Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow–
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand–
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep–while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

- A Dream Within A Dream by Edgar Allen Poe.

Chapter One: A Dream Within A Dream

A house, north London, 02:30

John Watson's P.O.V.

The therapist, not Jane – a new one, smiles and crosses one leg over the other.

She's a few years older than me, maybe 34 or 35, I'd say she was pretty but in a severe way, her burgundy hair pulled pack to far the skin on her head shined when she smiled her tight lipped smile.

Pamela, I think her name is, Pamela Saxon.

'Good-morning John', she says, her accent is Welsh I think, 'are you keeping well'.

The truth would take to long to explain so I lie, as I have done for the past 3 weeks. 6 sessions, I think the lying is why she keeps calling me back.

'Yes. I'm keeping well'.

I lie.

'How's work'? She asks, though I think she knows. These kinds of therapists are payed to research and, I'm certain, that when she asked my co-workers about me she was met with several nervous exchanges of glance.

'Work's fine, fine. I delivered a baby'.

She smiles at this, not a fake, shiny browed smile but a real one that doesn't look like it's straining her face.

'Really'?

'Yes. His name is Eli. Eli John Franks'.

'They used your name'?

'Yes'.

'That's lovely'!

She seems genuinely pleased at this. She seems like the sort of woman who'd coddle baby nieces at weddings, just not the kind who'd have a child of her own.

No ring, I almost hear Sherlock mutter in my head, but there's a white band on her ring finger.

Divorced. No children.

I felt fairly pleased with myself, but only for a moment.

'Lovely, absolutely lovely', she continues, pauses then smiles, 'and your home life'?

I try not to picture the apartment, slowly accumulating all manners of dust, spider webs and old things of Sherlock's. The bullet-hole ridden wallpaper slowly peeling down, the kitchen sink completely overrun with some kind of dangerous, yellow mould. The only clean part of the house my room and the small section of kitchen assigned to Mrs. Hudson.

Well, maybe I'm overreacting.

'The house is fine, absolutely lovely'.

God, I'm starting to sound like her now.

'And your… other job'?

What's she on about? Oh, right, the detective business…

'I don't do that anymore'.

She seems pleased at this.

'The blog'?

'It's going great'.

'When did you last post…'?

I falter, oh hell, when did I last post? Oh yeah! Tuesday, that poem…

'Last Tuesday. I reviewed a poem'.

She perks up at this, pushing her half-moon spectacles up her thin nose.

'A poem? Which one'?

I pull the book – The Pit and The Pendulum – from my satchel and hand it to her, I had a feeling I'd need it.

She flicks to the page I've marked and I watch as her greyish blue eyes scan the page quickly. She gives me an amused, though slightly confused, look.

'A bit morbid isn't it'?

'I like it'.

She shuts the book and hands it to me, a concerned look on her face, fountain pen already hovering over her pad.

'Why'?

'Why'?

'Yes. Why did you enjoy it'?

'I never said I enjoyed it'.

I should stop this; I think bitterly, I'm starting to sound like him. Just spit it out.

'I can relate to it', I mutter ashamedly.

Her brows knit together – with some difficulty – and she scrawls something in tiny, precise brail script.

'Really…? Why'?

'Because… sometimes I feel like I am living in a dream. I am just waiting to wake up and… I don't know what I'll find. Maybe I never went to Afghanistan. Maybe Sarah never left… maybe Harry doesn't drink… maybe I never went to med-school or even moved to London… or maybe…'

I'm ranting now.

Pamela smiles understandingly, shutting the notepad quietly.

'And maybe he's still alive'?

I nod mutely, embarrassed of how dismal I'm being.

She nods in agreement and places her hand lightly on mine. It smells peculiar, like lemon and wool, and her fingers are cold too, really cold. The nails are long, acrylic most likely, bright, bright pink and too shiny like her forehead.

'There's nothing to be ashamed of Mr. Watson', she explained in a motherly tone, 'you lost your friend, your best friend, and now you don't really know what to do. Right'?

Suck it up, John.

'Yeah', I say, my voice a little hoarse, 'yeah I suppose you're right'.

'Do you have any hobbies'?

'No'.

'Did you'-

'No'.

She glances at the wall clock quickly; it's 45 past two, end of the session.

She rises to her feet precariously in her red kitten heels, yet somehow managing to hand me my jacket while she does.

'Do you need anything'? She mutters in a worried, hushed tone.

I know exactly what she means by anything, antidepressants, sleeping pills, green moth tablets, antihistamines. Honestly, if I have to jab another needle in my arm or swallow another tablet on her orders I swear I'm going to pull a Bart's, if you know what I mean. Sherlock would say the same, though more articulately.

'No. I'm fine'.

'You're sure? You're fine, I mean'?

I swallow and pull my jacket on, smiling falsely as I dash out the door into the cold, London sleet.

'Yeah', I mumble, 'I'm fine'.

I lie.

Again.

Irene Adler's P.O.V.

A mansion, outer NYC, 02:00

'More tea'?

'Please',

I hold my cup out and it is refilled, it should feel odd to be offered as I live here, but, I don't actually own the estate so… I'm not sure how I should feel.

Hats off to WITSEC though, they did a hands down job finding the place, huge, must be at least 21 rooms…

But back to the matter at hand.

Sherlock Holmes.

'You're supposed to be dead', I say, more a statement than a question.

He quirks a lip and lowers the pot of tea back to the table, it clinks as it hits the tray.

'So are you'.

I chuckle and raise the cup, taking a sip.

'Touché'.

He smiles an impish smile and picks the last crepe from the plate delicately, chewing it thoughtfully.

I eye the empty plate with something close to OCD, it just doesn't look right.

'Consuela, could you fetch some more crepes'? I call. The pretty, twentysomething maid looks up at me with something close to fear, god bless her heart, and quickly scurries over.

She regards my mysterious guest with concern, looking at me questioningly with big brown eyes.

She nods and plucks the plate from the table, dashing off to the kitchen.

Sherlock looks out the breakfast suite window, watching the distant, bluish New-York city skyline with a dreamy, sleep-deprived look on his face.

This must be the first time he's come to NYC, good lord I wonder what a nightmare he must have been on the plane.

'Have you seen Jack yet'? I demand sternly.

'John', he corrects me, swallowing the last of the crepe.

'Yes. But have you spoken with him'?

He runs a hand through his curling brown – almost black – hair and looks at me rather like I imagine a child would look at a scolding principle.

He hasn't spoken with him.

'But Holmes, you simply must! He'll be going mad with worry'!

He turns back to the window.

'He's moved on…' he complains.

I place by cup on the saucer with a clatter.

'For god sakes Sherlock he saw you commit "suicide". He saw you "jump" of a freaking building'!

'He saw a cadaver jump of a "freaking building", as you so delicately put it'.

'Sherlock, he's your friend…'

'Since when have you cared about my personal life'?

I push my chair out and rise to my feet. Yet again he arches an eyebrow at my attire, jeans and a white shirt, but hey I'm in total isolation – I can dress how I want!

'You tell him or I will', I snarl, turning on my heel and leaving, it may be a little childish but compared to him I'm the adult.

I pass Consuela as I stride to the kitchen. She gives me a fretful look then hurries on her way.

She places a fresh pot of tea and more crepes, Sherlock thanks her and then mutters something.

'When is that woman going to stop running'?

I turn and smile cynically.

'When you start chasing after me Shirley', I say, waggling my fingers in farewell.

He smiles and tightens his scarf, leaving the crepes and tea,

And walking in the opposite direction.