Chapter Text
"Why are you ignoring me? Can you talk to me? This is disturbing."
I meant it. I looked around us and scanned the street, and although it was the middle of the day, I couldn't shake off the ominous feeling. Of course, London was not Cordona; it wasn't sunny and cheerful, but the street was busy and full of life - people were rushing in every direction! A boy, whose voice had not yet broken, was trying to sell his newspapers, and there was even an ice cream stand, although barely anyone cared for the ice cream in the rainy weather. But all in all, nothing about my surroundings seemed alarming, yet the feeling stayed. I felt on edge and threatened even though no threat was in sight, which was why I wanted Sherlock to finally stop ignoring me.
He was walking in front of me and paid me no attention at all. I wondered what that was all about, but he wouldn't tell me, no matter how many times I asked, and I was starting to feel frustrated with him.
"Silent treatment is not okay, Sherlock. We are better than this," I grumbled. Tired of following him like a stray dog, I stopped in the middle of the pavement. It was not the smartest move: a woman walked right into me and almost fell. Of course, I apologised, and after checking on her and ensuring she was all right, I eyed my friend again.
He had stopped, too. He wasn't facing me yet, but I still heard him mumble.
"There is no 'we', Jon. You are on your own now." And just like this, he picked up the pace again, leaving me behind.
"What? No … " I was gutted, to put it mildly. I didn't know what I had done to deserve such harsh words, but I couldn't let this sit. I also picked up the pace, and once I reached him, I grabbed him by the arm and made him turn around and face me. I expected anger, sorrow, anything but the sheer indifference I saw in the once affectionate face. It made the blood in me freeze.
"What are you talking about, Sherry? On my own? " I pleaded desperately, the soul within me crushing, breaking into pieces. "I am your friend, you can't throw me away, all the years … "
For what? Did he hate what I had become so much? Did he not care that it wasn't my fault? Yes, I had always wanted to become a real person, but not at any price - not if it meant losing him. Did he believe it had happened only because I had wanted it badly enough?
"Let me go, Jon." I knew he wanted to shove me away at that moment - there was a flicker in his eyes, a rage I hadn't seen in a while. However, he did not want to make a scene. The street was busy, like I said. I couldn't bear such hostility, not from him who carried the other half of my soul. I did not listen; I clung to him with all I had. I believed we could still mend it; if I found the right words and convinced him, I'd be ready to forgive the cruel way he treated me. I don't think he can do anything that I can't forgive. I would always forgive him.
I did not find the words, however. I could only plead, but my despair left him unmoved. It broke my heart.
"Is this man bothering you, sir?" A man's voice came from behind - a bobby. I tried to reply, but Sherlock was much faster, and my voice failed me again.
"Yes, he is, actually. Could you remove him from me? He wouldn't leave me alone."
All I could do was shake my head in disbelief. My throat closed up, and I choked on the words I wanted to say. All strength to fight for our friendship was gone. I had not given up, but I was unwanted, and I couldn't change it.
What I could change, however, was the way the bobby tried to pull me away. Or at least I believed I could. I was hurting quite a lot, and I did not like being dragged away like a criminal. I did not feel like being touched at all.
"Let me go." It was my turn to say these words now.
"Calm down, Jon," he said. I had no idea how he knew my name, but he was pretty damn strong for a man this lanky - he dragged me away like a lifeless doll, and despite my physical strength, I couldn't do anything to free myself from his clutch.
"No, let me go!" I sobbed and tried to pull away, but my arms no longer listened to me. And neither did my head as I tried to turn around and see where Sherlock was. The street around us was suddenly dark.
"Calm down, Jon; it will be all right." The bobby spoke again, but I did not believe him. Nothing was all right. Was I losing control over my body? Was I to become invisible once more?
And the most prevalent question - would Sherlock want my friendship again if I were no longer a real person?
I was done with being dragged away - each step brought me further from my friend. And I was scared: I only wanted to find Sherlock and fix this mess. I focused all the strength I had left into my arms and pushed the man away - and I finally succeeded. He fell on the hard pavement.
I was free. However, when I looked at him, he was no longer the bobby who'd dragged me away - he was Sherlock now and seemed worried.
"Sherry ... I didn't mean to hurt you, but he was ... " My words sounded slurred and unclear.
"It's okay, Jon. Calm down." He stood before me with both hands placed on my upper arms, gently stroking them. Had he already forgiven me? I couldn't keep up with his moods; that much was clear.
"No, it's not okay. This is why you hate me, isn't it?" I hid my face in my palms; the light hurt my eyes.
"I don't hate you, Jon. Look at me!"
His voice was quiet. He sounded like he always did; the hostility was suddenly gone. It took me a moment to gather myself, but once I did, I removed my hands from my face and looked at him.
Sherlock was sitting on the bed in our room. In Cordona. I had not been in London at all. Why had I thought I had?
"Have you come back to your senses? You were having a bad dream. You were tossing and turning quite a lot," Sherlock clarified before my mind could form the question. A dream. This was new as well.
Dreams are funny things to me. They are fuzzy, intense, and illogical. And yet, they remind me of my life before, if you can call my imaginary existence a life. Dreams hit very close to home even today; they are more familiar to me than the human world. I'd go as far as to say I had lived in a dream-like state for fifteen years before I had finally awoken. Like the sleeping beauty - but with fewer kisses and more pain.
And speaking of pain, I had a bump on my forehead where I'd hit the door. It's irrelevant to my story, but I think it's worth mentioning in case you've wondered about it.
In the beginning, I often struggled to tell dreams from reality. And when I woke up from my very first dream, it took me a while to adapt to the real world again. I pulled Sherlock close in a hug - laugh all you want, but I wasn't convinced he didn't hate me and didn't want me gone yet. I needed the comfort - the dream had messed with my head. The sudden display of affection must have shocked him quite a lot; he sat there like a frozen person until I let go, but he didn't seem to mind it either. He even tried to return the hug, but I figured he'd forgotten how to do that.
"You haven't slept at all," I commented once I had finally shaken away the remaining emotions the nightmare had stirred. I observed Sherlock from head to toe to ensure he was still my friend and not some rude bobby for one last time. He was fully dressed, and it was past four in the morning.
Of course, he hadn't slept, you would say; it had been an eventful day, and he didn't know how to cope with the change, so he couldn't find rest. And you would be right! However, his inner turmoil only fed my insecurity. I wished he'd simply be happy for me.
I knew him better than this, I honestly did, but I was still adapting as well. I didn't know how to cope either, and I was terrified he'd grow to dislike the new person I had become.
"I … was reading, and there is only one bed anyway," Sherlock replied. I hummed in return. Of course, he had been reading, I thought; he had spent most of the day reading. All we had done on my first day as a person was waste the little money we had on occult books once the textbooks from the public library had turned out to be of no help. And it was obvious that books wouldn't give him the answers he sought.
Still, before the conversation died altogether, I decided to act curious. Of course, it would have been nice to discover how and why I became a real person, but searching for the answer was not as thrilling as experiencing life. And I did not want to experience it without him, but he didn't seem very interested.
"Did you find something out?" I asked half-heartedly, not looking at him. I knew he'd read me like an open book either way (ha!), but I tried to conceal how insecure all of this made me feel. Whether I succeeded or not, he left it uncommented.
"No," he sighed and shifted uncomfortably. "Nothing about imaginary people becoming real, nothing even vaguely related at all."
"What a bummer."
I hated the silence that followed. We had rarely sat there in silence before. I could tell he felt it was well, and his mind worked hard to think of something to say. I was doing the same. Of course, he was faster.
"Oh," he exclaimed and made me look up from the ground - anything, I welcomed anything that would break the ice that had suddenly formed between us. "I seem to have forgotten to get you something to eat, Jon. I suppose you require sustenance now," he looked at me apologetically before he burst into what I can only describe as a desperate, manic laughter. "What an awful friend I am! I am even worse than I imagined I'd be."
"Why are you awful? You only forgot to feed me because you haven't eaten yourself," I replied. Foul mood or not, I couldn't bear hearing him talk badly about himself - it was against my nature. "You are simply forgetful," I smiled, "and neglectful of your own needs. If anything, you are much more awful to yourself than anyone else."
"Thank you very much for the kind words, but I wasn't hungry," he quipped - his mood had brightened a little. He jumped up from the bed and beckoned me to follow him. "Get up; there must be some biscuits left. I shall not let you starve."
"I'm not an infant, Sherlock," I replied, but I wasn't much better than an infant, really. I hadn't even realised how hungry I'd been. Talk about intuition and self-preservation; my own body was an unsolvable mystery to me.
And then I knew why he had spent the day reading instead of having fun with me. I got up from the bed, but before he could leave the room and disappear into the darkness of the hall behind the door, I reached out and placed my hand on his shoulder.
"You never need to worry about me, Sherlock. I promise I will be fine. I might be quite helpless now, but I am a fast learner."
"I know," he whispered, and I could feel him relax a little.
Do you want to know about another unique experience that you've never been corporeal? It's seeing yourself for the first time - the way nature intended.
After the biscuits, which had tasted better than I'd ever imagined (they had melted in my mouth! I had almost cried from delight), Sherry and I fell asleep on the small bed. I didn't dream of him hating me again, and eventually, we woke up at noon and decided to have a proper meal and some tea. Of course, we had nothing at home other than biscuits, so we were forced to go out for better or worse.
And for better or worse, I needed to get into fresh clothes. And for better or worse, I did not own any other clothes, so I was forced to borrow some from my friend. He lent me a brown suit (because I wanted to look proper this time), and after giving me some vague instructions on how to put it on, he left our room.
There was a lot to unpack there. Figuratively and literally.
As you can imagine ... I had never seen my own body, and I was thrilled to see what was hidden beneath my usual outfit. Sherlock had never done me the favour of manifesting me naked. It was all entirely new to me, and I was quite nervous, but Lord. I. Loved. What. I. Was. Seeing.
Call me vain, but Sherlock had really done a great job there. I was evenly tanned, which made little sense considering I always wore clothes, but I was grateful regardless. And I was handsome - I had just the right amount of muscle to look well-trained and strong without looking too bulky.
No, it's not arrogance, mind you; it wasn't my own work that I admired - it was his and his alone. He had really made a gorgeous man out of me. And most importantly, nothing was missing. Everything was there - if you know what I mean.
I couldn't keep this to myself; I was too excited not to talk about it with my dear friend and creator. I peeked through the door to see Sherry standing in the hall, impatiently waiting for me to finally get dressed. I couldn't help the silly smile on my face. You might think I was oversharing quite a lot, but it was Sherlock! With whom else was I supposed to share my joy if not him?
"I don't know if you care, but I ... I got everything. Thank you for that." I nodded slowly and ambiguously, hoping he understood what I meant.
He looked at me as if I were speaking in Spanish. "Everything? Please, be more precise, Jon. Everything entails ... pretty much everything as the word suggests."
Oh, there they were again - the arrogant smirk and the eye-rolling. I wished I didn't have to say it out loud. He was the most brilliant man in the world, yet he was so slow sometimes.
"I mean... everything is how and where it's supposed to be. All in all, I look amazing! A job well done, Mr Sherlock Holmes. You can come in and see for yourself."
Yes, yes, silly me and my lack of understanding of social conventions. I beg your pardon, but he had imagined me this way! I was simply being polite. Why wouldn't he be curious to see me - his own imagination made flesh?
It finally dawned on him; the look on his face - priceless.
"Are ... are you suggesting I should come in to see you ... undressed, Jon? Is this what you are ..." He had turned as red as a lobster within seconds. I really didn't get what the big deal was back then.
"Why not? I have already seen you naked. I have nothing you don't have yourself."
"Good Lord, have mercy!" He cried.
Apparently, my suggestion had somehow scandalised him. "Your loss," I replied and closed the door again, but I feared I'd upset him. Or he was simply too hungry and, therefore, in a bad mood. Either way, I figured I'd better get dressed and never suggest this again.
His suit wasn't a great fit, but neither had been my old shirt. Apparently, his imagination had not been great enough to give me fitting clothes. He was no designer, though, so I didn't blame him even if I couldn't understand it back then. Eventually, I was done dressing up. I decided against wearing the jacket and the tie and left the first two buttons undone. What can I say? It is my trademark. I did want to look proper, but I also wanted to stay true to myself, and I knew he wanted it, too, although he'd never say it out loud.
"How do I look?" I finally stood before him, and even though I only got a short 'Great.' in return, I could tell he liked how I wore the suit. I am not stupid - of course, I'd figured out he'd been upset by the idea of me changing the way I dressed entirely the day before. And the last thing I wanted was to upset him - we had both undergone a great change and needed time to get used to our new lives.
And there we were - back outside again. It was a cloudless day in Cordona, and after I'd survived twenty-four hours as a real person without perishing, I felt ready to take over the world. I was still a little shaky in my interactions with others, but I was getting the hang of it. I even complimented a beautiful lady's floral hat, and when she heard me, she smiled and hid her flushed face behind her fan. How amazing was this?
"Did you see her, Sherry? She got flustered! She shouldn't have gotten flustered at all; her hat was lovely; I really meant what I said." I was ecstatic, a bubbling mess, but people were seeing me, talking to me, reacting to me! Probably questioning my sanity, too, but who cares? I didn't.
"I thought the hat was rather insipid," Sherlock replied, but the corners of his mouth rose, "but either way, here is the restaurant. Shall we go in, or would you like to flatter a few more women before breakfast?"
"Haha."
The place was relatively small, but their menu was solid. It was quite pretty, too - live ivy decorated the brick walls, which made it feel almost like we were outside and not inside. We found a table pretty quick, and while I was busy observing and occasionally waving at the other guests, Sherlock placed our order. I didn't know how anything tasted, so I decided to trust him on this.
... until the last words of his order reached my ears.
"Yes, you heard correctly, nine cups," he sighed impatiently as if he had not just ordered nine cups.
The waiter looked at me helplessly, but I could only shrug in return. Once the man left, I cleared my throat.
"So, after reading all the occult books on Cordona, you have finally moved on to tarot card readings for answers. I don't think Nine of Cups should be taken so literally, though," I raised my eyebrow and leaned back in my chair. I have always loved teasing him before breakfast, and some things never change.
"I am not going to ask what you mean, but I can assure you it's all for a very crucial experiment." He mirrored my stance and smirked at me. I was in for a treat!
"An experiment. I have only been alive for a day, and you are already considering experimenting on me. I thought I was your friend. Tut-tut!" I shook my head in a feigned disappointment and watched his smirk grow wider. That smirk stirred something in me, but I was too new to the physical world to name the sensation.
"I have always considered it, Jon, but your lack of a physical form stood in the way."
I could no longer keep a straight face. "What a bad boy you are."
Whatever he wanted to say was interrupted by the waiter, who appeared with a tablet. Before long, our breakfast was served. It consisted of two plates with scrambled eggs, each for either of us, a pot of coffee, a pot of tea, a pot of cream, and, well ... nine empty cups accompanied by nine endearing saucers with pink roses on them.
"Are we building a tower?" I asked as I watched Sherlock place only one of the cups on his side of the table. Apparently, the other eight were for me. It did not look like a tower, however. Instead, he built a horizontal line with the saucers and placed the infamous cups on them.
"A dam? A hedge? No? A train!" I exclaimed, even though none of it made sense to me.
"No, Jon, we are not building a train with the cups." An eye-roll. Of course. I had likely deserved it.
"I really hope this doesn't turn out to be boring because you've already put too much effort into the buildup."
"Would you be so kind as to keep silent for a brief moment?"
I groaned, but I kept silent. Sherlock took the pot of coffee and poured some of it into four of the cups. The other four he filled with tea. Then, he took the sugar pot from the table and added sugar to each beverage's second and fourth cups. He repeated the same with the cream, but this time, he added it to the third and fourth cups. Once he stirred everything, he finally took his place on his side of the table. For himself, Sherlock chose tea with some cream and no sugar.
And there I was, sitting with eight cups of coffee or tea before me, either pure, with sugar, with cream or with both. I was speechless - gone were the humour and the jokes. I genuinely did not know what to say.
"It's easier this way. I'd have to figure out what you prefer to drink at breakfast sooner or later. I'd rather know it sooner." Sherlock said while looking out the window and acting as if none of this meant anything, but he wanted to get to know this new me. His little gesture meant the world.
And I preferred coffee with both sugar and cream.
"What shall we do with the rest?" I finally asked once I'd picked the beverage of my choosing. I love coffee to this day, but this first cup will always remain the best one I have ever had.
"We shall drink it, my friend. We have many more books to read and no time for sleep," he replied to my greatest displeasure.