Lestrade didn't recognise him.

Donovan didn't recognise him.

He would have even been relieved if Anderson recognised him…But no luck there, either.

He had been falling, he had crashed, he had died…but then he was here, at Scotland Yard. A proper officer. A police officer, for god's sake, why in the world would he ever be a police officer? But there he was, at Scotland Yard, head full of proper police…stuff.

Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective, was gone.

And in his place stood Sergeant Holmes, as he was known to Lestrade and Donovan. Except he now knew them as Greg and Sally…since when were those their names?

But it felt so strangely familiar to him, as if he had been here for months, even years.

But that was impossible.

It had been just hours ago that he had crashed to the pavement outside the hospital, yet now he was working a case. Working under procedure, of all things. Sherlock was on his way back to the hospital to get the DNA samples from the victim for the case, and he found himself vaguely wondering why.

Why did he need these samples so badly?

Why couldn't he have just done the tests himself?

Done the tests himself? What was he thinking? Of course he couldn't have done the tests himself; Sherlock was just a sergeant, he left these things to forensics.

He wouldn't have the faintest idea where to start…right?

Sherlock shook his head sharply, trying to rid himself of this feeling of unease. What was wrong with him today? He was just an officer, he had been here at Scotland Yard for years; he was a proper officer, in the back of a cab, on his way to collect the DNA samples for Greg…

It must have been a dream. There was no other rational explanation. Just an extremely vivid dream.

What about John, then, was he just a figment of Sherlock's imagination? John Watson, his best friend, his only friend…

Wait, what was he talking about? Sherlock had plenty of friends on the force; he had a decent social life…although now that he was reflecting on it, Sherlock couldn't quite seem to grasp the details.

And a consulting detective?

Sherlock would admit it, it sounded like the kind of job he would have dreamed up for himself, other than his childhood goal of being a pirate, but he had a steady profession at Scotland Yard. There was nothing else he would ever dream of doing.

Right?

But Sherlock Holmes never had vivid dreams. His brain never shut off or slowed down, even in sleep, and the closest thing to a dream he'd ever experienced was a whirlwind of words and images, but never anything coherent or meaningful.

Until now, apparently.

But the main thing that bothered Sherlock about this whole business was the end of the dream. From hearing people's dull accounts of nightmares and even John's occasional frightened confessions in the middle of the night (no, no, John was just a figment of his imagination, it was just a story created by his mind…), most people's terrifying dreams seemed to end as a prelude to a final resolution, usually death.

However, Sherlock's dream did not end right before he hit the pavement outside the hospital; he clearly remembered smashing into the ground, a split second of blinding pain, then…nothing. He was dead, he remembered being dead, before a bright light reached out and consumed him.

Then he was here, a proper officer.

Nothing more.

But…this John Watson. His best friend, John Watson. Sherlock had to go and find him, because if anyone would remember him, it would be John. It had to be John; Sherlock couldn't bear the thought of his best friend, John Watson, having no idea who he was.

Or, worse, John simply seeing him as one of those idiotic police officers they always had to go solve cases for, because the police was apparently completely incapable of success.

Sherlock hated this immense doubt he was drowning in; he was always completely sure of himself, and nearly always right, at that. Why should something like this throw him off so badly?

It was a dream, he told himself firmly as he stepped out of the cab and paid the driver, heading up the stairs of the hospital, ignoring the jolt that he got when he walked over the pavement outside the building.

Just a dream.