The day had been long and Joan Watson was tired, yet she hesitated before turning off the lamp by her bedside. For the past two nights, she'd been awakened from sound slumber by the sense that someone was in her room. She had felt eyes on her, sensed breaths, heard creaks and the rustle of cloth nearby. She knew someone was there.
The first night this happened, Joan assumed Sherlock had fallen back onto old habits: sitting in the chair beside her bed, watching her sleep, waiting for any sign of consciousness to begin a soliloquy about the latest case. But when Watson turned over to tell him to go away, Sherlock was not there. The room appeared empty, save for her. A thick quiet hung about her and the dark haze of the room yielded no sign of life. Joan could not shake the feeling of a presence and turned on her lamp to convince herself she was alone. Scanning the room, searching the long shadows, she felt a cold prickle sweep up the nape of her neck. She quickly turned around but found nothing. Joan decided to attribute her anxious discomfort to an undigested bit of dumpling from the German restaurant. Sherlock had insisted that she try it. That man will be the death of me, she thought, as she turned off the light, tugged the blanket protectively up and over her shoulders, making sure it covered the back of her neck. She settled on her side once more to sleep.
The second night, the sense was more intense. She bolted straight up out of bed calling his name for she was sure it was Sherlock who had infiltrated her chamber. Joan looked around, turned on the light, scanned the room once more and came to the same conclusion. She was alone. A light knock on her door was followed by the turning of the doorknob and the calling of her name, "Watson, everything alright?"
Joan was relieved to see him and wondered just how loud she'd called his name. "You weren't just in here... were you?"
"No. I was on my way to the loo when I heard you call out." He stared at her. "You seem rather flustered, everything alright?"
"I thought I heard something but it must have been a dream ..." she answered, convincing him and almost herself that her imagination had gotten away from her. "Thanks for checking though."
Sherlock gave her one more once over, nodded and backed out the door. He continued towards the bathroom speculating as to what kind of a dream would have her calling out his name with such ferocity.
This, the third night, Watson half-convinced herself the previous two nights' events were the product of repressed fears from the recent heavy caseload and forced herself to turn off the light. More intrigued than afraid, she listened carefully to the quiet and strained her eyes peering into darkened corners. Slowly, her body overruled her mind, and she succumbed to sleep.
A presence loomed over her bed, watched her sleep. It exhaled a long, cold breath.
The chill that brushed her cheek was enough to rouse her from the light sleep into which she had descended. Joan's body stiffened. She lay immobile, attempting to control her breathing and above all to listen. There it was again, the slow exhale. She opened her eyes almost imperceptibly and caught the outline of a tall man, verging on the portly standing beside her bed.
"I'm sorry to disturb you at this late hour, Dr. Watson."
The voice sounded old and tired and most definitely British. It knew her name, and seemed polite. Joan opened her eyes, carefully sat up and tentatively reached to turn on the small light. What stood before her was the image of a man but really just the image. He seemed two dimensional, vaporous around the edges; more a projection than a being.
She hazarded a word or two, "Who are you sir?"
It sighed. "A long story indeed. I'm not sure you'll understand."
Not liking her intelligence being questioned, Joan suddenly sat up a little straighter in bed. "I'm sure I'll understand, mr.? Mr.?" Her question was met by a long silence.
"Sir." He paused. "You may call me Sir Arthur. My full name will have no meaning to you ... Not in this dimension."
Joan did not like his condescending tone. He was British and she thought perhaps she was projecting some deep seated animosity towards Sherlock into this manifestation of uh, uh ... she didn't know what it was. A ghost? A spirit? A life form from another planet. Was she even awake?
"I am here to apologize to you ... for Holmes. It all got away from me..." Remorse seasoned his words as he continued. "The stories were a bit of a lark, a way to pay some bills and then he took on a life of his own."
Joan sat mystified, trying to make sense of the old man's words.
"Sherlock Holmes!" He spat the name out with disgust. "I created him as a man of pure logic, rational, ironically for me, with little belief outside of the physical world. Everyone loved Holmes. I know him for what he is - a know-it-all, a prat, a tedious, self centered companion. I am ashamed to have inflicted him on you Dr. Watson ... on all the Watsons for that matter ..."
Sir Arthur was lost in thought for a moment and suddenly drew a quick breath addressing her directly, "I tried to kill him off, you know, created Moriarty to kill him. But they would not let him die. They made me ... made me resurrect him ..."
The British gent continued badmouthing Sherlock as Joan reached for her phone and texted "My room NOW" to Sherlock.
When Sherlock received her text at 2:57 a.m., he, as was his norm, was wide awake. He stared at her message attempting to decipher its meaning. Either Watson had finally decided to take him up on the friends with benefits proposition or there was an intruder in the house. Wishing to be prepared for either occasion, he popped a mint into his mouth and grabbed his single stick before bolting up the stairs.
Sherlock opened the door to her room stealthily after listening for a second or two. There was definitely someone in there with Watson, a Brit, upper class by the sound of his accent, with a rather archaic vocabulary.
As he came through the door, he saw the specter standing by Watson's bed. Watson turned to him, relief on her face. She attempted to introduce them, "Sherlock, this is Sir Arthur."
Sir Arthur took one look at him and made a rather disgusted sound at the back of his throat, "You - I will never be rid of you. Bane of my existence!" He suddenly charged towards Sherlock at full speed. Sherlock stood confused as to what it was that was coming towards him - even in the limited light of Watson's room he could tell this thing had no weight, no mass. Sir Arthur didn't hesitate. He ran straight at and then straight through Holmes dissipating into nothing but vapors as he disappeared into the darkened hall. Sherlock stood stunned, blinking as he tried to understand what had just happened, single stick still upright in his hand.
A rattled Sherlock looked at Joan, "What was... Are you alright?"
Joan was really not sure if she was alright or not, "You saw him too, right? This was not a dream."
He stared at her as he calmed down and attempted to process what had just occurred. Sherlock finally put down his stick after having come to some sort of conclusion. "I saw no one. You are mistaken Watson, there was no one here. It was most likely errant moonlight reflected from the building across the street."
Joan stared at him, mouth open in disbelief. "Errant moonlight?" She shook her head, "Errant moonlight that spoke with a British accent and knew our names!"
Sherlock tried his best to come up with a plausible answer. "I think we may have just momentarily slipped into what is known as "folie à deux," he nodded his head, agreeing with himself. "Whatever happened, it is gone and you are safe. Try to get some sleep." He exited the room quickly before further questions could be asked.
Watson sat upright in her bed, clutching at the blankets, not scared but frustrated and angry.
A whisper passed around her head "Forgive me, Dr. Watson, forgive me..."