Red mountains capped with snow. Trees...with silver leaves? Children in robes similar to a monk,s twirling in fields of deep red, men and women dressed in red, with odd head dresses that arch over their head. There is a hole- a rip. A rip in reality itself. The schism. A young boy with at least eight, with dark, curled hair and the most peculiar, piercing green-gray eyes, is escorted towards the schism by a group adults. Torches surround them, the flame's lights flashing across their faces, casting an eerie shadows. One of the adults nod at him. The young boy turns towards the schism, gazing into it. It swirls with almost every color known, and some not. It seems to never have an end, to go on and on for eternity... his eyes blur as he crumples to the ground.
Sherlock wakes with a jolt.
Authors note: What do you think?