~The Awakening~
"John. Can you hear me?" John was faintly aware of a voice at his ear, urging him to wake up. He waved his hand at it, hoping the voice would shut up soon.
"Oh no you don't. Get up!" John suddenly bent up out of sleep, stiff as a board, and felt his face tingle in hot, wet pain. He looked at Sherlock, who was standing over him with a cup of coffee. Or, what remained.
"Well, that seemed to do the trick."
"Please don't ever do-was that hot coffee?"
"Yes, why? Would you like a cup?" Sherlock strode into the kitchen barefoot, and rummaged around in the cabinets. Meanwhile, John slowly wiped his face with the blanket that had been draped over him. He tried to stand up but found that the waves of nausea weren't permitting him to. Sherlock returned with a saucer and cup of black coffee, shamelessly dumping them onto John's lap.
"What happened? I remember blacking out. And a fez…"
"Ah, that. Well, I brought you to the Doctor and you arced-over-tit." Sherlock picked at the dark-colored bathrobe he was wearing.
"Oh, yes. The 'alien.' You really had me going with that illusion! What, did you have me plastered before introducing me to some stranger in a costume? He didn't even look like an alien."
"Don't be daft, not all aliens are green and have eight fingers! Just a day ago I was like you, my mind trying to find some possible resolution or explanation. But there is nothing. Do you understand, John? For the first time in my life, I have no explanation except for what I am seeing and what that supposed 'Doctor' is telling me."
John stared long and hard at Sherlock. Somewhere in his mind, a small voice was telling him that this story could be nothing but rubbish. Yet the truth in the pair of eyes looking back told him otherwise. Somehow, the both of them had landed in something akin to a science fiction television show. And, as Sherlock had said, there was no explanation. There never would be.
"Well, well," his voice was hoarse with the weight of the truth. "Sherlock Holmes believes in the impossible."