"Wake up!"

Sherlock gasped as the umbrella prodded into his stomach, waking him, the cold of the metal burning against his warm skin. Opening his eyes he looked up into the smirking face of his brother.

"Mycroft," he snarled, curling up into a tight ball before slowly sitting up.

"Is it not enough that you appear in my nightmares? Must you wake me from my blissful slumber and turn my reality into a malicious hell too?" To this exclamation the elder of the Holmes brothers simply smiled. Turning away, he swanned over to the door, head held aloof. "Dear brother, If I wished to taunt you, I wouldn't have woken you at all, for what pleasure can your dreams really hold if your wailing of the name Jim is anything to go by." With a final chuckle he spun on his heel and left the room, leaving Sherlock feeling affronted and completely wordless. Must his brother always bring up the mysterious James who so often haunted his dreams? There was never a face, only a name and a voice that whispered his name each night. A voice that sent chills up his spine, although he was not yet quite sure of why, a voice so dark and unfathomable it send not just his heart, but his mind racing. That was what excited him.