Lost Between Worlds

Where am I?

The light returns. I take in a long breath of air, which smells of chemicals and gunpowder. I'm not as dizzy as I was before. I open my eyes. I see Sherl- No, Sherlock doesn't exist. I see a tall, skinny man with a head of black hair standing in front of me, looking out a window contemplatively. It's noisy and dark out there. I look around. I'm laying lengthwise on a sofa, in what seems to be a perfect recreation of the 221b flat. Except for the pervading sense of unease.

"Where am I?" I ask the man. I seem to startle him. "What have you done to me?"

"Done to you?" He scrutinizes me as if he were the real thing. His eyes are a shocking mix of blue, green, and gold, and even though the man's surrounded by partial darkness, I can see his eyes with shocking clarity. Like I know them. Those contacts must be really heavy-duty to fit in that many layers of colour.

"Yes, 'done to me'. Did you drug me? How heavy were these drugs? What percentage, I mean?" I check the backs of my hands, then shove up my sleeves haphazardly checking for any place he could've stuck me.

"Drug you?" He looks a tad amused by this. "Oh for god's sake. I do hope Lestrade isn't putting you up to this. I don't need another drugs bust right now." He pauses for a moment. "And it's not in the coffee, either."

"Lestrade? Greg Lestrade?"

"Yes, I believe that's his name. Still sounds too fake for me, though."

"Fake?" I think for a moment. "As in, like, Sherlock's mistake in the Hounds of Baskerville?"

"Yes, that's what you called it on your blog. No need to humiliate me further. Are you sure you don't need a doctor?"

"My blog?! Where am I and why do you keep calling me John?!" I shout, scared now. The man's cool glasz eyes betray him, and he clearly looks concerned.

"You're in our flat, at 221b Baker Street, and your name is John Watson."

"NO IT ISN'T!" I stand up now, full of adrenaline. "MY NAME IS ALEXANDER MATTHEW WILSON, AND I LIVE IN THE UNITED STATES! NOW TELL ME WHERE I REALLY AM, AND NOT SOME FICTIONAL WORLD, IN LONDON, WITH THE NAME JOHN HAMISH WATSON!" I'm shaking now, fists balled. I'm not used to this sudden anger. Where is this coming from?

"John Hamish Watson." That's all he says. Quietly and calmly.

"Yes? What about it?" I feel my fuse burning lower.

"I never said your middle name. You just proved you are yourself." For some reason unknown to me, I feel the sudden urge to acquaint my fist with his face.

"Yes, and three fourths of the world knows that. It was in one of the episodes." He stares at me, his cold persona finally breaking completely. "I am not John Hamish Watson, nor are you Sherlock Holmes." I punctuate these by pointing at myself, then him, as I say this. "Sherlock Holmes is played by a man named Benedict Cumberbatch."

"Never heard of him." I freeze.

"Of course you have. Everyone has."

"Believe me, I would know if I have."

"Imitation Game? Doctor Strange?"

"That actor's name is Ben Cummings. John, you need a doctor..."

"What case have you just finished? I can prove everything to you..." He looks intrigued.

"Alright then. 'The Hounds of Baskerville'." He strides over to his chair, turns it around to face me, and sits down, looking at me expectedly with his hands steepled beneath his chin. He's completely frigid again.