It took several hours in order to find this 221B Baker Street address, but once she did, Irene was rather disappointed. Sherlock had made the address sound as though it were this beautiful set of flats. From what Irene could tell, it was just a bunch of shops. Despite the fact that she was dealing with a mental patient, Irene decided to give Sherlock the benefit of the doubt. Mrs. Hudson seemed as though she could have been a real person.

She entered the little café on the ground level of the building, asking for a Mrs. Hudson. The girl at the counter looked at her with a strange look, but left the counter to go retrieve something. When she returned, she handed a phone to Irene. "This is Mrs. Eliza Hudson. She is the landlady of this building, but doesn't live here," the girl explained.

"Thank you," Irene replied as she took the receiver. "Yes, Mrs. Hudson? My name is Irene Adler and I am the therapist of one of your former tenants, Sherlock Holmes."

Irene was on the phone for a few minutes, but by the end of the call, she was farther away from being able to help Sherlock than she was prior to her phone call with Mrs. Hudson. As it so happened, Sherlock had never lived in the Baker Street flat, and the only knowledge Eliza Hudson had of the man was a vague recollection of the story of his jump from St. Bartholomew's Hospital ten years earlier.

For some reason, Irene felt sick after speaking with Mrs. Hudson. She had no idea how Sherlock knew to connect 221 Baker Street to Eliza Hudson because there really was no way for him to connect those two things. She couldn't go back to the mental facility and tell Sherlock that he was wrong, but she had to. He had seemed so certain that this was his life, and now she was poking holes in it.

When she returned to the facility the next day, Sherlock was sitting in the corner, reading the paper. "How was Mrs. Hudson?" he asked her hopefully.

Irene smiled sadly at him. His smile dropped from his face. "Oh god… has she died?"

She shook her head as she sank down in the chair next to his. "Sherlock… she didn't know who you were… except for a vague recollection of the story of you jumping off the building."

He exhaled. "Shit…" he muttered as he dropped the paper in his lap and began to run his fingers through his oily hair.

"What?"

Sherlock let out a shaky laugh. "I was so certain I knew her. I was so certain I lived there."

"What about John Watson?" Irene asked. "Do you know him?"

He whipped his head up to look at her. "You know… I honestly have no idea."

His piercing eyes were watery, but Irene couldn't tell if this was simply because he wasn't fully healthy or if this was because he was upset. "Well… I suppose we could try and find him."

"Afghanistan. He did a tour in Afghanistan. He's a captain in the Army. Has a sister named Harry—she's an alcoholic and has an ex-wife named Clara. Works at a hospital."

"Do you know his whole name?"

"John Hamish Watson."

"Right. Do you know how to track him down?"

Sherlock shook his head. "If he's real, we start with that. I think that's our best bet. But I want to go with you."

"Sherlock, you know that that's not protocol."

"Oh, to hell with protocol!" he exclaimed as he stood up. "I'm a dying man!"

Irene sat back in her seat, physically moved by his actions. "I thought dying was for lesser men," she remarked quietly.

"Well, maybe I am a lesser man," Sherlock replied. "I could almost give you a description of Mrs. Hudson, but if she doesn't know who I am, it's probably wrong."

"I wouldn't be able to certify whether or not it was true. I only spoke with her over the phone."

He steepled his fingers under his chin and closed his eyes. "Irene… I haven't much time left. I don't want to spend the rest of my life here. Please… as my therapist… see if you can get me out of here. I know any arguments I may make about being fit to be in the real world are automatically null and void because of my condition, but please, I need to leave here. There's nothing quite like a mental institution to make a man go crazy."

Irene almost laughed at that remark, but refrained. He certainly had a sense of humor. Whether or not it was appropriate was another question.

This man had virtually nothing. His entire family appeared to be gone from his life; he had no friends; he had no home; he had only himself, and even that was up for debate.

Until that moment, Irene had been at a loss about how to help her patient. But now, she knew what she had to do to help him.

She swiftly stood up from her seat and marched out of the room. When she returned, an hour later, she had several plastic bags and a small suitcase in hand. "Mr. Holmes, we have twenty minutes to get you packed up, because the orderlies will be in with the paperwork that will allow you to be discharged from the facility."

Sherlock stood up and gaped at her. "What? How?"

Irene glanced up at him. "You're a dying man."

He stepped closer to the bed. "What did you tell them? I have nowhere to go."

She smirked. "That's not completely true."

"Irene…"

"You will be under my constant watch. Right now, you're my only patient, which means that I can focus all of my attention on you. But, if things start to get out of hand, I will be required to bring you back here and complete treatment here."

"Complete treatment… you mean, wait until I die…" Sherlock muttered.

"In harsher terms, yes."

"But until then, I am going to be staying with you? Doesn't that pose a conflict of interest or something?"

"In typical cases, yes. But your case is far from typical. I'm pulling major strings here."

"Irene, are you going to lose your job?"

"No."

"Are you certain?"

"Do you want to get out of here and experience life before you don't have the chance anymore?" she asked him as she began piling his books into one of the bags.

"Not if it's going to get you in trouble. I rather enjoy your counsel and wouldn't be pleased if I lost it because we didn't play by the books."

Irene stood up fully, pushing her hair over her shoulder. "Sherlock, I'm not going to lose my job. I appreciate your concern, but let's get you packed up. My job is to help you transition from life to death, and you're making it difficult."

He eyed her warily before finally surrendering to her request. Sherlock began gathering up clothes from his wardrobe and piling them into the suitcase Irene had provided. Though he didn't entirely trust the situation, Sherlock was relieved that he would be able to leave this place for the first time in ten years. He didn't know where exactly he was headed, but he would allow himself to be excited when he figured it out.