Dreams Don't Become You – Sherlock/Inception AU
Sherlock – Extractor
John – Point Man
Greg – Forger
Anderson – Chemist
Molly – Architect
Irene – Shade
Mycroft – Tourist
Moriarty – Mark
(With a special appearance from Moran. Because I can.)
In a world where life is left to its own devices and dreams are the true commodity, Sherlock Holmes was known as the greatest Extractor the world had ever seen. But dreams come at a price; a fact that Sherlock knows all too well. It's been 2 years since the case that almost destroyed Sherlock Holmes; a case that left him broken, ruined, and above all, wondering if dreamsareworth more than reality. But when given a similar case, will Sherlock let his inner demons control him? Sherlock/John friendship, Molly/Lestrade, Jim/Seb slight slash.
Rating: T, for now, but other chapters might require an M rating. Really depends. We'll have to see. ;)
Author's note: Hey everybody. This is my very first fanfic, so if you guys could rate or review or comment or all three, that'd be great. But you don't have to. As long as there are people reading this, I'm happy. I saw a gifset on tumblr that took a look at what Sherlock would be like in an Inception AU, so I decided to try it out.
EDIT: So sorry that I haven't updated this in over two months, but life and school and other things have been insane. I've edited this quite a bit, added some things, and I'm finished with chapter 2 (which will hopefully be uploaded in the next couple of days).
"It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live." JK Rowling through Albus Dumbledore.
There she was again, always just out of his reach, taunting him as if she could care less about his well being or sanity. And she probably didn't; that's what made each vision more haunting than the next. He knew he would never have the chance to erase his demons as long as the one before him now continued to dominate his every waking and sleeping thought. It wasn't that he was infatuated with her in the physical sense; this was much more intimate. He had a longing to understand her thoughts and emotions like he did so easily with everyone else. But that was the thing about The Woman: she allowed you to taste her, just for a moment, and then recoiled back into her web as if daring you to venture further. But he never did, no; Sherlock Holmes never did. And he wasn't sure that he would ever get the chance, which is why now, in his drug-induced sleep, Sherlock did the unimaginable. He slowly stretched out his hand, as if testing to see if the dream would hold, and grabbed the edge of her silk dress, pulling himself closer, closer, closer….
"Sherlock? You really can't be doing this right now. Sherlock, leave her alone, she's not coming back."
Sherlock awoke to the languid yet sympathetic voice of John H. Watson, whose face and dirty-blonde hair blocked out the tiny slivers of sun that shone through the curtains gracing the windows of 221B Baker Street. Sherlock stared dully into his flatmate's eyes before blinking several times, partially to alert himself that he was awake, and partially to alert John Watson. The sympathy that John's face and voice had held now slipped away as he stared at Sherlock depreciatively, eyes sweeping over his rolled up sleeve and down to the needle that protruded from between the couch cushions. As he picked up the needle delicately and set it on the table, John sighed lightly. But the weight that is held in a sigh can most definitely be measured, if not by the execution then by the number of times emitted. That sigh had been heard a thousand times alone in the privacy of the walls of 221B – once they had stepped foot in the streets of England, Sherlock had lost count – and it always held the same emotions: annoyance, grief, discontent, and disgust.
John straightened and pulled down on his argyle jumper before crossing his arms and looking down at Sherlock with disdain. "Clean yourself up and pull yourself together. The Queen is coming to visit."
"Better set out some cake," Sherlock muttered under his breath, unrolling his sleeve and buttoning the cuffs.
"Mrs. Hudson's already thought of that," John said in a slightly lighter tone. He glanced at Sherlock and gave a knowing smile. "Just makes sure you get that" - he pointed to the wasted needle - "out of sight before Mrs. Hudson sees it. She'd have a fit, you know."
Sherlock nodded solemnly, letting his flatmate believe that he was truly remorseful of his conduct. It seemed that more and more each day, he subjected John to more falsehoods as Sherlock slowly retreated into the unrest of his dreams each morning, afternoon, and night. He wore long sleeves to veil the small circles of bruised flesh. He waited to indulge in his fantasies until after John had left for work or went to bed. But the worst lies of all were the ones that Sherlock told about his feelings. Was he alright? Of course not, but John would never know. More than a few times, Sherlock had imagined taking his own life, whether by OD-ing or plummeting to his death from atop a tall building or precipice, but John would never know, because Sherlock never acted upon the urge. But for all of Sherlock's powers of deduction, he never chose to look into himself; perhaps because he didn't feel he needed to…or perhaps because he was afraid of what he might find there. A faint exclamation of "Dear God" followed by the slamming of the refrigerator door was all it took to move Sherlock off of the couch and into the bathroom before John could berate him about the bottles of sleep-inducing drugs that littered the shelves of the fridge. He stubbornly ignored the sharp rapping on the bathroom door and turned on the knobs above the sink. The water flowed like a waterfall out of the porcelain faucet and drowned out the noise of the irate army soldier on the other side of the door. Sherlock rolled up his sleeves once more, submerging his hands in the lukewarm water and staring at the small, purple souvenirs from his numerous trips to the land of dreams. Those dreams would be the death of him, he was sure of it. He unceremoniously lifted his hands to his face and slapped it numerous times before running a dripping hand through his dark, curly locks. Sherlock's pale face stared at him in the mirror, dark circles under his eyes almost matching the ones on his arms. He smirked at that ironic statement and wondered how many fashion faux-pas' he was committing while he was in this state. He grabbed a creme-colored hand towel off the rack and dried his face and hands before pressing his ear to the door. John could most definitely be heard breathing lightly on the other side, but Sherlock would not be banished to the bathroom for the remainder of his existence, and so he opened the door and stood toe-to-toe with his flatmate.
"As you've informed me, John, I have to change into more suitable clothing. So if you would kindly get on with it, I'd apprec-"
A bottle of clear liquid and an expression of disbelief were thrown his way, both catching him off guard. "What in the world," John held the bottle inches from the taller man's face and shook it ever so slightly to emphasize every word, "are these doing in the fridge? You're not supposed to bring your work back here, Sherlock, that's why we have the lab."
Sherlock merely shrugged and straightened his form. "I can't think in the lab. You know that better than anyone."
"But you're not using these for thinking, dammit. Irene Adler is not coming back, and y- we need to accept that."
The veins in Sherlock neck bulged as he clenched his jaw and spat, "I know that better than anyone, John. Don't pretend that you actually care about that incident. Because I know damn well that you don't."
John's eyes darted back and forth between Sherlock's and the beginning of a word was lost as the large knocker collided with the downstairs door. Their attentions were drawn to their landlady's sweet voice welcoming their guest, and John shook his head dolefully at Sherlock once more before stiffly retreating to the living room, where he sat down on a red armchair and picked up a book. Sherlock watched him leaf through it, never stopping on a page long enough to read a single word, and smirked. If there was one way he and John were alike, it was in their ability to hide their feelings and put on a mask of indifference, which is just what John was now attempting to do.
"Who's died, then?" John rolled his eyes at the smooth, controlled voice and set his book on the table with a soft thud. The voice belong to one Mycroft Holmes, or "The Queen" as Sherlock and John had taken to calling him just a few short years ago.
John pushed himself to his feet and folded his arms across his chest. "Excellent choice of words, Mycroft," he mumbled just loud enough for the eldest Holmes brother to hear.
Mycroft's lip curled at the comment and he glanced over at his younger brother, taking in his unusually disheveled appearance. He leaned towards John and tipped his head towards Sherlock. "It's her again, isn't it?" John nodded and shared an understand look with Mycroft.
Sherlock sighed and raised his hands in exasperation. "Good God, I'm in the room, you idiots," he shouted in frustration, causing his brother to straighten and his friend to clear his throat.
"Yes. Well. I'm sure you'd be disappointed to hear, then, that I've got a case; one that I'm sure you'll want to take."
John took the manila folder offered to him and Sherlock flopped gracelessly into black seat positioned directly across from the armchair. "Thank God. That's exactly what I've been needing, a case." He tried ever so hard to prevent a tone of delight from seeping into his deep voice, but to John it was as clear as a bell. Smiling, he handed the first piece of paper to Sherlock after perusing the details. The dark haired Holmes stared intently at the picture of the Mark and read the name above it; "James Moriarty."
