Author's Note: I watched "A Beautiful Mind" last night with my sister, and this is what came of it … so sue me, haha. Anyhow, I thought it might be fun to play with this idea. I really am very fond of this premise, so I've taken the precaution of mapping out the rest of the story so I don't mess it up along the way. This should be a fairly angsty story, with a "real" plot". Since this is a little more than just drabble, I would really appreciate feedback – if no one's interested I won't clutter up fanfiction with my nonsense, haha. So please – enjoy, and let me know what you think : )

There were voices. Two of them – both male. These things Sherlock knew in his very delirious, highly sedated state. One of the voices was his brother's, and though he kept calling the other man "doctor", it was certainly not the doctor Sherlock would have liked to be there. But they were talking about him, his brother and the doctor. Sherlock couldn't really make much of their words – they didn't really seem to make any sense.

"He's been touch and go for the last few hours, but I think you may rest assured, Mr. Holmes, that your brother will pull through."

Sherlock heard Mycroft sigh, but otherwise his voice continued along without any sign of emotion: "And you've already administered the first round of medication?"

"Yes," the doctor confirmed. There was a pause. "Did he leave no note, then?"

"Not a note, per say – but the gentleman I told you about – a Dr. John Watson received a phone call minutes before it happened. It seems my brother rattled off some nonsense about a criminal mastermind. This supposed criminal had made my brother's suicide necessary – otherwise the gentleman, Dr. Watson, would be murdered." Sherlock heard his brother chuckle sadly.

The doctor added his ironic little laugh: "Poor bloke. I can't imagine how he felt."

"Why, he was scared out of his wits. How would you react if a complete stranger called you and proceeded to inform you that there was a gun trained on you, then deliver his last words and jump off a building?"

The doctor whistled through his front teeth, as if it were indeed the strangest thing he'd ever heard. When he had regained his composure he went back to business: "And this doctor – this Dr. Watson – is the only one of your brother's hallucinations that he hasn't actually come into physical contact with, is that correct?"

"Mm," Mycroft conceded absently. "All the others have met Sherlock, at least fleetingly, and he has integrated them into his fantasies. Dr. Watson – though he has lived across the street from my brother for years – has assured me that they have never so much as spoken a 'Good Morning' to one another."

"I see," the doctor mused. "And yet he is the most persistent?"

"Sherlock swears they're best friends – that they do everything together. He talks about Dr. Watson almost incessantly."

The doctor's tone became a little softer: "Mr. Holmes, I beg your pardon, but how long have you known your brother was ill?"

Mycroft was silent for a few moments, and then he admitted: "I've always know."

"This is a very serious affliction if left untreated, Mr. Holmes – why did you never take your brother to seek the help he needed?"

"I thought they were harmless – his hallucinations. Just the hyper-activity of a lonely boy's imagination. I thought it couldn't hurt to let him indulge his fantasies."

Sherlock felt his brother's fingers brush the hair from his forehead. The doctor continued: "And in these fantasies … your brother is a detective? He solves crimes for the police?"

"He works with Detective Inspector Lestrade – a very real officer who reported to the scene when my brother's house was broken into a number of years ago. Since that time, Sherlock has been informing me of various little adventures he undertakes for the Inspector. I have been in contact, and Lestrade does not even remember my brother."

"And the other participants in your brother's hallucinations?"

Mycroft sighed again. "Everyone my brother has mentioned in the last ten years appear to have only the vaguest knowledge of him. They are not purely figments of his imagination, as they are indeed real people – but the roles they play in my brother's life seem to be grossly exaggerated. For instance – the woman who owns the sandwich shop where my brother gets lunch every afternoon, a Mrs. Hudson, admits that she has a friendly association with Sherlock, but Sherlock himself insists the woman is… his landlady."

"Ah," the doctor said. "Well, we can discuss this all in further detail when he wakes up."

"Yes."

"And at least he's here now, though it is regrettable that a suicide attempt had to necessitate your getting your brother the help he's needed for years. But we've started him on his medication, and we'll begin his therapy in a few days. The hardest part, Mr. Holmes, will come when he wakes up. You'll have to tell him everything – to break down the initial wall. He's going to fight it – his brain will try to reject what you're telling him, especially since you've so long indulged in these fantasies with him. But you must be firm. Offer him proof, answer all his questions. And hopefully, with help, your brother may begin to distinguish the line between reality and fantasy. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Don't worry," the doctor comforted, "Schizophrenia is highly treatable in this day and age, Mr. Holmes…"

Sherlock heard the door close as the doctor exited. Then he felt his brother take his hand. He wanted so badly to open his eyes, to demand an explanation, but another blast of morphine was released from the IV by his bedside, and everything he'd just heard was swept away – out of his consciousness – into the oblivion of dreamless sleep.

A/N: If you've read, I would desperately appreciate a few words in response. Thank you so much : )