John had forgotten again.
"Sherlock, tell me, how did you die?"
The taller man looked at the dead bodies before him, sighed and began the story again...
"John calm down!" Sherlock screamed at the other man. "Let's talk about this!"
The men were on a case, a particularly hard one in fact. It involved events that should only occur in physiological horror movies.
After hours of emotional torment, John cracked. Hallucinations, voices, faces. Everything seemed wrong to him. Even Sherlock, his best friend, his love, became a stranger to him. His voice as he called out to him was broken, like it was coming through a broken radio, a scratched record player.
"John please, calm down." Sherlock spoke, more softly this time. An attempt to calm him that will prove useless.
Without warning, Watson charged at the taller man with a knife he had possessed earlier. This knife originally seemed harmless in the hands of Sherlocks good friend, but now it was like the devil had awoken.
Multiple moves were made. Knife slashes from John, dodges from Sherlock. Eventually Sherlock was pinned to the floor and...well...
He died.
"So that's how it happened John. I can see the effects of the killers phycological tricks are wearing off. You won't be able to see me soon."
John then began to realise that the man before him was no longer made of substance, but something more like a shadow...
"Goodbye John."
"Goodbye Sherl..."
Two years later John was walking peacefully down the street. He was now a doctor with friends who cared for him dearly. He has no recollection of why he was in London or how he moved into 221B Baker Street but he had learned to accept that.
He was on his way to the park to meet a friend, Mary, when a blue scarf caught his eye.
Memories came flooding back. His friend, his love, the adventures they had together-
"John! Over here!" The blond heard Mary call. He looked over at her and waved.
John had forgotten again.
But one thing stayed.
A name.
What was it again?
Ah yes.
Sherlock.
Sherlock Holmes.
