Chapter 11

"Sherlock! Sherlock, wake up!" John shouted, shaking the detective awake. Sherlock's eyes flashed open and took in his surroundings. No longer was he in his flat. He was back in his room at the asylum again. Squeezing his eyes Sherlock mumbled to himself,

"No…No, not again." He wanted so much to just open his eyes for once and find himself in the dimly lit sitting room of 221B. He missed the wallpaper with the yellow smiley face and his skull. He missed Mrs. Hudson and even Mycroft.

"Sherlock!" John's voice shouted, snapping Sherlock's attention back to him. Sherlock looked his friend over. His eyes were frantic and wide. Sherlock bit at his lip. Something was obviously bothering him and he had a feeling he knew what.

"John, I have to tell you something-"

"I have to ask you something first," John interrupted. Sherlock felt his stomach twist suddenly. John looked so fearful, like he was looking into the solemn face of a ghost.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, slowly sitting up in his bed. He was still so sore from his therapy from before. John took Sherlock's hands and asked carefully,

"Who are you?" Sherlock stared at him. He would have answered with his full name and his address like he had always done for the doctors, but he knew that that wasn't what John was asking. He wanted to know the truth.

"I am a consulting detective that lives in a flat at Baker Street in London. I work on cases with Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade and a girl who works in the morgue back home called Molly Hooper, who is always stuttering around me for who knows what reason. I was on a case with my best friend, but something happened to us. I woke up here afterword, but didn't find my friend again till now," Sherlock told him. John stared at him, his hands shaking. Sherlock could feel John's pulse beating faster as he held John's hands gently in his...or was that just his own pulse?

"Who is your friend, Sherlock?" Sherlock and John both looked at each other for the longest time before Sherlock finally answered,

"You." John instantly paled and jumped away from Sherlock, eyes wild.

"What…what…what is this?" John stuttered, running a hand through his hair. Sherlock attempted to jump to his feet to John's side, but the pain stopped him instantly. Instead he fell back onto the bed, grasping his sides in pain.

"John, please just…just listen to me-"

"Listen to you?!" John hollered, taking a few steps away from him. "Why are you telling me this, Sherlock, I believed you, but this is just…just…"

"Crazy?" Sherlock assisted. John stared at him for a good long while, making Sherlock fidget nervously.

"I'm sorry, but I have to go," John sighed, walking to the door. Fear pelted Sherlock's heart and without thinking he dashed from the bed and grabbed John by his shoulders. John paled at Sherlock's actions and tried to pull away, but Sherlock kept his grip tight, ignoring the pain running throughout his body.

"John, please just let me prove it. Please…I need you to believe!" Sherlock shouted. John struggled in Sherlock's grip; absolutely terrified by the man he had been calling a friend the past few days.

"I'm sorry, but I…I can't…this…this isn't right. Please, just let me go," John pleaded. Sherlock didn't let go, though. His actions were moving faster than his head.

"John, I can't…I can't do this without you. You have to believe me!" Sherlock's grip became painfully tight and John was becoming more and more terrified. Everything he had heard from Darcie seemed to make sense now. Was this what happened to Richard Brook? Was Sherlock going to kill him too now? Oh, god! Sherlock was mad…crazy! How could he have been so blind to the truth? John knew one thing. He wasn't going to allow himself to follow in the same footsteps as poor Dr. Brook. Acting on instinct he slammed his foot against Sherlock's abdomen, where the burns were the worst. Sherlock collapsed hard against the floor, sputtering as red hot pain burned throughout his body. "John, please…" he trailed off as he tried again to pick himself up off the floor. John stared at the madman that lay on the cool tiles one last time and swung open the door.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes," John stated as he closed the door behind him. He could hear Sherlock's muffled cries from inside the room and his fists pounding frantically against the door, pleading for him to just listen; to believe. John couldn't do that. This was just too much. A man he had believed to be a friend had lied and tricked him. That's probably what hurt the most. Without looking back, John ran from the room to the back doors. He was getting out of here and he didn't care who he left behind. Not Molly, Lestrade, and definitely not that fake Sherlock Holmes.