((Hello, ladies and gents! Sorry for taking so long to post more on this one. I've recently been getting more into the show 'Criminal Minds', so if anybody would be interested in seeing some criminal minds fics, shoot me a message!))

Sherlock stepped back from the vision he was seeing into another TARDIS, the same room but empty: The Doctor's mind. He'd made it. The plan was so far, going fine. So, he did end up helping him. That was an upside. Either way, he had to finish his family reunion soon, Sherlock had a body and a life to get back to. Luckily, as Sherlock could see what he was doing from within, he could see the Doctor go through with the plan.

He quickly remembered what he had to do, confusing the two people with him, rushing into a certain room and grabbing a smallish, circular piece of metal. He used his ship - as he called it, his TARDIS - and I knew he was piloting Earth. A voice that he only through his head ran through Sherlock's, and he knew it was time. He shut his eyes hard, created a hole in the ground, and leapt into Psychospace.

Again and again, he thought his own name, his own life, his own heart. The thoughts of the other creatures were like bullets, but it wasn't a hard journey, and he found himself soon in his body again. He opened his eyes wide. This was real, right? He looked around. Definitely real, every detail was in place. Nobody was here. Not John, not the nurses. He felt his chest for the metal plate. He didn't remove it, as he didn't know whether he still needed it. Alien heart assistance. Well, it certainly seemed to work. He sighed with relief. He was exhausted, but sleep sounded just about as attractive as a bullet to the head just about now. He didn't even shut his eyes. He just lay there… waiting…

As he kept his hand on his chest. He gasped as he felt the metal begin to sink. He looked down. His skin parted, and, like a liquid, came up over the metal as it sank into his chest. It didn't hurt, it didn't feel like anything. But still, his heart was beating by the time it was gone, so he supposed it was supposed to do that.

He didn't know how long it was until a nurse came in to check on him, and after her many more rushed in, including John. It all sort of rushed past him, like a blur, and he couldn't really react. He supposed this was bound to be a side effect of comatose; disorientation, hopefully not permanent. His body felt stiff and the world seemed to go in slow motion.

The next couple days that he spent in the hospital, he still wasn't doing much, but he was able to talk to John no. Not perfectly, still a little confused, but he was almost back to his normal self.

"So, it was because of prolonged oxygen loss?" Sherlock checked again, rubbing his eyes.

"Why are you so set on why?! You're awake now!" John insisted excitedly, "They told me any sort of confusion or damage isn't permanent, we can put all this behind us!"

"Mm…" Sherlock agreed halfheartedly. But still, somehow, he couldn't. What about the Doctor? The question nagged at him more and more, especially when he tried to let it go. What about the Doctor?

In a couple days he was out of the hospital and, aside from needing a bit more sleep and not being allowed to think too hard on problems, functioning totally normally. But still, the more he thought about the Doctor, the more it worried him. He put his hand over his heart, knowing for certain that the metal had to be there. Still, though, he hadn't seen the Doctor in his dreams at all. The more he thought about it, the littler the proof he had. Was he even… real?

Of course he was. Nonsense.

Still though, he felt he was on a quest to prove himself wrong. He thought of every detail from his dream, considering how he could alter it. First, he returned to the hospital and X-rayed himself. His hope began to fall apart when he found that his heart was totally normal, with no pieces of metal in it whatsoever. Maybe it had melted in? It was alien. It was possible.

His panic started rising, he didn't even talk to John when he got home. He took out his laptop, searching on the computer. "The Doctor," he searched. For a long time, he stared at the screen, his eyes going wide. John was calling his name, but he could barely hear it. No… it couldn't be.

That wasn't possible.

Now, no less than hysterical, he raced back to the hospital.

"I need to know what was on when I was in comatose! Anything with a Doctor!" he snarled at the nurse.

"What?!" he asked.

"On the T.V.! Show me!"

After a little more convincing, the nurse showed him a list of things that were likely on, some of them, news, some of them sitcoms, but only one seemingly meaningless commercial was important.

"That one," he insisted, "Play it."

The nurse did as he said. Sherlock watched with horror, as his final strand of hope was cut.

The commercial was a fiftieth anniversary for a popular show called Doctor Who, starring a man named the Doctor. It showed one of the most famous quotes of each of the incarnations of the Doctor.

"Our destiny is in the stars, let's go and search for it."

"While you have been merely content to observe the evil in this galaxy, I have been fighting against it!"

" A straight line may be the shortest distance between two points, but it is by no means the most interesting,"

"There's no point in being a grown-up if you can't be childish sometimes!"

Sherlock shook his head.

"No…" he whispered. None of it. None of it had happened at all. How could that be… but the more he considered it, the more likely it was. Now that he saw the show, he knew he had seen it before, that red planet he'd seen, the image of the Doctor, really played by an actor named Matt Smith. It was all fake.

He went home. John had questions, none of which he answered. He only stood by the window, peering at the pavement below. He wasn't exactly sure how he felt or how he was supposed to feel about the whole ordeal. Quite frankly, he still couldn't believe it. Yes, he was clever, but how did he make such emotion? The Doctor seemed so… human. So real.

He just stood there thinking until nearly one in the morning. Merriam Webster Dictionary defines a dream as "an idea or vision that is created in your imagination and is not real".

And maybe, just maybe, it's right…

Sherlock sat in the road of the black and white town he'd visited in his mind once before. The same faceless people walked by, the same buildings stood real as before. He looked to see where the blue box had been. It was no longer there. It had been nothing but a set, a prop, just as it was in the real world.

A voice spoke up behind him.

"You'll get run over like that, you know."

Sherlock rapidly stood and turned around. Nothing there. He waited a moment before he turned around again. This was his trademark. Slowly, he turned. And there he was. He gave a knowing smile and crossed his arms. Sherlock sighed.

"Why are you here?" he asked.

"I wanted to thank you," he responded, "For all of this."

Sherlock growled, unhappy about being mocked, "I didn't do anything, you know it. I was only dreaming."

"Yes, you were," The Doctor replied, "You just kept on dreaming, no matter how stupid it was, no matter how much danger you could have gotten in. And you have no idea how much I appreciate it… I'm pretty much a hypnophobic now, but I figured I just had to pop in and thank you."

Sherlock considered constructing an argument but before he could, the Doctor not so much stepped forward as appeared forward and wrapped his arms around Sherlock. Sherlock's heart ached. He could feel every muscle, every garment of clothing. He felt real. After a moment, the Doctor let go and leaned back.

"Well, must dash, last thing I want is to get stuck again," The Doctor said cheerfully.

"Wait!" Sherlock objected. His mouth wagged for a few moments, the Doctor raising his eyebrows as Sherlock built up the courage to ask the question. "Are you real?" he said finally.

That same, traditional, not so sane grin spread out over the Doctor's face, the one Sherlock knew so well. He prepared to ask him more questions than just that, but at this point, his eyes were opened to the surroundings of his room.

Sherlock never dreamt about the Doctor again. He sort of figured, what with how much he thought of him, he'd at least have a guest appearance made up by his mind, but he truly was gone. And, as he was gone from his dreams, slowly, he was gone from his conscious mind. Like the loss of a friend, it was becoming easier and easier to believe that the Doctor was gone. Well, not gone. He never existed, he was a figment of his imagination. It was very simple, very sensible, the most logical explanation. And yet…

That look in his eyes.

That smile on his face.

Sherlock still couldn't rid it from his mind. Even if he didn't dream about it, he thought about it more than he took pride in. Something about it made it impossible to forget him. The question was closed, the Doctor was just a bad memory.

And yet, as those nonsense dreaming nights and contemplating days went on, Sherlock couldn't ignore the instinct that the Doctor and his TARDIS was more than just a dream.

_END_