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"You never quite get used to it, do you? The smell of blood..."

Sherlock's skeletal fingers slid through a spattering of deep red on his armrest and brought it to eye level to inspect it. He sniffed it as if it was an expensive wine, savouring every minute element of its bouquet.

He didn't need to bring it close to take it in. The stench was everywhere, permeating every stitch of clothing and upholstery, seeping under doors. Scarlet and copper assaulted my senses.

The blood had half-dried, sticky in the carpet. It was in my hair, on my clothes, on my hands; it covered every wall in violent splatters and artistic brush strokes. And there in the middle of it all were two versions of the same man, the same glorious and horrific man, one seated calmly in his old chair and the other face down in a pool of his own life essence.

I was pulled back and forth between these two apparitions, careful not to convey my terror lest the one sitting down took it as an opportunity to taunt me further. He smiled innocently at me, a sweet sideways upturn of his lips, the skin beside his eyes crinkling.

"He wanted to see you again, John. Understandable. I hear it gets quite lonely in the afterlife."

A sudden movement pulled my attention to the floor. A twitch- and another-

The corpse's hand cracked and balled into a fist. He slowly and awkwardly began to get to his feet. The bones in his neck creaked as his head settled into the correct position, his eyes fluttered open, and I was stumbling across the room to my desk where my gun was- please let my gun be there-

The whites of his eyes were inked with black veins, his cheeks hollowed and rotting, those once-perfect cupid-bow lips a dull purple and chapped beyond repair. Bruises engulfed the right side of his face, framed by a stream of still-pumping blood. He smiled when he saw me, and extended his loose hand, grey fingers stretching uncoordinately to shorten the space between us.

"You should go with him. That way neither of you will be lonely…"

The thunderous noise of a gunshot and a shattering of glass, and I found myself alone in our dusty, decrepit flat. The browning was aimed at my splintered reflection, in what remained of the mirror above the mantelpiece. I felt shards in the soles of my feet when I tried to balance myself.

Minutes later I heard Mrs Hudson crying.

oOoOoOoOo

"You're high priority, so the results should be back in an hour or so. If you'd like to get something to eat, the canteen is-"

"Ground floor, left on the second corridor and opposite the bathrooms. I paid attention."

"...Quite right."

Idiot doctors. There was no chance that the scans would come up with anything new this time, all the other tests had shown absolutely nothing except the fact that my brain activity was above average. Yet Mycroft- bloody Mycroft- insisted.

"They'll get it this time, brother mine," he'd stated confidently. "We have the best doctors in England on the case. Once they find the problem, it will be fairly easily mended, I'm sure. It's not as if you can't form new memories, so it stands to reason that blah blah, blah blah blah blah, blah. Blah blah. Blahlock. Sherlock! Are you even listening?"

"...No."

"Hmm…" Why is it he had looked so impressed?