Awe. Borderline hero worship. Patience.)

Now: fear. No one presumes my innocence.

Not even John. (Least of all John. Which is….)

I have envisioned this scenario many times before. Am discovered at a crime scene and am somehow in compromising position to a dead body. Perhaps not your normal everyday fantasy, but then again there is nothing normal about my brain. Always provided me with a thrill, the thought of having to overcome the extra challenge of proving my innocence. Me versus all of Scotland Yard, making deductions, pointing out obvious clues, rolling my eyes at their incompetence as they struggle to keep up with my breakneck speed. If I was particularly invested in the fantasy, I would drag it out, letting it take at least an hour. If I needed only a quick distraction, I would prove my innocence in less than twenty minutes.

But I always had all of my faculties in this fantasy, my brain intact and not feeling as though someone had spread a thick layer of cobwebs over my hippocampus. The body was unknown (suppress shudder), and always, always, always John was on my side. Insisting my innocence from the start, raising his voice at the detectives or sometimes resorting to shouting obscenities in response to their complete lack of faith, their utter lack of gratitude for all I'd done for them. He would take me aside and vow to help me in whatever way he could, and I would acknowledge his support, be grateful for it, but tell him it was really unnecessary, thank you, and proceed to dazzle him with my rapid-fire deductions. He would shake his head, tell me I was extraordinary (while Scotland Yard groveled in repentance) and I would dismiss it, saying it was nothing, really, and we would share a taxi ride home where I would bask in the bald glow of his admiration.

Now: all eyes are on me (those who aren't afraid to look). This: my secret fantasy made into a mockery. Especially the crowning detail.

Last thing I remember…argument. Raised voices. John's face ablaze with anger. Me sneering, then snarling at him. It had been three weeks since the last case, and I was going (quickly) mad. The noise in my head had slowly crested to a deafening roar. He found me. Damning evidence. He destroyed it; I threatened him. Slammed doors, stamping footfalls down the stairs. I knew my destination, veins thrummed with anticipation. Faces in shadow, few words needed. My prize in my hand, cradling it like a kitten. Don't even feel it as it goes in then –

Nothing. Blank.

My voice is low and steady, though I know my next words may ensure that this nightmare of a crime scene will be my last.

"The last thing I remember is getting high."

John crosses his arms and moves to the window, shaking his head. His back towards me.

I close my eyes against the crushing defeat.