The Unsuspecting Imagination of Sherlock Holmes

"John?

John!"

The short blonde turned abruptly, hearing him for the first time. Sherlock stopped, panting. He had been oblivious to the fact that he'd been running; oblivious, in fact, to everything but the figure in front of him.

He reached out to his friend, but John stared at him, blankly.

"John... Please..." Sherlock gasped out, hoping, praying that this time there would be a flash of recognition in the other man's face.

John paused for a moment, his eyes narrowing as if he was trying to remember something he forgot a very long time ago. "I'm sorry," he said. "Do I know you?"

Any hope that might have remained in Sherlock, a feeble glow in the back of his mind, chose that moment to flee. An empty chasm of darkness opened inside of him, sucking all the strength from his limbs.

"Can I help you?" enquired John, in that polite-but-irritated voice of his.

The air was too thick.

No, the air had completely disappeared.

All Sherlock was aware of was the pounding of blood inside his head, that insufferable ache that reminded him that he was alive.

He was alive.

And he was awake.

That was the seventh. The seventh nightmare.

In every single one he had had a chance to tell John. To tell him that he was sorry.

Oh, he was so, so sorry.

But every single time, John had no idea who he was. In the brain of this 'mind-John' Sherlock didn't even exist.

Sleeping took up too much time. Sherlock hadn't used to sleep, simply because it was boring.

Now he did all he could to avoid it, to avoid the nightmares.

The nightmares that crept up on him without warning, produced by his own warped mind.

He knew they weren't real.

He knew they were just his imagination.

And that's what scared him.