In the middle of London, there lies a flat.

In the middle of the flat, there lies a pile of… well, for simplicity's sake, let's just call it all "experiment products" and be done with it.

And in the middle of this pile, buried underneath mounds of whatever-that-is and Post-Its and small glops of gunk and items of a bone-shaped quality, there lies a note.

Not just any note, though. The Note. The Note written by a person desperate to forget, to remove forcibly from his brain, to rectify his memory so that all knowledge of those emotions is gone, gone forever, never to be seen or heard again.

A note, even written in such a traumatic upheaval, typically doesn't gain anything from it. The bold, capitalized, dramatic words etched in ink and emotion don't imbue that particular piece of paper with powers or cognizance any more than the other Post-Its lying around the flat (most of them reading, "Sherlock, GET THE MILK.", for a reason unknown to the Note). However, this note was written by none other than Sherlock Holmes, and around Sherlock Holmes, as most people know, Interesting Things are bound to happen. And so the note, scribbled hastily from the swirling depths of emotion within an assumedly emotionless person, becomes the Note.

At first, the Note is content simply to be the Note. After all, for a note, what else is there to do whilst buried in a stack of slowly-moulding rubble? The Note talks to the other notes- or tries to, anyways. The other notes apparently aren't conscious (come to think of it, the Note isn't sure why he is, either), so the Note lies in silence and tries to wait patiently for a sentient being to notice it. As this anomaly of a Note was created by Sherlock Holmes and is therefore graced with some of the consulting detective's characteristics, this does not last long. By the end of the first week, an edge of the Note can be seen poking out of the stack of rubble, because merely lying in a stack of rubble is seen by the Note as dull, and the Note calculates that its chances of being seen by other self-aware beings are remarkably higher if the Note itself is visible.

By the end of the second week, about half of the Note is visibly sticking out from the pile of experiment products, because it really is quite bored amidst the insentient variables, and though the Note isn't particularly prone to shooting walls like its writer, it wouldn't mind giving the sentient beings rudely ignoring its existence a nice paper cut. The Note sighs a little note-y sigh to itself, concludes that waiting is BORING, curls in on itself (the Note will later claim it's from the humidity in the flat- something's blown up again, leaving rather a dank feel about the place), and settles in for a nice, long sulk.

On the Saturday of the third week, three of the Note's four corners are clearly visible from the entrance to what he's gathered to be the living room. This information is acquired from the two sentient beings often seen by the Note bustling in and out of it, sometimes stopping to relax and type on computers and watch telly Right In Front Of The Note, and how perfectly rude is that, really? The Note stews and concocts great papery death-trap plans for the two blissfully unaware of its existence. And when one of the men asks, "Not good?" and the other replies, "A bit not good," the Note is inclined to (fully) agree.

When the fourth week begins, the Note has almost resigned itself to a life of horribly boring non-sentient Paperhood. It's been practicing the stillness and quietness that the other papers display, and though the idea of being merely another useless Post-It-like scrap horrifies the Note beyond anything he's heretofore encountered, to escape the onset of ennui, he's willing to try anything.

And then.

And then.

The man with the umbrella comes in and sits down in the chair never occupied, next to the pile of rubbish in the living room. He twists the handle on his brolly musingly as the Creator (as the Note's come to think of him, not without a bit of a papery growl) angrily wrenches the wrong, no-good, horribly-off notes from the violin in his hands. The man with the umbrella winces, and the Note feels a bit of vindictive pleasure that the Creator is so obviously displeased. The man's eyes cast about the room, looking for something to comment on. His eyes land, finally, on the bit of paper sticking out of the pile, long-forgotten, the two lines, "I WANTJOHN. I NEED JOHN." firmly marked on the Note. The man's eyes widen. The Note waits for him to look away.

He doesn't. Instead, his eyes gentle, and his lips spread into a soft smile, before picking up the Note and tucking it into his pocket. He turns his attention to the Creator and says something, something about a John coming home? The Creator replies nastily that he is not this John's keeper. A second later, the door opens and John walks in. (At least, the Note supposes it's John, the reactions of the Creator and the Man with the Umbrella indicate as such, and though the Note is unsure as to the Creator's powers of deduction, it has every confidence in the Man with the Umbrella's.) The Man with the Umbrella and the Creator both smile, and the Man with the Umbrella offers to make John a cup of tea. (Apparently, this is not normal, judging by the reactions of the Creator and John.) The Man with the Umbrella busies himself in the kitchen, first with one pot, then another, then a small bag of what looks like potpourri, then milk and sugar. At last, he takes the Note out of his pocket and, business-like, slides it under the mug. The condensation causes the ink to run a bit, and the Note panics- he hasn't figured out what makes him sentient, and what if it's the precise positioning of the ink, and now that it's run, will he still be cognizant and self-aware and— and— and—

The Man with the Umbrella sets the mug down next to John and announces that he really must be going now. The Note is a bit disappointed, but as he approaches John's lips, still attached to the bottom of the mug, he's certain the Man with the Umbrella has a reason for sticking him to the underside of the mug.

That plan, it seems, is to be revealed rather quickly, as John peels the Note off the bottom of his mug. His eyes scan it, then turn to the Creator. "Sherlock?" he asks. "What's this?"

o.O.o

A/N: ...I can't believe I just wrote 1.1k from the PoV of a piece of paper. Life, what is it?

Anyways, this is for MemoryNZ, who asked what happened next. And I do plan on continuing this (how could I leave you hanging, just when John's found the Note? Or me, for that matter?), so stay tuned! Just a bit of a warning, though- it might turn a bit cracky, as Sherlock's a bit of an unpredictable character. You never quite know what he's going to do or say.

Also, big hugs to the Sherlock fandom in general upon finding out that we won't get new episodes until next year. (Next Year, guys. I don't think I can wait that long!) We can get through this! And on that note, a huge huge huge amount of thanks to everyone who reviewed! You guys are splendiferous, and please have some cookies on me. Your reviews made my day, when I got them, so warm fuzzies for all!