"But where did John go?" Sherlock says, on the edge of tears.

Mycroft takes Sherlock's hands in his, bending over slightly. He runs his thumbs over the back of Sherlock's small hands. Mycroft wishes he knew how to comfort his brother.

Sherlock's curly black hair is tousled and long. It hangs in his wide bright blue eyes, a few strands reach the tops of his cheeks. His eyes are wet with the tears that have not yet fallen past his eyelashes. His lips quiver slightly. He has complete and utter faith in Mycroft.

"Well, Sheryl, John never really existed," he says gravely.

"Stop it," Sherlock pushes him away. "Stop it, you're lying like everyone else," he shouts, folding his arms across his thin chest. His voice is high and volatile. His face is flushed. He quivers. "I thought you were different, Mycroft," Sherlock shouts.

"Now, Sherlock," Mycroft begins.

"I don't care, all you ever do is lie, Mycroft." Sherlock wails. His small feet slap against the wood of the hall as he runs back to his bedroom. He throws open the door with a great deal of strength, he takes a moment to glare at his brother once more. At eight years old, his eyes can penetrate his brother's sternum. He slams the door and it rings with finality.

John Watson is real. John Watson is real.

He covers his face, his hands covered in tears after a few moments. He slides down the door.

John is real. John is real.

Sherlock repeats the words to himself, his voice high and broken as he does.

"John Watson is real, John Watson is real," he chants.

John Watson is real. He likes green things. He's good at football. The boys like him. He knows what to say. The girls want to hold his hand. He has skin like the sun. John Watson is real. He can climb trees. He likes my collection of butterflies. He loves bees. John Watson is real. He has blue eyes and sandy hair. He has a stupid nose and ridiculous ears. Sometimes he holds my hand. John Watson is real. John Watson is real.

Sherlock could not imagine a world void of John Watson. It wasn't his fault that no one else can see him. Does that negate existence? Sherlock can not see the atoms that make up his desk, but he knows they exist.