entranceway | [video]

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[The network comes on to show a man’s face. His brow is creased with worry and he attempts a smile, though it’s not entirely successful.]

I understand we’re all trapped here. And this is.. Wonderland? Or so I’m told. I find that notion pretty ridiculous. No doubt we’re all being fooled. We just have to look at this logically to figure out how to get back home. I’m sure the parlor tricks here are very impressive, but we can’t honestly believe we’re being held here by magic, of all things.

Anyway, my name is John Watson. I was in the British Army and I’m a doctor. If anyone needs medical attention, let me know. I’ll do what I can to help.

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Don't wander off.

[Stay right where you are. Keep your eyes fixed on me. Sherlock ends the connection with finality and pushes himself up from his chair, flinging a coat about his shoulders for old time's sake as much as anything as he strides to the stairs, and then down them with a sullenness, with a weight to every step, as though he wishes he could drive his feet through the floor and disappear. It never works, the wishing or the stomping, but some things are universal necessities.

When he takes the door it's with only brief trepidation, however much discomfort is painted across him in tall, red letters by the hunch of his shoulders and the unhappy set of his mouth. Starting over was never going to be easy, not ever, but this is a worse option than most. Much worse. It was meant to be a triumphant return, not to come at a time in which he feels himself pulled thin, functionless, useless, inches from the hypodermic and even closer to stepping off a roof. Again.]

[John isn't going anywhere, but it feels as though he's run a marathon. All of a sudden, his pulse is racing and he feels a cold sweat on his skin. The last time he saw Sherlock Holmes it was on the pavement with blood pouring from a cracked skull.

He shakes his head, trying to erase the image. And now, somehow, in a way that defies all logic or reason, his best friend is supposedly coming to meet him.

When the door of the mansion opens, John turns to look and what he sees before him is more like a shade of the man he once knew. Where was the confidence? The pushed back shoulders and the haughty air that was Sherlock Holmes? John isn't entirely convinced he isn't imagining all of this, and certainly it wouldn't be the first time he dreamt of him.]

Are you really...?

[Is any of this real?]

How do I know it's you? How can I.. be certain?

[Already he can feel tears stinging his eyes.]

Don't know. If it wasn't real, expect I'd have woken up by now.

[He's not inclined to touch the fact that even back home he wasn't really dead, not yet. At the moment, that only seems likely to get him hit... though maybe he deserves it, and maybe he wants it. It's easier to verify the truth of one's own embodiment when it hurts.]

I did tell you. Only a magic trick; I said it, didn't I?

[The question is almost indignant. He's assessing, testing the edges of this... person, John Watson; can't even be sure they're from the same place, the right place. There's the other one here already, the woman; their differences are obvious, but given an array of infinite possible worlds, what subtle variations might have been produced here? How much can he trust? How much does he want to be incapable of trusting, and how much mistrust can he condone?]

[John stares at him silently for a long moment, processing those words. He knows what Sherlock is referring to. He said those things to John on the phone before he jumped.]

Are you telling me you faked your death?

[He almost can't believe it. He feels so much confusion right now. Yes, those were Sherlock's words. It's just that John stood at the man's grave. He begged for it not to be true.]

[There are so many things that Sherlock could say. So very many. Some are biting -- Well, at least you've brought your brain with you. Well reasoned. Others are indignant -- Not for giggles. None of them are quite right, though. Even a simple yes seems... insufficient.]

I meant to come back, if I could. When it was fixed.

You.. meant to? If you could?

[John looks aghast and then progressively, he looks angrier.]

You let me watch you jump off a roof and expected me to think you survived? After I saw.. there was a body!

[But he shakes his head. Sherlock doesn't have to explain. It's not entirely important how Sherlock did it right now.]

Do you have any idea how I... I mourned for you! I was mourning for you right up until the moment I woke up here!

Don't be pedestrian, John; it's entirely unbecoming. You had to see. You had to see and you had to believe, only way, but I thought you might work it out eventually, at least when you found the...

[He looks down at John sharply, eyes narrowed.]

You did find the body? On the rooftop? I didn't kill him; why would I? But you must've expected I'd anticipate it; that was the game all along, to use you against me. Your bloody blog, and then the rest.

[John loves his friend dearly, but he's getting very close to the urge of punching him in the face.]

So you're saying this is my fault? Because I wasn't clever enough to put the whole puzzle together? [If Sherlock calls him pedestrian again, John really will deck him.]

[Sherlock presses his lips thin. That's not what he said, not at all, and the assumption on John's part that he's vicious makes him want to be, to demonstrate the breadth of what that would really be like, to cast in stark relief what he'd actually meant to say, which was that he'd tried, he had, in the only way he could.]

If you want it to be your fault you'd be better suited looking towards your blog; last thing a detective needs is a name, very last, knew it was going to do me in eventually. Expect you did too. Only takes one suspect recognising my face, inevitable, but I didn't expect it to be like that. There was no time; I had to improvise, that's what I'm saying -- and anyway it was a fair exchange, me for you.

[His blog? Then one he wrote? Then isn't it his fault? John stepped closer and reached to try and grip Sherlock's jacket. He was seconds away from throwing that punch.]

You weren't complaining about my blog when it was bringing you cases!

[It was the only thing bringing them cases until Sherlock became famous! But then he eases his grip at the last part.]

No, it wasn't. It wasn't fair at all.

[There was nothing fair about it, and after Sherlock died, John didn't feel as though he'd been done any favors. He still doesn't.]

[Sherlock doesn't step away from the grab at his coat, doesn't bring his hands up to defend himself. There's no point.]

Wrong. I did object, frequently and repeatedly, to your bloody blog. Content, writing style; all objectionable, I told you. I had cases; you walked into a case, that's the point, that's why I didn't stop you.

[Sherlock isn't under the illusion that John took the flat and stayed for any other reason than what Sherlock could provide him. Those were the terms of their association, of any association. Give and take. What he means is that the taking on John's part had been outweighed by the giving. That it was worth the inevitable downfall, sufficiently new and interesting and worthwhile as to permit it to end him, in time.]

Three people, besides. Not just you. Three people for one, and I knew I'd survive. More than fair.

The blog brought cases to our door! How do you think all those people ended up at our flat! You arrogant...

[John turns away in frustration. He walks several steps and brushes his hand down the front of his mouth.]

You know, I always considered what I would say if I ever saw you again, and this is not at all how I imagined it.

[Them arguing about his blog of all things.]

You know what? Forget it.

[He walks briskly away from Sherlock, though there's no stopping the man from following if he really wants to. John just needs to cool off.]

[Sherlock gives a frustrated, furious noise and lifts his arms as though to work his fingers into his hair and pull, as though to tear himself to pieces.]

I don't even know that you're real!

[He shouts it to John's retreating back, but he doesn't follow, can't follow. His feet are firmly planted. It's easier not to, anyway. It'd be so much easier to write this off as some cruel trick of the mansion's. Why does nobody ever question? They come and they go too quickly for all of it to be genuine, it must be some bitter game. The mansion soothes, and then takes away the balm, rips open a healing wound more cruelly than before. It happens. It happens so very often.

And if he's wrong? If he's wrong, or if this isn't like that at all, what then? Then there's nowhere to go, and John will be back, and they'll deal with it then, they'll... sort something out. It might even be better than being alone, though right now, Sherlock doubts it. Still, he resolves himself to try.]

[John had every intention of walking away and trying to cool his head before talking to Sherlock again, but the shout after him does make John stop and turn around to look.]

Me? You're the one who's supposed to be dead!

[John really should be questioning it more. He wipes his hand over the front of his face and walks back to Sherlock, though a bit calmer now.]

Is there any way I can prove it to you?

No. Pointless. I can't prove me to me. It's...

[Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, fingers pressing against his temples.]

None of it is quantifiable, can't even die, or can't stay dead so there's no point to any of it either. Everything changes, nothing changes; it breaks all the rules so I can't possibly know anything.

You were supposed to believe I was dead, necessary if I was going to save all of you, obvious, but you weren't supposed to end up here. I wasn't either, obviously, but here I am, and it's the most dull, awful-- the mansion is good at knowing what people want so it can pretend to give it to them but never in the ways they want and never for long. You aren't supposed to be here, and I can't know if you're you, or you from some universe that only looks like mine, or if you're just an invention to toy with me, can't be confirmed, not even by time.

[John approaches until he stands in front of Sherlock and tries to look the man in the eyes.]

Hey, just.. calm down a minute.

[Guess a place like this would be really hard on Sherlock. John hadn't stopped to consider the other man's feelings. He was just so upset.]

It's me, alright? It's me, Sherlock. I know nothing else here makes sense, but this is real. I'm real.

And what would you say if you wanted to convince me?

[That. Exactly that.]

Worse if you are, you know. It's awful. This place.

If it is awful, then we'll deal with it.

[Together. That's how they get things done.]

How long have you been here?

[Sherlock rubs at his face with one hand, squeezing his eyes shut briefly.]

Five... about five months. From my perspective; impossible to tell. Haven't been keeping precise track either.

[Safer not to. Counting the days would drive him mad. Each one he marks down cuts to the bone.]

Five months?

[John doesn't point out that Sherlock hasn't been dead five months when John left home. Perhaps that didn't matter.]

What have you been doing all this time?

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