A/N: Still odd. Part two. More to come. Still not British, a writer, or imaginary. -csf


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'Okay, John, you've got questions... You know, I brought you here to be of some use, it's really selfish of you to want all the attention on you, on account of your menial metaphysical doubts. Am I really here, why am I here, what's the meaning of life...' he mocks, tense. 'Why do you always have to complicate things? Facts, data, reproducible evidence are what we need.'

I shake my head; don't know. 'I'm the real John. Been telling you that all along. I'm not your imaginary Mind Palace friend.'

'Why do you keep saying that? Is it a clue? Did I reason so fast that I cannot retrace my steps and my mind is tricking me by falsifying my imagination?'

'Sherlock, please. I'm real. I don't know how come I'm here.'

'Oh, please, John! This location does not exist in the real world, that would make me the imaginary one.'

My friend will not accept to be some second class copy of himself.

'Sherlock, what do you think is going on?'

He looks worried now. He rummages his big mind for a few seconds before collecting something from his dressing gown's pocket. A candle. Hmm. Odd thing to have there.

He notices my frown. 'Yes, John, they are magic pockets', he mimics my voice at those two words. 'I can have magic pockets if I like, I'm inside my head and I've seen candles before, therefore it's particularly easy to summon one to my liking and retrieve it from somewhere convenient.'

'Knock yourself out', I say, tired.

He takes the candle to the lit fireplace to set it alight. I wonder why not just whisk matches out of his magical dressing gown.

I wonder if it also works for me. I close my eyes and take a hand to my jeans' pocket. No, just lint, lining the pocket from the inside.

Sherlock holds the lit candle in front of him like a magician. He takes an outstretched finger to the flame.

'What are you doing, you'll burn yourself!'

Immediately he recoils with a sharp intake of breath.

'Told you, you idiot! What was that for?'

'Asserting whether I am, in fact, real. I seem to be. I can feel pain, quite distinctively.'

'Go imagine some cold water running over the burn to cool the area, you idiot! Keep it going till I tell you you can stop!'

He shakes his head. 'Your turn, John.' I hesitate. 'Come on, John, I don't believe you'll feel a thing.'

I outstretch a finger and go nearer and nearer.

'Ouch! Damn it! You said I wouldn't feel it!' I rub the sore fingertip, red and shiny. 'Well, this is not imaginary at all!' I protest.

'Nor is mine, John.'

We stand there, dumbstruck, looking at each other's fingers. One of us needs to be bluffing, and I can feel my skin tingling painfully at the pace of my fast heart beats.

'Are we both dead?' I ask, in a whisper.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. 'You have an unusual fixation with death, John... I chose my blogger well', he adds with a confident smile. 'Come on, let's get some cold water running on our burns, whilst I try to figure this out.'

.

'The case', Sherlock starts, pacing around in the familiar living room. 'The case. I have a feeling, John. This is going to be one of those you'll want to blog about', he says, proudly. From his dressing gown's pocket (must have been tailored at the same place Mary Poppins got her travelling bag from), Sherlock whisks a notebook and pen, much like my regular ones.

I know Sherlock is half using me to report his glory, half trying to distract me from my fear of being dead, but at this time I just feel touched he knows my preference in notebooks – the ones he so often mocks because he's got this supposed eidetic memory; which is environment friendly.

'Ta, Sherlock, it's just what I needed.' There. John Watson can be polite even in the afterlife.

Sherlock huffs. 'I keep telling you; you're not dead. If you build up expectations for a set result of events, you are bound to be in great shock when confronted with reality.'

I frown. 'I thought you were sure I was a figment of your imagination, Sherlock.'

He shrugs. 'Right now it seems that somehow our consciousnesses have intermingled. Which shouldn't be possible.' He smirks. 'Fascinating!'

'No offense, mate, I want my own consciousness back', I ask, grimly.

He rolls his eyes. 'You obviously hold no secrets left from me, John. And I am a master in setting containment areas in my Mind Palace, so you'll get nothing from me. There's hardly need for your Victorian sensitivities.'

I glare at him. 'You were nicer when I came in', I mumble. He looks fleetingly lost at that. It's as if he was nicer when I'm just an imaginary friend under his command, but he feels he needs to constantly baffle, confuse and impress the real life me.

Touché, Sherlock. I can read you too.

'The case', he settles on. 'A man died in an empty room, locked from the inside. The door was sturdy, so much so that the family members couldn't open it by force. Those would be an old lady, a male distant relative visiting the house and two adolescents. The victim was saddled with debts and a chronic illness, he really wasn't going to last long anyway. Does that help, John?' He waits for an answer, I'm momentarily confused. He particularises: 'That the victim would have died anyway. You always get this sad look in your eyes when you first spot a dead body. Does it help if he didn't have long to live? Because, honestly John, we are all perishable creatures anyway.'

I shake my head quietly. 'It helps if he had time to make amends, and tell his loved ones he was proud of them and he loved them. Yes, it helps, Sherlock.'

He seems troubled. 'Are you still worrying you are dead? You can be quite stubborn when you put your mind to something.'

'It's still in the back of my mind', I admit.

'You wouldn't need to make amends, John', he says, loftily, as he takes up his violin again. Perhaps just to hold something in his jittery hands.

I smile. He's trying to be nice again. 'Are you going to play now?' He nods, Yes. 'Why, Sherlock?'

'Because your heart rate has increased significantly, and you are looking rather pale. The violin usually sooths you.'

I blink. He's right. I don't feel so good.

What–?

Sudden cracks flutter down across the wallpapered walls of Baker Street's living room's carbon copy, branching out through the plaster and paper. Even the bookshelves shake under what feels like a mini earthquake. Sherlock plays on, unfazed, as the incandescent logs in the fireplace roll over, crumbling the earlier neat pile. Something smashes in the kitchen, sounds like glass shattered on the floor. Mrs Hudson won't like it.

'Focus on me now, John', Sherlock's voice rumbles deep, sharp and metallic, never stopping that melodic lifeline. I breathe deeply and swallow dry to overcome the sudden nausea. Slowly, the Mind Palace seizure ceases, and at the same time I start feeling better, stronger.

Sherlock hums approvingly as he watches carefully my recovery. At the same time my multitalented friend keeps playing soothing melodies on his violin. I don't tell him they still sound a bit weird, as if they had an echo to them, for a few more minutes. In fact, I don't tell him much at all. Sherlock plays on, inspiring tranquility and homeliness in me. Healing the shock.

The cracks on Baker Street's walls remain like scars, a tangible record of Sherlock's Mind Palace seizure.

I huff out, realising I've been holding my breath for a while now. Sherlock finally tugs a little smile to his lips and lowers the violin.

'Yes', he says immediately as if nothing had happened since, 'the Copenhagen police force's interpretation was quite straightforward, I'm afraid. If a man dies alone in a room, with no weapons and no outward physical signs of violence, he must have suffered some syncope. They believed the autopsy would reveal its mechanisms at a later time, and so they recorded the case under the simple procedures of death due to natural causes. They never held the suspects for interrogation, only took statements. Some pictures of the room were taken, but the site was subsequently released to the family as soon as the corpse was taken away.'

I blink, forcing myself to focus on the case Sherlock is presenting, and not my fears or the Mind Palace's apparent displeasure in having me present. It feels like the Mind Palace was trying to regurgitate me out of here.

Apparently the Mind Palace does not approve of my secret decision to tidy up the place.

'Did you not feel that? The whole place was shaking! Is your Mind Palace located atop a tectonic plates fault line? What on earth was that?'

Sherlock's eyes dim. 'I don't know. I suppose I should go back out and check, but there were no alarms going off. I've got protocols in place to pluck me from my Mind Palace on case of real necessity.' Looking me over, he assures me: 'We are safe in here.'

'Has something like this ever occurred before?'

'No, John.'

'Then you better check it, no?'

He refuses summarily. 'Not leaving you yet', he says firmly. Not leaving me alone while I'm lost in his Mind, he means. He will not resurface for the same reason he will not dismiss me from his presence. We don't know what lies out there and we need to cover each other's backs.

.TBC