Ash cleared her throat, "So... Sherlock Holmes." She tested the name; although she had said it many times, it felt different. When she shuffled in the sheets of the hospital bed, she was met with intense eyes from across the room. Gulping, she spoke carefully, "Are your deduction skills really all they say to be?"

She watched him carefully, looking for signs that this was only a figment of her imagination or some twisted game. She returned his intruding look, curious, one that Sherlock was eager to impress with his observation skills. He'd always loved showing off his brilliant mind.

Sherlock didn't flinch, nor did he blink; he kept his bright eyes trained on the girl in his living room, "Better." He challenged with a small glimmer in his eye. He hummed in thought, "Most people don't ask for the.. truth."

Ash grinned, "I'm not most people."

Sherlock leaned back, smirking faintly, "You're right, you're not. You're nineteen, living on your own in an apartment, you would call it because you are American. Obvious by your flat accent and your hideous pajamas. Your parents are deceased, leaving you with an ancient vase that you fought to keep in as best condition as you could. Unfortunately, it's shards ended up sending you to the hospital. We both know you got it from their funeral.

"You are rather a special case. I have found no leads as to why you are here. It's something I cannot put my finger upon. Something that doesn't add up." He narrowed his eyes, "I've two questions for you, Ashton: how did you get to London, and how did your belongings end up in an alley, on top of you, no less?" His eyes dug into hers like a shovel, searching for the answers he did not have.

Ash hummed thoughtfully, "Grandmother. My grandmother died." It may have been her stalling method, but it was still a sting to her heart to admit that, reminding herself the loss she had felt only a year ago, but she forced herself to breathe and focus. Mourning would do no good right now- it would only show weakness.

Sherlock's eyebrows raised as he realized his mistake, "Oh!" He exclaimed, "Your parents already were dead long ago. You're grandmother pampered you... typical. I should have known- ah! The vase! The vase-" He stopped, his face twisting back into a void of emotion, "You're avoiding my questions."

Ash swallowed, blinking at him, "You'd never believe me." It came out as a whisper, something that held fear- fear of isolation. She thought back to the television swallowing her up and spitting her out into the alley like gum, the inarguably scariest thing she'd ever experienced in her life.

"You'd be surprised." The detective's face didn't move an inch, only his eyes followed hers. His hand curled and uncurled, waiting to hear he was correct, that he hadn't been missing anything. That his strange discoveries were true. His impatience was growing along with his curiosity.

Ashton shook her head, "No. You don't understand. I'm not really feeling up for a mental asylum- thanks." She attempted to sit up, and quietly yipped in surprise when the forceful, yet gentle arms of Sherlock Holmes push her back down.

He looked down at her with boredom, "Doctors orders." He defended innocently, sitting back down. He leaned back, hands clasped like a tent, "Now please, do go on."

Ash was like a deer in the headlights, she couldn't get over how real this seemed, "I was sitting alone in my apartment. Watching..." Fear clawed at her gut. "Watching a show."

Sherlock only grew more curious by her vague answer. She was hiding something. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "You're skipping over important details. What, might I ask, was the name of this... show?" He couldn't help but impatiently ask for answers he didn't have.

Her eyes widened a fraction, and she rambled too quickly, "That- isn't important. I- uh. I was watching a show." She tested before resuming, "And I had all the lights turned off. I was getting comfortable, because.. I watch it in order to fall asleep." What an embarrassing chunk to admit. "And then, um, the television screen just... cracked. The screen when black, and I couldn't see anything... and... and the screen was still cracking. Everything just, I dunno." She scratched her head, slouching into the comfy couch. "The television just swallowed everything up. It was dark, so I can't really tell you what I saw... it just spat me out on a London alleyway."

She left out the fact that she was also in a different universe.

Ashton looked up to meet the eyes of the consulting detective. He was muttering aimlessly, deep in thought. His head snapped back to her, "I need the name. Tell me the name of the show."

Ash stared incredulously at the famous detective, "You... believe me?" She still tried to swerve him from answers. Her stalling methods were getting weak.

The detective lets out an irritated breath, "It's all lined up. Theory is, you were closest to the television, thus you got thrown out first. The items closest to you followed, until it reached the other end of the house. You really should keep your wallet closer to you, you know.

"It's not the most believable statement to the wary mind... but the facts add up alright enough. The television's glass failed to show up anywhere, even after tests being run."

She blinked in surprise, "How did you-"

"Lestrade is extremely quick with case information... although I won't comment about his cognitive processes. I sent him a text while we heroically saved you." He dismissed, "He also had your blood checked- no results. There's no proof of you ever existing. You're nobody.

"Now, please give me the name of the show."

"There's no need for it. It isn't important." Ashton was slowly lulling to sleep by the sound of his voice. When her grandmother died, she coped by falling asleep to the sound of the television in the background. Each show and movie was different. Some were too noisy. Some too quiet. But BBC Sherlock seemed to do the trick every time.

"You're deflecting. It's a factor in this case that I find important." Sherlock's hands rattled against his chair, knowing there was something she was hiding. He needed to know what. What could be so important about the name where she would hide it? Did the show contain some... repulsive content? No, no. She wasn't embarrassed.

"I'm not a client." She muttered, "You can throw me out, but I do distinctly remember you being against that a minute ago." Her voice was softly fading as she spoke sleepily, "Doctor's orders." She teased.

Sherlock huffed, standing up, "I can easily work out a cell in the mental asylum." He challenged flatly, attempting to persuade her.

Ashton's face suddenly went pale in sudden panic and anxiety, "You wouldn't."

Sherlock smirked at her helplessness. "I can. If the game gets too sweet I might have to go through with it. I'm not one to lose."

A pained expression lit her face. "You wouldn't. You promised!" A whiny tone lingered. She tried to get up, her left leg lifting as she reached to pull herself up.

For a second, Sherlock took in her struggling expression. Her wild panicked eyes glazed in drowsiness. Sherlock poked a bony finger on her forehead and she collapsed back on the bed, dead to the world.

He shook his head, "I never promise anything."

He made himself comfortable in his chair, swiveling it just right so he could sit cross-legged. He was happy to have a quiet moment of peace for once. The rhythmic beat of the heart monitor played in the background and he could feel himself drifting into his mind palace. He concentrated, because there was only one person who could solve this case.

~ᏕᏂᏋᏒᏝᎧፈᏦ ᏂᎧᏝᎷᏋᏕ~