literature

The Downside of Dreams, chap. 4

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"Bad night?"

"Good morning to you, too," John mumbled, wrapping a dressing gown protectively around himself as he shuffled groggily into the living room of 221B Baker St. Sherlock, sitting in his favourite chair and tuning his violin, cocked and eyebrow and shot a quick glance at the clock that sat on the mantlepiece.

"Well, no, technically, it's afternoon," he said fluidly. John frowned and also gazed up at the timepiece. He moaned as he read 12:23 in the afternoon.

"Oh damn, Sherlock, I thought I told you I wanted to go out and get some food this morning," John despaired. Sherlock shrugged.

"Didn't sound like you were in any state to be woken up. Anyways, I got some things earlier." John looked at his flat mate.

"Really?" he asked. Sherlock nodded, not looking up from the strings of his instrument, which he plucked a few times before fiddling with the screws at the top to perfect their tone once more. John looked to the kitchen table and, sure enough, three bags of groceries stood. John smiled, and wandered to check the contents of the bags, mentally wondering if, instead of groceries, he'd find new science equipment, or maybe body parts...this was, after all, Sherlock.

Could be an entire body, for all I know...

However, when John peered inside the haversacks, he saw neatly packed groceries lining the bottom of each. He smiled to himself...then stopped. Something was wrong. They way the groceries had been packed...

John sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the detective look up, brow furrowed.

"What?" Sherlock asked, his tone confused. "It's what you wanted, isn't it?" John shook his head, and turned to his companion.

"Yes, but you lied." Sherlock cocked his head to one side before answering.

"What? How?"

"On the rare occasion you actually do get groceries, you stack them in a very particular manner. That," he said, pointing to the bags, "...isn't it. So, when you say you got groceries, what you really mean to say is that you made Mrs. Hudson go get them. Really, Sherlock?" Sherlock made a disinterested face as John grabbed the morning paper and went to sit in the chair opposite.

"Well," he finally said, "I was the vehicle..."

"Nope, a cab was..."

"...and anyways, I've been expecting a case for a while now...couldn't leave the house in case it came..."

"...and if you weren't expecting a client, you'd say you couldn't leave the house in case one came, right?" Sherlock smirked in that arrogant, infuriating way.

"Probably." John laughed disapprovingly, and said no more, leaving Sherlock to tune his instrument, burying his face in the morning's news from around London. The two sat in silence for a few minutes, the only noises being made where that of Sherlock's violin and the rustle of newspaper pages and John skimmed through the headlines.

"So...?" John started slightly, Sherlock's voice jarring him from his literary trance. He stared blankly at the detective for a minute.

"So...what?" he asked, not catching on. Sherlock snorted and shook his head, but for once, made no further comment on John's supposed earth-shattering ignorance.

"So...bad night?" John nodded, brow creased in thought as his mind raced back to the events of his overwrought brain from the night previous. He still saw flashes of the visions that had kept him from a proper night sleep...the horror of Sherlock dying, the joy of his return, the dizzying nausea of blacking out, the rush of breath of intimacy, the blood dripping from Sherlock's face, the resounding crack of a gunshot...

...the kiss...that kiss...

"Yeah, oh right," John's mouth fumbled for words that wouldn't give his thrumming heart away. "Yeah, no, didn't sleep well at all...bad...bad dreams, weird dreams," he stumbled.

"Sounded like an adventure all right," Sherlock mumbled, eyes trained on the strings of his violin. John frowned deeper, and already felt a blush crawl through his face as he posed his query.

"I wasn't talking in my sleep, was I?" Sherlock shrugged, still not looking at him.

"You more muttered then anything, but I did here a word and name dropped on occasion." John bit his tongue hard to try and keep from blurting out obvious denials...Sherlock would see right through them. He raised his eyebrows in what he hoped was a skeptical manner, and tried to keep his voice calm as he spoke.

"Oh really? What was I imparting to you in my sleep, then, Sherlock? What was I saying?" Sherlock didn't raise his eyes from his musical task as he answered.

"You only clearly pronounced two words amid your incoherent script...no, in a variety of entertaining ways..."

"Entertaining? So my clearly-disturbed sleep was a source of amusement for you?" John asked, still attempting to keep some sort of levity in his voice, trying to deflect the suspicion he knew was already planted in the man who sat across from him.

"In a sense...in the nighttime when there's not much going on, I need to find something to pass the hours and occupy my time...trying to decipher your muddled state of mind was most interesting, I assure you."

"You could try sleep...y'know, that's what most people do at night..."

"Dull." John shook his head.

"I should have seen that coming," he said, resigned. Sherlock chuckled once before falling silent. John continued to scan the page in front of him, looking at the world around them in grey-and-black newsprint.

"...my name." John started again from his paper.

"Come again?"

"That's the only other word I could pick out..my name...over and over again, most of the time in a rather panicked state, but there was once..." Sherlock trailed off uncharacteristically, brow creased in thought ever-so-slightly. John freaked inwardly.

Oh God...I really...oh God...

"Well," John said, surprised by the calm in his voice despite his inner conflict, "...I always knew you would give me nightmares..." Sherlock said nothing, but, from the corner of his eye, John saw that the detective was watching him from beneath his eyelashes, carefully noting every inch of his being. John steadfastly refused to meet the glance that he knew Sherlock was trying to capture. He stared so hard at the paper in his lap that he feared he would burn holes through it.

After a minute or two of quiet, Sherlock went back to tuning his instrument, pausing periodically to rummage through some sheet music beside him and shoot quick looks at the blond doctor. John, however, would not indulge Sherlock's curiosity, and read his paper with vigour.

The clock on the wall ticked away the seconds, then minutes, then hours. Neither John nor Sherlock exchanged words, each going off on their own little trips around the edges of their respective brains. John changed into his usual jeans and jumper, and put away the groceries that Sherlock didn't get. Sherlock continued his search for the perfect key for each violin strand, eventually putting bow to string and executing a sharp, harrowing tune that John didn't immediately identify.

And thus, they went about their afternoon, the sun's beams slowly turning from bright canary yellow to a deep, rich gold that dripped from the windowsill and painted the floor. The traffic of the London outside their window came and went, with their own problems bogging down their already bogged minds, woefully unaware of the warning signs of an evening about to go awry.

~

"I'll get it, shall I?" John said, grasping at the fact that there was something to distract him. The echoes of the doorbell resounded momentarily through the flat and when Sherlock made no move to answer it, John took up the call. He rose from the chair he had been sitting in, and went for the door.

"About time," Sherlock muttered into his sheet music. John shook his head, deciding the silence was golden, and leaving the conversation at that. He left the room and headed down the stairs, wondering what case was so interesting that Sherlock had patiently (more or less) waited the whole day for it.

Knowing Sherlock, it would be something so mind-boggling that John would, hopefully, forget all about those desirable dreams that had bombarded him the night before.

Hopefully, Sherlock would forget, too.

Yeah right...

All these thoughts were running through John's still fatigued brain when his hand reached for and grasped at the door knob to 221B Baker St. His lips went to greet the client as he always did, but, as soon as he saw the man at the door, his mouth stopped, his eyes froze in their sockets, and panic rippled throughout his entire body. He couldn't fathom
what he was seeing.

Jim Moriarty.

In a dapper dark grey suit with black shoes, hair slicked back as it usually was, his deep eyes glinting and his mouth curled in a sadistic smirk, he stood, hands clasped
behind his back.

"Hullo John!"
Weeeehhhlll here it is, as I promised...kinda.

I was hoping to make this entire section one chapter, but as I've been writing...well, the pages just keep coming and coming, and I realized that it would be WAY too much to put into one go, so I have decided to slice it in two. Hope y'all forgive me :forgiveme:

So here it is...I guess you could call it part 1 or chapter 4, but meh, I call it the next little bit of mind fu-...well, mind-boggling ^.^

Comments and critiqes are muchos adored, mes amies! (mixing up my languages here). Are you excited for the next part, or has my prelude caused y'all to yawn?
© 2012 - 2024 HeadmistressMercedes
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Lunameyza's avatar
Oh god I love this! xD Can't wait for the next part! :giggle: