Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock or Inception
Sebastian Moran wakes to a dark room.
His eyes move as smoothly as he dares, left to right and then back again, cataloguing and storing whatever he can, making a neat inventory to see what he can use, what he can exploit.
He's strapped to what he thinks is a chair, hard, bare, probably oak. The corners of the room seep into darkness, but he guesses he's near in the centre of the floor, maybe a little to the left.
His hands are bound by thin cable, the strands biting into his wrists like a lovers caress. Sebastian can't name the number of times he's woken in chains, some more pleasant than others-
he bites down hard on his lip, cutting his train of thought as neatly as he can. If his is where he thinks he is, then the best place for his memories are locked away in his head.
He's dressed nicely, or what passes as nicely. He can feel a tie around his neck, he's wearing a button down shirt and slacks, and loafers pinch his toes. He should have a blazer but it's not on his shoulders, it's probably in a heap on the ground.
The door is opening, or maybe it isn't a door it's a thin strip of light, and someone is stepping through, a shadow tall and thin and holy Jesus, are those real cheekbones?
Sherlock gently adjusts his scarf.
"Hello, Sebastian."
Molly twiddled her fingers as she stared at the rest of her sleeping team. Being the chemist is by far the most frustrating part of the job, she had decided long ago, for obvious reasons. While the architect, the point man, the extractor and the forger all dive into the layers and layers of their subconscious, the chemist is forced to wait outside checking the levels of Somnacin. Or twiddling their fingers.
The job had gone smoothly so far. Easy check in at the hotel, mark identified in less than a minute, knockout drug in the cocktail. A smooth, easy job. Almost too smooth. Why was it, then, that she couldn't shake the twist in her stomach, the niggling feeling that something was wrong?
Molly shook her head. It was Sherlock's job to entertain fancies and premonitions, not hers. She was the chemist, she dwelt in concentrations and percentages, not gut feeling.
Deciding to make herself useful, Molly turned to recheck the levels of Somnacin compound. Sherlock, Anderson, Lestrade and Mycroft were stretched out quietly, their faces slack and almost young in sleep. Moran, on the other hand…
Molly had no reason to hate Moran. Before this job, she had never even heard of him. But looking at him now, she couldn't help a feeling of slight apprehension shiver down the length of her spine, couldn't help shy away slightly as she adjusted his drip.
There's no need to fear him.
Molly finished with his Somnacin, ready to turn around, when his hands closed almost peacefully around her throat.
"You've been busy lately." Sherlock delivers the statement with no inflection. Sebastian shrugs, a little up and down motion of his shoulders.
Sherlock Holmes. 27. Already one of the most brilliant, if unorthodox minds in the dream industry. Sebastian studies his arched cheekbones and curly hair, memorizes his expression of polite disdain. Sherlock may be an extractor, but Moran is a forger and a good one too, he makes expressions, delicate and fleeting and beautiful, his business.
Sherlock smiles. The effect is terrifying. "No more of that now."
He paces for a moment. Moran concentrates on the cable binding his wrists together, focuses on the way it bites. Sebastian doesn't have a totem, instead relying on dream angularities to get a grip on what's real. It's part of what makes him an excellent forger. It's also why he's very susceptible to a good architect.
"I'm supposed to break into your mind." Moran looks at the way Sherlock pronounces the syllables, the slight roll of his tongue. "I can't help but find that a bit boring, can't you?"
Sherlock started dreaming- officially dreaming- at 18. Back then he was mentored against his wishes by the architect Greg Lestrade, but soon grew into extraction instead of architecture, and ruthlessly established a reputation as unbeatable. His victims (it was unfair to call them marks) refused to talk about what happened in the dark room of his mind, and frankly, Moran was curious.
Well, at least he'll know now.
Sherlock was talking again. "… conspiracy theory, or something of that sort. Sebastian, can't we come to some sort of compromise?"
Moran sneers as best as he can. "You can't get into my head."
Sherlock smiles again. "On the contrary, Sebastian, I already am."
Greg Lestrade is not impressed.
Mycroft looks unreadable, but then again, he always does. Molly was hunched in a corner, nursing her throat. Anderson and Sherlock, predictably, were screaming at each other.
"-And how do you think I should react, when I wake up and see Sebastian strangling Molly? Clap and cheer him?"
"Well. That may have been impractical, Anderson. Where on earth do you come up with these ideas?"
Anderson was rapidly turning a rather spectacular shade of violet. "The first level was supposed to be his dream, and the second was supposed to be yours! Can't you follow orders?"
"Orders?" Sherlock sneered again. "Why should I follow orders if they would just make us fail?"
"So you're telling me, what you're saying is as long as you get to play your little mind games, it doesn't matter what anyone knows?"
"Precisely. Glad you caught on."
"Molly could have died, Sherlock, and you would be responsible. Don't you care?"
"Caring is boring."
Anderson got up, a set look on his thin face. "You make me sick."
"I got the information, for god's sake Anderson, if you can't deal with a little pressure here and there, I don't think you should be here." A pause. "For that matter, why are you here?"
"Fine." Anderson was breathing hard. "Fine. I quit." And with one last disgusted glance at Sherlock, and a sympathetic look at Molly, he stormed out the door, slamming it as hard as he could.
Sherlock turned to face the rest of them. "Well then," he said cheerfully. "We're going to need a new point man."
A/N: And it begins! I know there must be a bunch of Sherlock/Inception crossovers, but I always wanted to give this a try, so here it is: my latest project. In case it isn't clear, Sherlock is the extractor, Lestrade is the architect, Mycroft is the forger, Molly is the chemist, and Anderson was the point man. Poor Anderson. Now that he's quit, Sherlock's gonna need a new handler. I wonder who that will be...
Please, please, please read and review!