Elysium: A Wholock

Chapter 2: Sherlock Who?

Ok, time to continue.  Do you see where this is going?  I'm trying to stick close to the trailer, quoting it etc.  Some other fanfics I've read have gone completely off the plot, so I hope I can stick to the trailer!

Chapter 2: Sherlock Who?

The next day, I went to St.Barthomew's.  I'd convinced myself that Sherlock had faked his death somehow, and that he was just hiding at the hospital.  Molly would know, if anyone would spill the beans, it would be Molly Hooper.  I pushed open the doors, but the hallway felt empty, despite the many nurses and doctors milling about, I felt like I was alone without Sherlock by my side.

I found Molly in the same lab Sherlock and I would usually find her in.  Her hair down, an uncommon sight with nurses, half of it was down her shoulder, whilst the other half was behind her.  Underneath her white nurse coat, she wore a blue, white and red woolen sweater.  

"Molly" I called out, waving my hand.  Molly only responded with utter incertitude.  "Who are you?" she asked, her fingers brushing against a scalpel.  "You know me, I'm John, John Watson."  Molly only looked even more confused.  "I'm sorry...but I don't know who you are." I shook my head.  "No you don't understand-"  

"No, stop it."  

I pressed on.  

"Remember, you help Sherlock solve his crimes!"

Molly looked very serious when she answered with "Who is Sherlock?"

"You're serious?"

Molly shook her head again.  "Please, just go!" She pushed me out, as hard as I imagined she'd slapped Sherlock multiple times.  It was then that it hit me. I'd lost Sherlock, through a stupid crack in a wall.  Sherlock, the genius, Sherlock  the world's only consulting detective, had been vanquished by a seemingly harmless crack in a wall.  

I didn't take the cab, I walked back to 221B, that was still strangely mine.  But as I turned onto Baker Street, I caught the sight of the journalist who'd released the fake article about Sherlock being a fake.  Her hair was in an 'updo?' Was that the name?  But she also wore a suit, and a single silver chain hung around her neck.

I pulled her aside.  "Hey," I said. "I know this is awkward but do you know of such a person by the name of Sherlock Holmes?" She shook her head, clearly scared out of her skin.  "This is no Sherlock Holmes," I brought my eyebrows closer together,  "There never has been."  I turned to face her.  "What are you talking about?"

Some part of me refused to believe it. The great Sherlock Holmes could not be sucked through a crack in a wall. That was impossible, and as I walked through the door to 222B, I set out to find Ms Hudson.  "Ms. Hudson!" I called out. The apartment was silent.

"Miss Hudson? You there?" I heard the usual sound of her shoes clopping down the stairs. "Yes, John.  I'm here." I walked up the stairs, passing her. But then, I had the fantastic idea to ask her. "Miss Hudson, do you know anyone by the name of Sherlock Holmes do you?" Miss Hudson shook her head. Her mouth thinning into a straight, firm line.  "No, I'm sorry dear."

Just as I fell asleep that night, chasing haunting thoughts about Sherlock, I heard a weird 'wooshing' sound. It was odd, it seemed otherworldly, the sound could've easily fit in one of those SciFi shows, too. Yet it seemed to arose the feeling of hope, something I hadn't felt in a while, and, truth be told, something I needed.

With a soft gong sound, a threw the blankets off and walked to my bedroom window.  I looked at the clock, '3:00 am'.  It was officially a day since Sherlock woke him up at the call for a murder; bang, bang, die!  With a sigh, I turned back to gazing out the window.  There, on the footpath was a bright blue, vintage phone box.  I knew Baker street back to front, this phone box was definitely not here before. "What," I whispered, "is that?"

If the past few days couldn't get any weirder, the door opened, and a man at least in his twenties walked out.  For someone so young, he dressed oddly, and I thought I knew what the youth of today was like.  He wore a coat that was somewhere in between purple and maroon, the same color vest and a bowtie.  Funny, I thought no one usually wore bowties anymore.

The man, with brown hair swept to one side, looked up. I noticed his hand held something that was profoundly weird. So weird I couldn't describe it.  The object was like broken pieces of silver and gold had been melted together, and a emerald was placed on top.  The man saw me, smiled like it was Christmas, and strolled back into his box, the door banging behind him.

The same odd sound rang again, and I ran down the stairs, no longer caring if Ms.Hudson woke up.  Throwing open the door, I sprinted onto Baker Street with little more than my pajamas.  But it was too late, the phone box was gone. "How?" I sighed.