They reached Irene's small flat two hours later. As it turned out, she lived just outside of London, and during commute, the Tube was hard to maneuver. But upon arrival, Sherlock found himself very much out of place. "Irene?" he asked worriedly as he walked out of the room that Irene had offered to him.

She was in the kitchen, rifling through her refrigerator, looking for something to throw together for a meal. "Yes?" she replied.

"I'm finding myself to be very anxious. Is this normal?" he asked her as he stood against the wall, examining his surroundings like a scared animal.

Irene glanced over at him and bit her lip. "Okay… why don't you sit down over there, and I will bring you some water and something to eat. Just keep taking deep breaths and I will be right there."

Sherlock nodded numbly, slinking away from the wall and hurrying to sit down. It wasn't that Irene's home wasn't welcoming, it had just been a long time since Sherlock had been in any sort of home environment, and despite the fact that he was comfortable around Irene, he was still very out of his element in this unknown space. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.

Moments later, Irene walked out into the room, holding a plate of food and a glass of water. The plate of food looked appetizing: cheese, crackers, an apple, and some ham. It was the meal you might give a young child, but to Sherlock, it was more than sufficient. He wasn't very hungry these days. All the medication he was on suppressed his appetite. Despite this, he ate a little of everything and then retreated to his room to go to bed.

The following morning, he was up earlier than Irene, showered and ready to go exploring. His apprehensions about being out of the facility were still present, but he knew that this was the last chance he would have in this life to go out and live, so he swallowed his fears and put on a brave face. Irene wouldn't let anything happen to him.

Once Irene was ready to join him, they left the flat in search of one Dr. John Watson. Sherlock's knowledge of the schematics of London was impressive, but as he explained to Irene, he had ten long years to memorize the layout of London because of the map he had on his wall. Irene suggested that they use a cab, but Sherlock was adamant that they walk through the city.

From what Irene had gleaned from Sherlock, John was the person who wrote about their time together. Irene inferred that Sherlock wanted to ask John about the last few years to piece together his life so he could move forward and leave his life at peace. It made perfect sense to Irene, but she doubted that this venture would bring much success.

When they came upon the clinic that Sherlock was certain was the clinic that John worked at, he thrust the doors open and hurried up to the receptionist. "Does a Dr. Watson work here?" he asked her.

The receptionist nodded and glanced over at a computer screen. "Do you need to see him?" she asked Sherlock.

"Yes, please."

She nodded and then stood up. "Just a moment, sir."

"Thank you."

Sherlock turned back to look at Irene, a grin forming on his face. Irene didn't want to get too excited for Sherlock just yet; they still didn't know if Dr. Watson would recognize Sherlock. Unfortunately, her fears were confirmed when the man whom she presumed was Dr. John Watson stepped out into the waiting area and looked at Sherlock in such a way that Irene knew that John didn't know who Sherlock was.

"John!" Sherlock cried out as he stuck his hand out for a handshake. "How are you?"

John shook Sherlock's hand, but glanced at Irene as he tried to figure out what was going on. "I'm fine… sir… how are you?"

Irene saw things going south very quickly. She stepped beside Sherlock and shook John's hand. "Dr. Watson, I'm Dr. Adler. I'm Sherlock's therapist. He has asked to see you."

John nodded, suddenly starting to piece things together. "Do you have an appointment?"

"No, of course not, John."

John scratched his head, becoming increasingly uncomfortable. "Dr. Adler, may I have a word?" he finally asked quietly.

Irene nodded before turning to Sherlock. "Just go sit down. I won't be too long."

"Are you sure?"

"You have to trust me," she told Sherlock. "Just read something from the magazine rack."

Reluctantly, Sherlock went to sit down and read as Irene slipped into John's office. "I'm terribly sorry," she said softly as she closed the door behind her. "Sherlock is my patient; he's in his final days and has requested that we meet with people from his past. Or, I should say, his alleged past. He was certain that he knew you from somewhere."

John blinked and slowly nodded. "I've never seen that man before in my life. Why does he seem comfortable with calling me by my first name?"

"He's been in a mental institution for the last ten years. Prior to that, he jumped off the roof of St Bart's, thus prompting his brother to have him institutionalized. He's dying."

"Dr. Adler, I'm not sure why you're here."

"He thinks he knows you."

"But he doesn't. What is his last name?"

"Holmes. His name is Sherlock Holmes."

Something registered with John. "Oh… that's him? I remember hearing about the guy jumping off of Bart's, but I didn't think he was still alive."

"Well, until recently, he was alive and kicking. I guess he still is alive. I'm not sure about the kicking though…"

John drew in a long breath. "I'm not sure what you want from me."

Irene nodded. "I'll explain the situation to him. But, maybe you could just say goodbye. Give him some closure. You don't have to pretend that you now him or anything. Just shake his hand and wish him well. I'll do the rest. It's my job, after all."

"Right. That's fair."

"Thank you, Dr. Watson. I apologize for taking your time."

John and Irene walked out of his office and out into the waiting area. "Sherlock," John called out, a huge smile on his face. "I hope everything is well with you, but I have some patients I have to see, so I'm afraid I can't stay too long. Anyway, best of luck mate. I'm sorry to hear about your situation, but you know…"

"Right. Everyone dies," Sherlock answered, his face not as grief-stricken as Irene had expected.

Before John could reply, Sherlock offered his hand to John and nodded curtly. "No need to pretend. Sorry to take your time," Sherlock finished.

John's face fell. "I'm sorry. I really am truly sorry."

"No need to be sorry for this. You didn't have anything to do with this."

John looked over at Irene, trying to find some way of handling the situation. Irene only closed her eyes slowly and quietly exhaled. "Dr. Watson," she sighed as she nodded slightly to him.

Sherlock didn't want to walk back to the Tube station. He requested that they take a cab to the station. He said that it was because he was tired, but Irene knew that it was because he didn't want to have to walk the streets that he had memorized incorrectly, putting incorrect images to the streets he thought he knew perfectly.

Upon returning to the flat, Sherlock retreated to the guest room. Irene didn't see or hear him for several hours. When he did reappear, it was nearing midnight, and Irene was about to go to bed. He padded into the room as Irene was finishing up with some emails. Sherlock sat down on the couch adjacent to Irene and watched her morosely as she typed away at her computer. "Irene…" he murmured.

Irene looked up from her computer. "Yes?"

"When I die… will you tell them that I'm not fake? Will you make sure that they know that I'm real?"

"What? Why would people think you're a fake?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You saw what happened with John!"

"Sherlock, that's an isolated event."

"And Mrs. Hudson."

"Okay, those are two isolated events."

"Irene, please listen to me. I'm a fake. My entire life has been a lie. I'm nothing more than a madman who has been institutionalized for a decade because I jumped off of a building and lived."

"That's not true."

"Yes it is."

He turned over onto his side and curled up into a ball.

"Sherlock…" Irene sighed as she closed her computer down.

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at her. "All they will think is that I was a madman who jumped off a building in an attempt to take my own life. No one is going to believe that I was real."

"Define real."

He was taken aback by this comment. "Sorry?"

"What do you mean by real? In a perfect world, what does real mean?"

"That my life actually happened the way I remember it. That it wasn't all just in my head."

Irene cocked her head. "What do you mean by that?"

"Irene. I was in a mental institution for a reason. You tell me."

"Sherlock, I have only known you for almost four days. I have no idea what the last ten years have been like for you."

"What if I told you the story?"

"What story?"

"The whole story. How I got here."

"Sherlock, you've been in a mental institution for the better part of the last ten years."

"But I've lived a different life. I haven't actually lived in the mental institution. I was out, solving cases and exploring London."

Irene eyed him with deep concern. "Sherlock…"

"You could write it. You could be my John Watson, since John doesn't know who I am."

Irene furrowed her brows as she tried to figure out what Sherlock was trying to get at. "Write down the stories?"

"Exactly. You can be my biographer. You can write down what I tell you and publish it. That's what I want. I want it to all be presented as fiction. Maybe then I might get some validation for the life I led, since no one wants to believe that it was real."

Irene was about to point out that it wasn't real, but as she examined this poor man, months, if not weeks away from his death, she saw an opportunity to help someone. Truly help someone. Her job had always meant to be as a way of helping people, but never, in the ten years that she had been doing this, had she actually helped anyone. All the people that she set out to help died before anything could really happen, and she was rubbish at helping people embark upon their journeys to the afterlife. But this, now this could really be something.

She flipped open her laptop and looked at him expectantly. "Where do you want to start?" she asked him with a broad smile.