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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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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