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honeypiehotchner · 5 years

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Covered Memories -- part 1

TW for mentions of suicide, suicidal thoughts/tendencies, paranoia(?), sadness. Stay safe lovelies.

Here is the Sherlock I promised. It has a couple parts, so I’m going to let this one settle before I give you the next (I’m also editing it as I reread it haha). This was inspired by Billie Eilish’s song “listen before i go” but you don’t need to listen to it while reading or anything. Enjoy! Love you guys xx.

I went to sleep watching Sherlock and woke up on a bus in London.

It sounds crazier than it actually is, I promise.

Just kidding, it’s absolutely insane. I’m on a fucking bus in London and I’m from Ohio. I’m from the United States of fucking America, and I somehow woke up on a bus in England.

I didn’t realize where I was at first, to be completely honest. I didn’t recognize it. The first dead giveaway was that the bus was driving on the wrong side of the road – well, the correct side here, but the wrong side to me completely.

I’m still in my pajamas, and I’m a little more than thankful that last night I fell asleep in a hoodie and leggings. At least I’m not half naked on a bus in downtown London.

Things could be a lot worse than they are, that’s for sure.

But the situation I’m in also isn’t exactly okay. I don’t have my purse, my phone, or any damn shoes on my feet. I don’t even have my damn glasses, so walking around is going to be a little more than challenging, which is partly why I’ve stayed on this bus for longer than I should.

Eventually, though, I figure I’ve been on here for long enough, so I decide to step down and onto the sidewalk.

Okay, bad idea. Foreign city, foreign person, and I have no earthly idea where I’m at or where I should go.

One piece at a time. Okay, I have no money, so a cab ride is out of the park. And so is…basically everything else.

Okay.

When one wakes up in London, what does one do – especially if one has never been to London before?

I have no earthly idea.

The only knowledge I have of London is from the show I fell asleep watching – Sherlock – and even then, it’s a TV show. It’s fiction.

My eyes widen at the idea that just came into my head.

I know, logically, that Sherlock Holmes does not exist. He’s a fictional character, but in knowing that, I know that the show itself is pretty popular. I know a lot about said show. And I know that Baker Street is actually a real place. There’s a museum there now, or something.

Well, if I’m going to be stuck here, I might as well take advantage. I’ve always wanted to come to the museum, and since I’m here basically for free, I’m going to go see it.

Strange that I’m not freaking out right now, I know. I don’t know why I’m not freaking out either. I don’t think it has sunk in just yet. It always takes me a good week to really process things, actually, but who knows what that’s about.

Okay, Baker Street. I need to find my way to Baker Street.

Because I have no other option, I walk up to the least scary looking woman on the sidewalk with me, tapping her shoulder. Thankfully, she looks to be around my age, so she doesn’t seem too alarmed by me tapping her.

“Hi, you wouldn’t happen to know where the Sherlock Holmes museum is, would you?”

She smiles, sort of knowingly and nods. “You’re lookin’ for Sherlock Holmes?”

“Yes…” I nod slowly, not sure if she’s messing with me and is about to tell me to get lost, but she doesn’t.

“Come on, I’ll walk with you.”

If she wasn’t also a female and young, then I would not have followed her, but she looks like she means well, and knows where she’s going, which is evident when I vaguely see the awning to the museum in the distance.

“So, what’s up with you?”

I blink, letting out a weak laugh. “What?”

“Why do you need to see Sherlock Holmes?” She clarifies. “What’s your case?”

Okay, now I’m not sure if she’s the one who knows Sherlock Holmes doesn’t exist. I don’t even know how to respond to her.

“Oh, I’m not supposed to be here right now,” I shrug. “Just wondering if maybe he could…help me out.”

“Sounds interesting,” she nods seriously. “Well, it’s just up there. I’ve gotta get to work. Nice meeting you.”

“Yeah, you too…” I furrow my eyebrows, watching her cross the street.

I shake my head, rubbing my face with my hands. This no longer feels as concerning as it feels strange. Especially after that interaction.

I continue walking, continue feeling the concrete underneath my bare feet as I walk. I come up on the awning of the museum only to find it’s…it’s not the museum. It’s Speedy’s Café.

But Speedy’s isn’t here. Speedy’s isn’t supposed to be on this street – They don’t actually film the show at the exact 221B Baker Street. They film it on North Gower Street, everyone knows that.

I look up at the brick building, and sure enough, she led me to Baker Street, where the museum should be, but it’s Speedy’s.

I shake my head again, walking past the building to find someone else. I cast a quick glance at the door next to it, doing a doubletake when I see the golden 221B on the outside.

“This day is just getting weirder and weirder,” I sigh.

I rub at my eyes, stepping closer to see if it’s my eyes just playing a trick on me, but it’s not. It really does say 221B on the outside. Complete with the knocker turned to the side like Sherlock keeps it.

Okay, stop it. Sherlock Holmes is fictional. He keeps it that way in his fictional world. This is the real world, and yes, it’s short circuiting right now, it’s still reality.

It’s short circuiting? Really? I just woke up on a bus halfway across the globe after going to sleep in my apartment, and the best answer my brain can come up with is that the world is short circuiting?

Just for that, I’m going to ring the doorbell. Just once. If nothing happens, then I’ll go…find the police station, I don’t know.

Without giving it a single second thought, I step up, and briefly press the doorbell.

Nothing happens. Literally, nothing. Which gives me the impression that this is the flat they film in, and that it’s just made to look like it really is Baker Street, even though everyone knows it’s just North Gower.

I scoff to myself, feeling silly for even entertaining the idea, turning around to walk the other way. It’s when I turn my back that I hear the sound of the door opening, followed by an all too familiar voice.

“Ma’am, wait!”

I freeze. Absolutely not. There’s no absolute way that could be him.

I take a deep breath, slowly turning myself back around, coming face to face with the man I’ve only ever seen on my laptop or phone screen.

John Watson.

No…it’s not. It’s Martin Freeman, come on, John Watson doesn’t actually exist. He’s a fictional character.

“Would you like to come in?” He asks, stepping back and gesturing inside.

My legs move before I tell them to, walking me inside the flat. I wait until John closes the door, before I turn back around to look at him.

I probably look more than startled because he returns the expression, furrowing his eyebrows.

“Are you alright?”

“…no.”

“Alright, well, come upstairs. I’ll get Mrs. Hudson to make you a cuppa.”

I let him guide me up the stairs, checking on me every few steps to make sure I haven’t fainted, I’m sure. I’m not feeling faint, but I know I must look white as a sheet.

This is just wrong. And not real. I’m dreaming. Surely, this is just a dream.

“Mrs. Hudson, would you make…”

He looks to me for my name, so I answer him. “Liz.”

“Liz here a cuppa, please?”

Mrs. Hudson – yes, the Mrs. Hudson I’ve seen in the show, Una Stubbs – nods, frowning. “Of course, dear. Are you alright? You look a little spooked.”

“Yeah…I’m…I’m spooked,” I let out a breathy chuckle.

I glance around the apartment – flat, they’re flats here – with wide eyes. Everything is the same. The yellow smiley face ridden with bullet holes is on the wall above the couch. The messy coffee table that Sherlock always steps over is in front of the couch. The wall itself has various pictures and things pinned up, but I can’t see them clearly enough to know if it’s anything I’d recognize.

“Here you go, dear,” Mrs. Hudson hands me a cup of steaming tea. “Drink that and it should make you feel better.”

“Thanks, Mrs. H.”

John freezes, staring at me with wide eyes. “Mrs. H?”

“I’m sorry, force of habit,” I grimace. I’m ruining this already.

“Habit? Do you know Mrs. Hudson?”

“No, I—” I sigh. “It’s not a long story, but it’s really complicated, and I’m still trying to process everything right now and— Oh my God.”

The grip on my tea loosens completely, the cup falling from my hands and shattering at my feet. Standing before me is the man I’ve watched on a screen for years. Sherlock Holmes.

He finishes buttoning his blazer, raising an eyebrow. “Client?”

John answers, whilst cleaning up the broken shards of the teacup. “Yeah, I think. She said it’s complicated.” He stands, tossing them into the trashcan that Mrs. Hudson brought over before taking the towel from her to soak up the tea.

“It always is,” Sherlock dismisses John’s answer, holding his hand out to you. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“I know,” I blurt, immediately smacking myself in the forehead. I take his hand, giving it a firm shake. “I mean, I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m Liz. Liz Singleton.”

“Singleton,” he repeats, narrowing his eyes. “I know that name.”

“You do?”

“Yes…I’m not sure from where. Well, it’ll come to me soon enough.” He walks around me, pulling the chair out from under the table and sitting it in the middle of the floor. “Have a seat, Miss Singleton and I’ll see what I can do for you.”

“I want to stand, actually,” I say, the past moments’ events coming back to me. “I’m sorry about the cup, Mrs. H. I’m having delayed reactions to things.”

“It’s alright, dear, I’ve got plenty others. Sherlock has a bad habit of breaking them.”

I smile softly, turning back to Sherlock, only to find him staring me down. Deducing me, most likely, so I brace myself for the onslaught of accusations and truths I’m not aware of.

“Why do you speak to Mrs. Hudson with such familiarity?”

I pause, nodding slowly. “That’s part of my story.”

Sherlock sighs tiredly. “Go on, then.” He stays standing as well, continuing to look me over while John sits down in his chair.

“I’m not from here.”

“Yes, I gathered that from your alarming American accent.”

Ignoring the ‘alarming’ adjective, I continue. “I’m from Ohio. The state in the U.S. Thing is, I went to sleep there last night. But I woke up about an hour ago on a bus in downtown London.” My heart is pounding in my chest, the severity of what’s happening finally settling in now that I’ve said it aloud. “Any ideas, Mr. Holmes?”

“A few,” he mutters. “Those are clearly pajamas and judging by your lack of shoes, the sleeping bit does make sense.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “What were you doing last night?”

“That’s,” I pause to chuckle. “That’s the kicker, really, because I was watching you.”

His arms fall to his sides. “I’m sorry?”

“There’s a show, on BBC, it’s called Sherlock. It’s about you and John and Mrs. Hudson,” I swallow thickly. “And Molly, and Lestrade, and Mary.”

“Mary? Who’s Mary?”

“No one,” I cover quickly, not entirely sure what I’ve done, but I know it isn’t good. It sounds ridiculous, but I must be in the world before he met Mary, so before…before the Reichenbach. “Just a random person. But my point is, it’s a TV show. I was watching it when I fell asleep last night, and I woke up on a bus here, in London. And now I’m talking to you. And you’re not supposed to exist – none of you are. You’re fictional characters. I thought when I first got here that it was a little weird, but I was coming here to see the museum. There’s supposed to be a Sherlock Holmes museum here, not this flat. This flat isn’t supposed to exist – none of it is.”

I turn in a circle, looking at everything I’ve seen over the years. I used to dream about visiting this flat – visiting the set and sitting down in John’s chair or grazing my fingers over the smiley face on the wall, but now I’m here and I don’t even want to be. Now I’m here, and this is the worst nightmare I could ever imagine.

I stop, pointing at John, my mind spinning. “You. Your name isn’t John Watson, it’s supposed to be Martin Freeman. And you,” I point at Sherlock. “Your name isn’t Sherlock Holmes, it’s supposed to be Benedict Cumberbatch.”

John laughs loudly. “What kind of a name is that?”

“You played Bilbo Baggins in The Hobbit,” I tell John—Martin. He’s Martin. “And Ian McKelpie in Whiskey Tango Foxtrot. And you,” I turn back around to Benedict. “You played Khan in Star Trek. And Alan Turing in The Imitation Game. You guys are actors.” I cover my face with my hands. “This is one weird dream. I need to wake up.” I open my eyes, looking dead at Benedict. “Punch me.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Punch me. Right now. Knock me out in here, so it’ll wake me up back home.”

“I’m not going to punch you, Miss Singleton.” He pauses. “Because I think I know what’s going on here.”

John looks as surprised as I am. “You’re serious?”

“Yes, John, I’m quite serious,” Sherlock tucks his hands behind him. “I’m at the height of my fame. You know that because we’ve been in the papers almost every day for the last month.”

“No idea where you’re going with this, Sherlock.”

“Oh, come on, open your eyes,” Sherlock cries. “Look at her outfit, look at her eyes. She’s an addict, clearly still high, and one of her delusions is that there’s a TV show starring the both of us. The TV show is incredibly popular, I’m assuming, which falls into the current pattern of my own popularity.” He turns to me. “I suggest you find your own way back home.”

“What—”

��“Leave,” he points to the door. “I don’t have time to solve the delusions of an addict when there are more pressing issues on my mind.”

I stare at him, thinking maybe he’s kidding with me, but it’s clear on his face that he’s not. I look to John and he doesn’t say anything. Why would he? They don’t know who I am here. I’m not supposed to be here.

“Fine,” I mutter. “Sorry for bothering you.”

I turn and exit the flat, stepping slowly down the stairs. I let myself focus on how the wood feels beneath my bare feet, something I was too dazed to feel when I first walked up. Now I’m feeling entirely too many emotions all at once and the stairs don’t feel magical beneath my feet, they just hurt. Like a million splinters being stabbed into my skin all at once. It’s not a dream like I wanted it to be. This is a literal nightmare.

I stop at the bottom, letting my hand linger on the railing for just a moment longer. This is the first and last time I’ll ever be in 221B Baker Street and it couldn’t have gone any further from how I wanted.

“Wait!”

I ignore the voice – it’s John, but why does he care? – and pull open the front door, slamming it as I step out onto the sidewalk. I barely get past Speedy’s when I feel an arm on my shoulder, turning me around, making me face John Watson – stupid John Watson—

“What do you want?”

He removes his hand rather quickly, holding both up in surrender. “Hey, sorry.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “What?”

He hesitates, gathering his words. “Is what you said—Is it true? Is there a TV show about us?”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not having this conversation right now.” I turn around, walking down the sidewalk, and much to my dissatisfaction, John follows beside me.

“I just… I know what an addict looks like, and you’re not one. You looked too scared when I opened the door earlier and you walked around the flat like you’ve been there before—”

“You know what?” I stop walking, turning to face him. “The show – You two idiots have gotten me through the roughest points of my life, alright? I’ve watched the show over and over until I could speak Sherlock’s dialogue in perfect timing, I’ve paused scenes to examine the background, I’ve even paused scenes to try to deduce things that Sherlock doesn’t to see what piece of the puzzle he doesn’t explain. So yes, I walked in there like I’d been there before, because I feel like I have. I used to want to live in this world more than my own, but that was a mistake because now that I am here – I don’t even want to be. I just want to go home. So, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go throw myself off a building and hope I wake up back in my bed. In my home. Because this doesn’t feel like home anymore. And I was so stupid to think it could’ve been.”

John’s frown deepens the more that I speak, and part of me thinks I see tears in his eyes when I finish. But it doesn’t matter what I see because this isn’t real, and it never is going to be.

“Good night, Dr. Watson,” I breathe, blinking and realizing the tears I see are actually in my own eyes. I sniffle, pressure rising in my chest as I try to hold back a sob. And I can’t cry about this in front of him, so I turn and leave, biting my sleeve to keep myself under control until I turn the corner, collapsing against the building in a fit of sobs that wrack my body.

This is the biggest mess I’ve ever been in. If this is some trick the universe is trying to play on me to tell me that I had it good back home, despite the shit I went through, then that’s fine. I get it, Universe. Lesson learned. Take me back home now, please.

#tw suicide #tw mentions of suicide #tw paranoia #tw sadness #bbc sherlock #bbc sherlock fanfic #bbc sherlock fanfiction #sherlock holmes #john watson #mrs hudson #sherlock

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