"I'm going out," Sherlock mumbled, already halfway out the door.

"I'm coming with you," John said automatically, shutting his laptop and reaching for his coat.

"No."

"Oh, don't you think so?"

"It's nothing. I'll be fine."

"I don't care if you're infiltrating the government or shopping for milk, have you seen what happens when I'm not around?"

"I'll be fine." Sherlock started down the stairs, and John followed after him. No way was he letting this go.

Sherlock pulled open the exterior door and strode outside, turning around to say something, but a dreadful B-B-BANG cut him short: gunshots, echoing away down Baker Street like smoke in the wind. He began to fall, and only then did John see the bullet holes riddling his dark coat.

"Sherlock!"

He was at his friend's side in a heartbeat. Though he knew enough to keep his head at a time like this, his throat didn't seem to be working properly. He felt Sherlock's wrist and there was a pulse, but it was ever so faint…he fumbled for his phone.

"Too late," gasped Sherlock. "Put that down, John, put it down, it's started…"

"What? Hey, hold on, what are you doing? You have to keep still, don't—"

Sherlock had got to his feet, staggering slightly. The amount of blood on the pavement said he should be dead, but so did the half dozen bullet holes in his chest, and John found himself willing to trust that this was not as bad as it looked. He didn't speak until they were back inside the building, Sherlock leaning heavily on him and being unusually quiet as they ascended the stairs.

"Okay, basic explanation, please."

"I was told not to bring anyone, you came, I died. Can't tell you where, still can't, but I really, really should have seen it coming, stupid, hello Mrs. Hudson."

The landlady gave a piteous cry. "Sherlock, you look frightful! What's happened?"

"Not now, please not now…"

"Here we are, then:," John said as his patience snapped, "either you look Mrs. Hudson in the face and tell her you've just got yourself shot, or you explain what's really going on."

Sherlock stumbled away from John, swaying dangerously as he faced him on the stairs. "John, listen to me. It's not a trick. I'm going to die."

John's stomach did another lurch. The one time something was really as it seemed, of course it was this. But just as he was reminding himself of the things that didn't add up, he noticed something else.

"Erm, you're glowing."

Sherlock took one look at his hand, from which luminous golden dust was trailing, and bolted up the stairs. John raced after him, cursing loudly enough for Mrs. Hudson to hear behind him.

Sherlock had reached the toilet, but before he could latch the door, a kind of spasm wracked him; he leaned heavily on the sink, breathing hard.

The glowing edged up his neck. He seemed to be growing less solid. His eyes met John's; he looked frightened.

"Everything is going to change. I'm sorry."

John swallowed. "I don't understand." He didn't. He had the sense of teetering on the precipice of a black descent into some new brand of madness. And then Sherlock exploded.

He erupted like a volcano, his hollow coat spewing golden light from the neck, arm and bullet holes. Watching him burn away, faceless and still—scarecrow-like—had to be the fifteenth most horrible thing John had ever seen. Transfixed, he nearly jumped out of his skin when Mrs. Hudson came up beside him: she made a small noise of shock, but immediately fell silent, and John felt likewise that they must not make a sound, though he could not explain why.

The energy dissipated abruptly, leaving a complete stranger looking quite startled and disorientated and still wearing Sherlock's clothes: tall, with snow-white hair that stuck up in odd places, his bright blue eyes out of focus.

In an instant he turned a piercing gaze on John, who flinched away but realised he was already flat against the wall. For a moment they just stared at each other as John struggled to find his voice.

"Who the hell are you?" he managed at last.

The stranger looked a bit surprised, like he hadn't thought of that before. "Me? Oh, I'm still Sherlock Holmes, I think…" And he collapsed on the tile floor, unconscious.

There was a deathly silence.

"I'll make tea," said Mrs. Hudson in a small voice, and she too was gone, leaving John quite alone, opening and closing his mouth soundlessly as he stared after her.

It did not feel like a dream.