AN: Just a quick epilogue. Thanks for all your reviews, and I hope this finishes this instalment off neatly for you! Thanks for reading - B.

"Ah, John! Come in, come in, sit down – oh, you brought tea, I see. Biscuits too – Just tea for me, thanks. I'm just telling the inspector here about the first case I was ever personally interested in . . . Do you mind?"

Sherlock lit a cigarette, not waiting for a reply or looking at the doctor, then threw the lighter behind him with abandon onto the floor. He drew from it, pausing extremely briefly to tip his head back and blow smoke into the air. The grey fumes billowed in the otherwise still air from his chalky white lips, as he continued:

"Boy named Carl . . . Carl Powers. Very interesting – people said it was tragic. Tragic accident, so awful, such a waste, so on and so forth – Of course, I knew it was far from an accident. But I was only sixteen . . . No one would listen to me," He was silent for a second, and his eyes flicked to John for a fraction of a second. He looked tired. Probably hadn't slept much last night – but irritable, so maybe he'd been woken up multiple times. John sipped his tea, though it was sure to burn him, so soon after being prepared. He carried on regardless.

"Carl was a swimmer. Country boy, up in London for a competition. It was said by all that he had potential, so much potential. I doubt it was all his own natural talent – well, not merely human talent. I've speculated for years on the subject to myself – there were pictures in the paper. He was built, that lad. Huge. Only slightly older than I was, but a lot stronger. Not that much of a mutation that people noticed, but amazing, still. My money's on increased muscle mass, or some sort of 'super' strength, but I suppose we'll never know. He suffered from eczema, though. Took a lot of medication for it.
"Carl drowned. It was at a pool not far from here-" He stopped, flicking ash into a nearby tray. It seemed to scatter in slow motion, the particles of burnt matter littering themselves, distributing in a totally random fashion in the general direction of the tray. He watched it for a fraction of a second, before drawing on the cigarette again. He shut his eyes, holding in the smoke until he choked. He had never been proficient at smoking, despite enjoying it.

". . . As I say, it seemed like an accident to me. But that amount of muscle mass, that amount of – strength? Ability? All this, and he was unable to save himself? They said it was some sort of seizure . . . There was something . . ." He shook his head this way and that, indicating: "There was something off about it. I could see, and I was sixteen . . . Fuck, I could see, and I was recently bereaved!"

He laughed sourly, drawing on the cigarette once more before lowering his slightly shaking hand to the arm of the armchair, leaving it there to deposit ash on the rug. John pursed his lips, and shifted, uncomfortable. He looked down; Sherlock didn't spare him a passing glance.

"My d- . . . My father, John. He died, suddenly, unexpectedly . . ." Sherlock waved these things away, trying to make it look like he didn't care, adding, "But he wasn't the best parent in the world. Not a nice man, not . . ." His voice lowered, and he frowned slightly, his eyes looking far away, ". . . Not very nice at all . . ."

He trailed off, staring at a fixed point on the floor, his eyes unfocussed. After a few seconds, he started, and said, "The case! The case . . . There was something about Carl's case, something strange. They found all his possessions, everything was in order, where it should have been, and yet - There was something strange, that bothered me, that convinced me that it was murder. It was-"

"It was his shoes," John finished. For the first time since he began the recount of his first case, Sherlock looked at him properly. He stared at John with a queer gaze, squinting in disbelief. He opened his mouth, and shut it again, confused. However, he replied fairly quickly.

"Remarkable! How could you have possibly-"
"Carl's shoes were missing. You thought they were taken by the killer – still do," John added, putting his face in his hand and rubbing his eyes like a man deprived of years of sleep. He sighed, and it was the most drawn out, sorry thing Sherlock had ever witnessed.

"How-"
"Sherlock, I've heard this story. I hear it up to six times an hour – sometimes you . . . Well, sometimes you wake up in the night, and you come into my room, and you tell me my money's on increased muscle mass . . . The inspector's not here, Sherlock. We haven't seen Lestrade since Jeff Hope, six months ago. I don't . . . Look, Sherlock there's no easy way to put this, but – well, you've got Anterograde amnesia, Sherlock. For six months now . . . And you asked me for the cup of tea five minutes ago - Sherlock?"

"John," Sherlock said, frowning deeply, confused. John leant forward, his eyes looking hopeful, but face looking crushed and lifeless.

Sherlock stood up suddenly, discarding his cigarette, and strode swiftly to the window. John stood too, though his companion was now facing the window and couldn't see him. Sherlock frantically put his hands on his hips, but quickly put one hand to his forehead, rubbing it with agitation.

"Sherlock?"
"I – I just need, to . . . I just . . ."

There was a moment or two of silence. The air was still, and outside no cars nor people passed by. It was entirely silent, extremely close, just for that one serene moment - the moment before-

Sherlock turned around, face blank, and took out a cigarette.

He fixed his eyes on John, and suddenly looked surprised:
"Ah, John! Come in, come in, sit down – oh, you brought tea, I see. Biscuits too – Just tea for me, thanks. I'm just telling the inspector here about the first case I was ever personally interested in . . . Do you mind?"

Drenched in sweat, Sherlock rolled over onto side as soon as he was conscious. His breathing was quickened, but he didn't open his eyes for a few minutes. For a crazy moment, he wasn't sure if it was safe to.

He didn't ever start when he woke up: more like gradually opened his eyes. He had never been one for bolting upright after a nightmare: most of the time, he was paralysed, unable to move for a few minutes. He suspected that it was his lack of energy after days of no sleep and no food that usually did this to him. Thankfully this time he could move: he attributed it with wordless thanks to John's insistence that he eat some Chinese food.

He was coldly frightened - in the way that he only was when he'd woken up from a nightmare - that the world he'd just viewed was the real one. He'd never tell anyone, but his nightmares would scare him sometimes. They always included his powers; they always included his dad; they always uprooted the most immediate fear he'd experienced.

Strangely enough, his dreams were always in shades of grey, or black and white. This still didn't help him to distinguish them from real life.

He always smoked in his dreams, and he never had the common sense to read people's minds. It all contributed to the feeling of helplessness he experienced while having them, which was close to panic, at times. Tonight's was no exception; in fact, it was the worst he'd had in years. He hadn't had many cases involving a serial amnesia-inducer wanting to steal his life and his occupation, everything he enjoyed, away from him, though.

As he slowly became more aware, he sat up in the darkness, rubbing his eyes and yawning. He looked at his phone, unlocking it, and observing the time: after midnight. But he remembered exactly what had happened after the crime scene . . . He'd not taken the pill, that he'd never taken the chance –John had saved him.

He groaned with exhaustion, and lay back down with a sigh. He'd neglected to even change out of his suit for the day when he'd gone to sleep, aside from kicking off his shoes and removing his jacket before throwing it blithely onto the floor. He noticed the jacket was on a hanger now, on his wardrobe door, and he remembered something about John being in the room at one point. He wondered whether John had judged him for being so messy, or if he was regretting his decision to move in with him because of this . . . He decided he probably didn't mind. He knew that Sherlock hadn't slept in a week, and was absurdly tired. He'd probably forgive him one suit jacket on the floor . . .

He hoped the world he was about to return to in his chimeras would less hideous this time, as he drifted away, shutting his eyes.

He hoped John hadn't heard the dream where he'd taken the pill. He never wanted him to see, hear, or experience in any way that world, because of him. He'd made a true friend, for what he was sure was the first time ever, and he was beginning to understand that to be a burden, or a hassle, or completely obtuse in your attitude toward a true friend was less than acceptable.

This, strangely after many years, was personal development on Sherlock's behalf.

Quiet, at 221b Baker Street, was hard to come by it seemed. There was always someone, coming or going: consulting the consulting detective, more often than not. Literally no callers for the doctor so far, in fact. They were all for Sherlock, and they made it very difficult to get any peace around the flat. It was hectic, yes, but it was thrillingly exciting, so it was acceptable. John had reached this conclusion in the few days he'd considered living there.

But not tonight. Tonight, his flatmate had graced sleep with his attention. John had knocked on his door earlier, at about one o'clock, inquiring:
"Sherlock, I'm going to ask Mrs. Hudson if she can put some washing on, do you want anything cleaned?"
The door had swept slowly open, to reveal the consulting detective sprawled, fully-clothed, face-down on top of his duvet. He didn't stir at the sound of the creaking door, nor at John's apologies; never had the doctor seen a deeper sleep in anyone before. He was dead to the world. Better than actually dead, John thought, as he ran over the evening's events again.

However, at the back of his mind, a thought that wasn't his own – just like the one telling him to keep his gun loaded before Sherlock had left on his bloody suicide mission – spoke to him. He was beginning to realise these thoughts were Sherlock communicating with him, telepathically. Even in his sleep, he was still as bossy as ever:
No. Just give me some peace and quiet . . . Please.

So, John had travelled downstairs after hanging up Sherlock's expensive yet crumpled suit jacket, which he'd left in his exhaustion on the floor. He'd then given Mrs. Hudson the washing, made a cup of tea, and sat down at his work desk nearly two hours ago. It was at the side of the lounge: it was perfect, because there was natural light from the window in the daytime. Besides, the window itself was perfect for staring out of and daydreaming, which so far was all John had gotten around to doing, despite the fact it was mostly dark outside save the orange luminescence of a street lamp. He'd meant to look for jobs on the internet, but thoughts about what had happened earlier racing around his head at a thousand miles per hours hadn't been conducive to his task. Nor to sleep, he'd found out soon enough.

So, he was in his pyjama bottoms and second favourite jumper at half-past-midnight, staring at the Quest Search text bar, wondering which search criteria to use for medical positions in this area. His favourite jumper had been stuffed covertly into Mrs. Hudson's laundry basket, with most of the blood washed out. She'd promised to do their washing until one of them bought a washing machine, although John supposed Sherlock was apathetic about washing machines, and he straight up couldn't afford one. It looked like she was going to be washing their clothes for a long time . . . John supposed he'd have to do the washing in the end, being the one who would die last, or, more likely, never.

The thing with the jumper was, though, if she'd wanted to, the landlady could have easily put two and two together and asked questions about the still-visible blood stain. However, it clearly wasn't in her nature to pry in a malevolent way: she hadn't batted an eyelid at John and Sherlock moving in together, other than to inquire 'if they'd be needing two bedrooms', which was just a simple misunderstanding. He was sure she'd find out about what he and Sherlock were one day, but he couldn't be bothered to think about that right now. He doubted it would be a major issue.

He sighed, leaning back in his chair and staring at the ceiling, knitting his fingers together behind his head in repose. He shut his eyes for a minute, breathing deeply. He wouldn't let himself fall asleep: not here. It would be bad form, and he'd probably get a crick in his neck like there was no tomorrow.

Slowly, a smile crept across his face. He realised he could hear whispers . . . They came from upstairs. For a few seconds, he'd thought they were voices next door at Mrs. Turner's, or Mrs. Hudson's television, but they sounded a little too familiar, and they were upstairs, too. He knew what they were for sure now: the first time, it'd been when he was outside Sherlock's room on his way to pick up his washing, and he'd thought it was the detective talking to himself in hushed tones. However, the things he was saying . . . They weren't very nice. Unpleasant if he'd heard them correctly. He knew what they were now: he'd worked it out.

This time, he heard Sherlock's voice, and his own. He also heard the voice of Mycroft Holmes and DI Lestrade, though seldom as often as his own. Not even Sherlock's voice came up as often as his own. He scarcely heard what they were saying, but when he did, he understood exactly what it meant and how he could hear it.

He wondered if Sherlock habit of projecting his dreams – and, like before, his nightmares – unintentionally in his sleep had been one of the reasons for him never having a flatmate before. Well, that, and the fact that he was quite a messy person, when it came to tidying up and the effort taken to do so.

He wondered if the only reason he'd accepted John as a flatmate in the first place was because, being abnormal himself, he'd be able to accept that Sherlock couldn't control whether his dreams or nightmares were bouncing around inside his head in the middle of the night alongside his own thoughts.

Well, John decided he didn't mind it – right now, he even liked it. They were extremely complimentary thoughts, after all.

Slowly, he opened his eyes, and once again leant forward and faced the laptop screen. He stretched his arms out in front of him, and opened up a new tab on his browser: he opened up the post function on his blog.

Title? He'd heard Sherlock refer to the case in a rather poetic way, most unlike him, over Chinese takeaway earlier. He shook his head, on the verge of laughter, inspiration to write flowing through him in a way he'd never felt before: to write about the case.

Slowly, he typed out a four word summary of the craziest days of his life so far letter-by-letter:

A Study In Silver, by Doctor John H. Watson.

This story shall continue some time next year, in a sequel that'll most likely be called 'The Gifted League' - I'll keep you posted!