The Sherlockian Therapy Book

One Shot (: Part One. Maybe. So Not Really A One Shot. Whoops.

My vision blurs as I smack my clock ito submission. Five more minutes until I have to get up, then twenty more before I take a cdab to Sarah's. I'm almost settled back into my sleep when something occurs to me.

I can hear the snapping and popping of the fireplace. The warm smell brings makes me think of the late nights working with Sherlock. I push the memories away, sigh, and pull myself out of bed. After the....fall, I've had plenty of Mycroft's people pop up with things to keep me occupied. This must be  one of them. I pull on my robe and snatch my cane before hobbling out to send away whatever babysitter has intruded my home.

I push open the door to the main room and frown. There's a tall, lean figure with fiery ginger hair picking at the yellow smiley-target Sherlock spraypainted years ago.

"Hey, get off, mate. Believe it or not, that bit of decor has sentiment." I move quickly towards the wall. I can hear Mrs. Hudson bumbling up the stairs, with the clatter of a tea tray.

"Sentiment or not, you should've filled in the bullet holes ages ago. If the edges are allowed to keep eroding as they have, anyone will be able to fit cameras in there." He turns to look at me, and I gape at the impossibly familiar pale green eyes. He hops over to the dusty black leather chair, and lets out an annoyed, yet dramatic sigh.

"Oh, by the way, I'm not dead." Sherlock says, with his "we both know what's going on here" expression.

I cautiously sit in my chair, and try to remember waking up. It sure felt real enough. I point my cane at the look-a-like.

No---no you did die. I saw you. I went to your funeral, I buried you." There's a loud crash and we pause to look at Mrs. Hudson flustered in the doorway. Age has taken her prisoner, and since Sherlock died, it has slowly taken her animation and making her more frail. She adjusts her glasses and peers at the ginger. He rushes over to pick up the tea tray.

"I'm so sorry, dearie. I'm so terribly clumsy. It's this old hip, slowing me down. You startled me, as well. You just so much like.."

He grins, sets the tea tray aside., and pulls her into a hug.

"Ohh, Sherlock. What have you done with your hair?" She exclaims, a bit of her old self shining through in the playful disapproving tone.

"No, Mrs. Hudson, this isn't Sherlock. It can't be Sherlock." I say, though nobody seems to be listenign.

"I've dyed it. Molly did it for me. Now the press will never recognize me, even if I start doing cases again. Isn't it wonderful?" 

"Wait, can we take a moment to remember that you are dead?" I shout, startling both.

"John, calm down. Do you remember my last words to you? Not the very last? 'It's a trick, it's just a magic trick'?" The ginger uses his hads to accentuate his words, stirring more memories of Sherlock calming me down.

"Yes. Of course. I remember his last words to me, yes."

"John, John, John. You're missing the point. I had to escape the press. Once I got below their radar, all of Moriarty's men couldn't attack my reputation. Who ever heard of a dead man walking the streets except for psych ward patients and in camp stories? Do you understand?"

"No. How would there even be a remote possibility that you- he survived?"

"Can't you respect my words? A good magician never reveals his tricks. Who would ever believe in his power?"

Can't decide whether I'll add on to this or not (: Maybay, maybay not (; Woot woot. Three in one day (: