The Major's Asylum~

To the Giver of Peace, with love~

Prolouge~

John was drunk, but not drunk enough to suit himself. There was no glass deep enough that his sorrow wasn't deeper, but maybe that's because his love was even deeper than his grief.

It had been a year since Sherlock Holmes jumped off that bloody rooftop. One year. 365 days, without him in the world.

The same sharp pain, like being impaled with something as blunt as a pizza paddle, went straight up John's spine. His head was light, so he took another swig of the awful alcoholic drink he was swilling.

"Cheap plonk." he hissed, and leaned back, in his chair, shuddering.

One year. 365 days without him in the world.

How was John even breathing still? How had he survived that night? Well, he had passed out when he got home. Took one look at Sherlock's empty chair, and felt the hollow echo of a world now void of him, and his legs just buckled beneath him, and he woke up some time late the next afternoon to the telephone ringing, and it just didn't stop ringing ,and he had laid on the floor for the remainder of that day,moving nary a single time, and didn't answer a single ring, either.

And the next day Greg came in the room, and he was too hollow now to be angry with him for anything. And he barely heard him say that they'd made funeral arrangements, and that John needed to get up.

Greg and John would never discuss how he had helped him change into a suit, a rather fancy one Mycroft himself had furnished. How Greg had even helped John wash his face, because he'd soiled it with tears ,and he had vomited in disgust when he realized he had Sherlock's bloodstains on his hands still. Greg and John never talked about how Greg's legs gave out going down stairs either, and John had caught him,and they clung to each other nervously for a long moment and cried.

Nobody said a word when John took one look at the casket, and started to waver. It was closed. It was closed because the one in it was too mangled to reveal.

Was no longer in the world. Had taken himself out of it.

John endured Sherlock's funeral sitting not on a pew, but in a wheel chair. So dumbstruck with grief as to not need sedation. But wearing his brave soldier's mask ,and shaking hands as if he was of a sound and stable mind. And if anybody who didn't know the obvious, such as Sebastian from Uni, actually deigned to ask why John was in the chair, he would reply with a cheeky smile, "Oh, I fell."

Fallen he had. Fallen from grace ,the same day he had fallen from out of the sky. Fallen to his face. Stone cold... like statues...

Dead.

Dead and Sherlock. Two synonymous words, that should not be so, should not be in the same sentence, because Sherlock simply could not BE dead. It was absurd.

But dead he was. 365 days, each consisting of 24 hours. 365- 24- hour- days in which Sherlock Holmes was no longer in the world.

What a boring world that was...

The door bell rang,( of a new flat, John could NOT stay there...not with his shadow hanging as thickly on the walls as dust in ancient tombs). Everything cold, like darkness, like Death.

Dead. Gone. Sherlock. Why?

Wearily, John answered it. Opened the door a crack,and looked out.

There stood Greg, pale as the beloved ghost that haunted John's every waking moment. And Mycroft as well, himself resembling his brother enough to also be a reflection of the man that was no more.

"What do you want?" he asked the two of them roughly, swaggering.

"You are drunk, Doctor Watson. I'm glad, you might receive this more easily, in that case."says Mycroft ,and shoves his way inside.

"Receive, what?" John asks , waspishly.

"John..." Greg said, holding up a dvd. "You...need to sit down."

"No, no more tricks. No more, I won't help with anything. Get out."

"We aren't asking you to help. Actually, we're forcing you into protective custody. But before we do such a thing, we would like for Sherlock to explain to you why." Mycroft says boredly.

John is vicious as a starved tiger at that name," HE'S DEAD ,YOU GIT! HE'S DEAD! DON'T SAY HIS NAME!"

Greg went to John, and caught him around the waist. "Easy, it's ok...it's ok..He means in the video. Just calm down. And watch the dvd I brought, it will all make perfect sense ,then."

Mycroft put it in the player, and the two men sat on either side of John, trying to gently restrain him , to prepare him for whatever terrible thing involving Sherlock they were about to force him to watch.

Oh why couldn't they leave him alone? Wasn't making him watch his best friend DIE enough?!

Suddenly the black screen flickered to life. Two soldier's saluted one another on camera but out of clear sight. One was very young, tall and dark.

He was led before a white wall.

"What am I supposed to...how do I?" was asking an eerily familiar voice.

"Your sworn duty is the truth, Detective. You know what to do." said another voice.

The young soldier, in the dark camo and a black vest belonging more so to MI6 agents,so John thought, turned to face the camera.

John was jolted fully awake, and almost sober. Very suddenly he was face to face with Sherlock Holmes again, except he was in military uniform and he was a good 10 years younger than when John knew him.

Or rather when John had been reacquainted with him.

For in that moment the young doctor realized before they had met that fateful afternoon in the St. Bart's lab and discussed looking at a flat...a long ,long time before, they had met in another lab, in another life.

Before they had been flat mates, they had been comrades in Afghanistan. The shadow of a 17-year-old secret services cadet runs across his mind, and catches his breath.

John's jaw clicks open, and he cries ,forgetting he is not alone in the room ,fuming, angry at everyone for keeping him in the dark about the true nature of his friendship with Sherlock Holmes,as the silky baritone he has heard only in dreams for far too long speaks to the camera:

As I'm pressed for time, let us skip straight to the point.

Many years from now, there will be those who say that I invented the Consulting Criminal, one James Moriarty. But this is not the truth. He actually invented me. Here's my story.

My name is Sherlock Holmes. The current year is 2004, and I am 21 years old. By day I am known as the amateur detective that solves trifle little puzzles for New Scotland Yard. This career is only a cover to the true nature of my Work.

I am myself an agent of MI6, with massive intellectual capabilities,and a very specific skill set I call the "science of deduction". Out of this skill set I created my own authorized unit within the service. I am a Consulting Detective,the first extant,and possibly the only one that ever shall exist. My job is simple: when MI6 is out of its depth-which is always-they come to me. I do the Work of a military police grade detective, and pave roads to criminals that are unreachable by the Law of the lands in which they cancerously plant themselves.

This video was created following the assassination attempt of one young Captain John Watson, M.D., the personal physician of the controversial Major Sholto.

If you are watching this video, then it means that my mission is compromised. The Drug Lords of James Moriarty, calling themselves "Asphyxia"have sabotaged me, and I have made agreements, to protect the life of the good doctor, while securing the confidentiality of aforesaid mission.

If you are watching this video, I have most likely been neutralized, along with any threat.

However, the Network of Jim Moriarty remains, and to take it down, I will have to pretend to be someone totally else, someone less than my recognized potential. For Moriarty must be stopped, the very Pax Autem Mundi depends upon it!

It should be noted that I will give the very last drop of my blood to guarantee that young Doctor Watson is not a casualty of this mission. He is precisely the reason why I accepted said mission, and his life is the priority,regardless.

With that Sherlock stood,and saluted, and the camera went black.

And then John remembered everything...