He ran through empty London once again. Once again trying to ignore the constant banging that halled through the streets and lifeless houses like a curse. His curse. His own, personal curse.
He had been following his mind, did the things his brain wanted him to do. In this gigantic riddle he was reduced to those cells, this brilliant mind of his would lead him out of the hallucination he was caught in.
But first he needed to find a clue.
Some kind of clue.
Sometimes even the lack of objects could be a clue. This time it wasn't. Which had lead him to a great number of different deductions. None of them made sense at the moment.
He noticed he was wearing a different suit today. He had never changed clothes.
His thought process was slower than usual as well, but he blamed it on the banging. This horrible noise.
"Shut up!" His voice wasn't nearly as effective as he hoped to be. The window next to him shattered, he could feel liquid on his hand.
This was produced by his own mind, this whole place. The probably most accurate mental image of London that had ever existed. Except that it lacked humanity.
He was slowing down now, walking up a hill and staring at the houses right and left to him. Dull. So very, very dull. They were all the same, every single one looking like the one next to it. As if they had been built a few days ago, every unnecessary detail stripped off them.
Once again he tried to call Mycroft. Calling John from his own phone - he wasn't that hopeless.
The mailbox told him once again to leave a message and Sherlock told it once again in a very colourful language to shut up. Although he could have meant the banging as well.
His head was hurting, he needed to stop thinking for once. But the only solution for that problem had vanished together with London's population.
He sat down somewhere, entered a few houses, tried a few couches. Went back to 221b. Tried to wake up. Punched another window. Watched the red liquid slowly drop to the ground and waited for the pain. It never came. He was caught.
He googled it, knowing already what the results would be. Realized none of them would help him, this world was created by himself, if he didn't know something it wouldn't appear.
He turned on television, only to be surprised by a grinning Rich Brook. He would have almost smashed it as well, thrown it somewhere to his experiments on the ground but stopped shortly before doing so. He stared blankly out of the window, waiting for something to happen.
How does one escape his own prison?
John pushed the worried nurse away, entered the room and sat down in front of Sherlock. He probably didn't see him, judging by the clouded look on his face, but he didn't want to give up hope. Not again.
Sherlock started shooting the wall once again, desperate for something help him think. There weren't even any nicotine patches anywhere. John had taken care of that. John. And suddenly his whole mind was concentrated on John. He grabbed the jumper from the ground, brushed the dust away and stared at it for a while.
Maybe he missed him. A bit.
He should at least do that, John was his only friend. Friends missed each other.
"Listen Sherlock, I know you can't hear me... but... I miss you."
He needed to think. Think. He needed to bloody think! The banging got louder now, destroying his thoughts again and again like bullets that shot through them. Again and again.
"Can't you make this place a bit more quiet?" John turned to the doctor who shook his head helplessly. John muttered a curse and turned to Sherlock once again. Sherlock who had in that time furrowed his brows as if he stared at the air in front of him. The doctors said he did that from time to time. But still John couldn't stop himself from hoping that this time it would turn out to be more.
Why could he be hallucinating? Good question! Drugs. Maybe it had been too much. Mycroft had said something around those lines once.
What could he do against that? Better question! Nothing. If it was the long-term effect of drugs there was no cure. Not yet at least. Not with the drugs he had taken. John had warned him. Multiple times. He should have listened to him more.
"Just try to... use your real eyes, will you do this for me Sherlock?"
He closed his eyes, tried to find a way out of the delusional world appearing in front of his eyes, out of the room of his mind palace he was caught in. He ended up screaming in frustration and slamming his fist against the wall.
John jumped backwards, the fist missed him only by a bit. He had been able to feel the air moving. Sherlock had reacted to him. The doctors congratulated him, but he didn't feel happy. He felt even lonelier than before. Because Sherlock was still trapped and he was still alone in 221b.
221b was a deserted place most of the time. Time in general was a touchy topic. Sherlock didn't care about it at all so it turned out this place was as timeless as it was lifeless. Sometimes there was night and sometimes day. It didn't matter.
What mattered was the exit.
One day it was cold, the streets were frozen and it could have been a nice and sunny winter day. Sherlock put on the jumper because it was warm. And a sign of respect. Because he should consider himself dead now and when the people who were alive mourned for the dead, shouldn't he do the same for those who still lived?
He would appreciate if people mourned for him and not only because of the constant sound in the background.
John grabbed Sherlock's arm. This was the end, he suddenly realized. Sherlock wouldn't come back.
Sherlock threw himself on the ground, not caring about the shards of glass and chemicals. This world wasn't real after all. He saw and felt the blood, but not the pain. He closed his eye, when something grabbed his arm.
Sherlock stared at him, his eyes awake and sharp as ever, his hand at John's wrist. "John."
Then the moment was over and John was alone. Once again alone. He should get used to that.
- TO BE CONTINUED -
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