figment.

story.

John had only been a story in a book Sherlock had read that summer. He had built his life around the golden boy, and he was so broken because of it.

Sherlock put the book in a box under his bed. He couldn't bring himself to reread it, frightened that he would drown himself in a fake reality once more.

All he had wanted was John. And he had believed in a mere fictional character because the only thing he had were books. That was the most interesting thing in his life.

John had taught him that he needed to be someone more, and it had been absolutely thrilling.

Sherlock became addicted to cigarettes. And the smoke turned into heroin injections and the heroin turned into crime scenes. The crime scenes were like a fantasy. Ordinary people told themselves murder wasn't real, and Sherlock wanted a fake reality.

He was in Bart's one afternoon, and the door creaked open.

"A bit different than my day."

That voice. Sherlock didn't dare to look up from the blood vessel he was inspecting in the microscope.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine," Sherlock said.

"And what's wrong with the landline?"

"I prefer to text."

"Er...here. Use mine."

Golden fingers. Golden touch. Golden shivers.

"Oh. Thank you," Sherlock sputtered out.

"This an old friend of mine, John Watson."

The name. Could fate really be so kind to Sherlock Holmes?

It could.