Who John Really Is

  Hi! If you read below or do not want to, it is all a waste of time.

Just a forewarning/ a threat to vote🔪:

  That is the only record of my first but fascinating, wonderful meeting with John. You can consider it as it was not real but I consider not, as it all had happened in my mind palace, right before my eyes.

  I am his housekeeper as he thinks, and although, it is too rare to meet him alone. The availability of the existence of the two of us, only, and at the same area, might be impossible, or was, properly, according to what I thought ages ago. But we did it! And this time was the first, but not be the only. Then, I guess you should agree with my picked precise, words that I am attempting to describe the events with:

  I was terrified and worried that I did not prepare anything for his birthday, (John's birthday: 7th, August) after I heard the date of it from a friend. I was thinking and thinking while listening to a piece of Sherlock's composed music, that was all I can recall. I do really not know what happened thereafter, I must have passed out.

  And when I woke up, I found myself sitting on Sherlock's black, comfortable armchair, facing the empty, olden armchair of John's. It was fluffy and nice, now I can face Sherlock with the true but hidden, purpose of his of being greedy about his armchair! I found myself wandering about with my eyes, and I discovered nothing but the darkness. I could see my hands, the two armchairs and that empty area of the space, where there is nothing flying around, likewise the stars. I am not sure if I was breathing out there, but the only important thing to me was that I had survived.

  When I was thinking about what was going on round me, a shadow appeared suddenly, disturbing the beautiful view of stuff-free, it was a white shadow. It was odd, and yet, it could not reach halfway the oddness of the statement I heard quite after.

  It was John's! I knew that when it flashed to the opposite armchair and transformed into him.

  As a fan, and in the very way anyone would ask if he met such a man, I asked, "are you really Sherlock's boyfriend?" pretending that I am a different person.

  Whereas John answered me declining, "why would I be?"

  It was pretty obvious to me, that he was so unsatisfied and fully contained in anger, so I tried to reply as lightly as I could do, "well, you two, live in the same flat, have the same favourites and you can make a great couple if you want so. Everyone ships you!"

  He replied, "They do what they do, let them. I'm an actor. However, everything will appear, the truth will come to light, at the next season of the series. It is nigh!"

  I was pleased and could never contain myself with that much of happiness. "It's a pleasure to meet you, can I have your signature, please." Said I, giving him a pen - I have no idea where it came from, but it all seem like a science fiction story that I believe in -  to sign on the cover of my old phone.

  He declined my request, or actually, denied what I was certain of, saying, "no, no. I literally... I'm not that popular actor from the show."

  "'Not'? How so?" Said I.

  "I AM HIRED BY JAMES MORIARTY."

  Someone hit me on the back, very hard, that I fell down and could not manage to stand up again, or probably, because of the shot of which I had heard the sound of its blast-off, most likely, before I had the same splitting headache that brought me there at the first place.

  And here I am, holding the friendly phone again and writing down my very helpful and beneficial experience.