"I've always hated riddles. They're rather trivial. Please, Doctor, don't beat around the bush unless the bush needs beating."
"There is a bullet aimed at the chest of one Doctor John Watson, and there is nothing, nothing you can do to prevent your best friend's death; after all, you are in a coma."
Sherlock struggled against his barely used emotions, desperately trying to keep his face expressionless, almost porcelain mask. It could crack at any time and show the skin, the flesh, the tears, the pain beneath. "I know that."
"Well, then. Shall we begin?"
Sherlock's heart rate had risen; John alerted the neurologist, who put Sherlock's head inside the brain scan machine to check the frontal lobe activity, and whatever else he found relevant.
"What is it? What's happening?"
"It looks like he's having another conversat- oh. Oh, that's...interesting."
To John, interesting meant bad. "What's wrong?!"
"Last time, the two-way conversation was generated fully by Sherlock, but we aren't seeing two sides of the conversation here."
"So, what, he's talking to himself?"
"Ah, no, it's quite the opposite...someone is inside of his brain."
"Are you ready, Patient H? This won't be nice, but I'm afraid it's rather necessary to my cause. I need to see how you react while in ASC to a real life experience...you put yourself into one, which was extraordinary, during your first night here. Do you remember?"
"Of course."
The scene changed, and Sherlock was standing at the foot of his bed. To one side stood John and- who was that, Anderson? To the other side stood a doctor, who was looking at a computer screen, periodically adjusting the machine that Sherlock's head was in.
"Look out of the window to your far left. Do you see it?" taunted Smith cruelly, watching as the consulting detective slowly raised his eyes to see the sniper positioned from the top of a building. "Thirty seconds. And, before you try anything, John can't hear you. Or me."
"What do you think I am, an idiot?"
Smith smirked. "Yes. Twenty five."
"I have a watch."
"Oh, this just adds to the effect; the drama, the suspense, the whole enigmatic...thing. Twenty."
"I'm bored. If you're going to shoot my best friend, you could do it quickly." said Sherlock, badly hiding the fear in his voice. Smith chuckled.
"What would be the fun in that? Twelve. You could beg, if you like. Nine."
"I won't grovel for my best friend's life if there's nothing I can do."
The doctor tutted in mock disapproval. "Seven, six, five," Sherlock gulped, watching the unsuspecting expression on John's face, the last chance he would get "four, three," I'm sorry, John "two," I'm so sorry... "one..."