There's a man with black curly hair and a dark coat. He laughs, and something flutters inside John that makes him feel lighter than air. Suddenly the laughter stops, and the man shudders. Blood begins to pour out of his eyes, ears, between his lips. He gasps, trying to say something-
John Watson wakes up, clutching at the grey sheets and gasping for breath. His wife rolls over, hair tousled.
"Mmm? John?"
"Go back to sleep, Mary. I'm fine." She mumbled something again, but her breath evens back out. John stares at his hands in the moonlight. Their shaking.
A model citizen of Autodale will report any uncomfortable feelings or thoughts to the nearest Handyman immediately, no matter the occasion or hour.
John gets out of bed, and rummages quietly though the closet for a shirt and coat. He slips out into the hallway. He pauses for a moment, and cracks open the opposite door.
The sliver of light illuminates the room covered with colorful crayon drawings, and the soft sniffles of sleep. John nods, curls his shaking hands into fists, and walks out into the night.
Elsewhere…
He's so close now he feels giddy and high. He hadn't realized how much he missed civilization. Needed it. With all it's crime and criminal underworld and not having to worry about trivial things like finding food and hypothermia.
And John of course. The rational part of him would have said that John was dead- he hadn't come across another human soul for years. But the rational part of Sherlock Holmes was long gone. The lense was shattered, the ointment infested. How human beings survived in the most dire of circumstances, he would later contemplate, is with pure, raw emotion. By all logical thought, he should be dead. He's not though.
There's still a part of the old Sherlock, though, and as he stares at the soaring concrete spires on the horizon, he's analyzing, calculating, logging. He's standing there, peering through the chain mail fence, just watching. Waiting.
There's a cold wind that blows through the folds of his coat, and John hurrys down the street. His lone footsteps echo. When he reaches the end of the street he pauses, almost imperceptibly, before continuing. He's on the outskirts of the city, and crossing the grey concrete expanse between the fence and the nearest patrol station always makes him unsettled. He's nearly halfway across before something makes him stop. He feels like he's being watched. He turns towards the inner city. Sees no one. Swallowing, he slowly pivots to the fenceline.
Two golden eyes of a freak stare back at him. There's a tap on his shoulder, and John jumps, but a Handyman's round white eyes look back at him.
"Do not worry, citizen. Autodale is perfectly safe. There are no monsters here." John nodds, and allows the robot to guide him home. The monster howls. It almost sounds like his name.