You sigh as you toss your bag onto the bad and lay next to it. It was tiring enough flying all the way to London in one day, but after spending an extra hour at the airport searching for your suitcase only to find that it didn't make the flight, you could hardly stand let alone stay awake. You would have been fine with staying at home if it wasn't for your aunt. She is the whole reason you came to England.
There is a convention this week in London and your aunt practically dragged you to the airport with her. You love her but only enough to go with her. Your were lucky to get separate rooms at the hotel.
You roll onto your back and stare up at the ceiling. You can't exactly do anything else without the rest of your luggage. You might as well just shut your eyes and fall asleep...
As you close your eyes you imagine a grand hall with massive pillars that seem to stretch all the way to the clouds. At the other end of the room hear a stringed instrument pouring out its majestic melody. The music reminds you of your older brother who would play his violin every night by his bedroom window. The beautiful tune would lull you to sleep on the nights you couldn't find any.
As you walk farther toward the music you find the source to be a tall, slender man gliding the bow in his hand across the strings of a wooden violin. You become mesmerized by the melody and would have continued to be if you hadn't realized an important fact of the situation: You aren't imagining the violin or the man playing it.
Your eyes snap open and dash around the room as you sit up from the bed. Finally they rest upon the same man you saw earlier, silently swaying to the tune of his violin.
The wood of the instrument sparkles in the blue moonlight as the bow flows across the strings, sending its sonata streaming into the room and gracing past your ears. The man himself is just as mysterious and elegant as the music he is performing.
From what you can see in the dim light the man is wearing a dark coat that reaches down past his knees and the collar of it rising to the height of his jaw. His hair is an almost black shade of brown that waves and spirals around his head.
Suddenly he stops playing, turns and stares at you as if to say: You interrupted me. But you hadn't made a single noise since he began.
The first thing you notice about his face are his high, sharp cheekbones. They only accent the placid and stoic look in his silver blue eyes.
"Well?" his smooth, sonorous voice ruptures your thoughts.
"What?" you manage to spit out.
"This is usually the time when a conversation begins." He swings the bow in his hand like a sword as he speaks. "I started, you continue. Isn't that how it works?"
You try to wrap your mind around the situation as the man continues eyeing you with a very supercilious look. You thought when you entered this room you were alone. But if that is true, how did this man get in? No open window or door. It's as if he walked through the wall!
But why is he in your hotel room in the first place? If he wanted something he would have taken it. He wouldn't break into someone's room just to play his violin...would he?
"How did you get in here?" you ask sounding calmer than most people would in this kind of situation.
"Ah, an American. This should be fun. The last American I met I threw out a window." he says as a slight smirk forms at the corner of his lips, completely ignoring your question.
You blink at what he said but let your face remain emotionless. He will not be allowed to intimidate you.
Maybe he would answer a different question.
"Why are you here?" you ask while standing. "I can call the authorities."
"But you won't, will you?" he says as he takes a step toward you. "Because if something were to go wrong, you'd be able to take care of it yourself. Wouldn't you, Agent?"
You're caught off guard by his last sentence. How does he know you're an FBI agent?! Who is this man?
"H-how-"
"And, obviously, you're not here for anything work related. Otherwise you would have been gripping your gun by now and possess your suitcase." He steps toward you again and you find that he's at least three inches taller that you. You try to ignore the obvious heighth difference and return his stare with a glare as he continues.
"If you had taken a private plane you would have been able to keep track of your case but because you flew publicly it was out of your reach." He places his hands behind his back, still holding his violin and bow in each fist. "But you would have preferred not to fly at all and just stay home if it wasn't for your 'plus one'."
"Okay, how did-"
"I know you didn't travel alone?" he finishes for you. "It was quite blatant, actually. Judging by your clothes and jewelry you have a more 'modern' taste so why would you have that?" he says as he points his bow at a large satchel in the corner of the room. "Obviously not yours and you're not the type who would steal something like that so you most likely carried if for someone, probably someone you knew and traveled with."
You blink at the auburn bag as you begin to recollect your memories. He was right, it isn't yours, it belongs to your aunt. You'd carried her bag for her because she had a lot to haul around already and you didn't have anything, other than your own bag. You were so tired you forgot to give it back to her and unconsciously threw it into the room.
"Now the question is: Who owns the bag? It couldn't be your mother's because she would've stayed with you in this room no matter how much you dislike her. It couldn't be your grandmother's because, by your age, she's currently either dead or dying. And it certainly wouldn't be a friend's because it would be in better condition if they bought it purposely for the older look. It couldn't be an older sister's, either. You would have shared a room with both. Therefore it must belong to your aunt who you refused to stay in the same room with but willingly traveled to a different country with. Am I wrong?"
You shake your head and stand, gaping at the man as he continues talking at the speed of thought. You barely keep up with what he's saying as he goes on telling other details of your life as if you are an open book. He even tells you how you slept on the plane!
"What are you? Some sort of spy? Computer hacker? How do you know so much about me? Who are you?"
His expression turns cold until he speaks, his voice deeper than before. "My name is Sherlock Holmes."
"Okay, Sherlock (odd name), I'm (first/name) (last/name). But that still doesn't tell me how you know so much about me."
"I don't know you. I observed you and deduced my answers." he states matter-of-factly.
You lean back on your heels in astonishment. He got all that by just observing you?! This Sherlock Holmes amazes you every time he opens his mouth. Could someone really be that intelligent?
"Oh, I guess I should tell you how and why I'm here since you're so eager for explanation." he disrupts your thoughts, once again.
You straighten, awaiting his next sentence. Finally this man is going to give you some answers.
"This is a dream."
You would have doubled over in laughter had he not said it so seriously. But you do not hide the grin that widens across your face.
"You expect me to believe that?" you scoff.
"You want me to prove it? Fine. Look at your hands."
You comply, reluctantly, and bite back a scream as your eyes meet the flesh that can not be your hand. In the space between your thumb and index finger is a sixth digit protruding out from the gap. But it isn't just the extra finger that shocks you, but that your entire hand looks deformed. It's as if someone painted your hand onto your wrist and smeared it in mid-air.
You glance back up for the askew image, filled with more questions for Sherlock, but as you do you find you're not in the hotel room anymore. Instead you are standing at the edge of a rushing waterfall. You feel a chill run up your spine as you're misted by the cool liquid of the fall. Even without the water it's a cold night. You wish you had your scarf.
"Beautiful isn't it?" the baritone voice makes you jump. You turn to face its owner as he continues speaking. "It's always been one of my favorites, the Reichenbach Fall. Not too b-"
"What is wrong with my hand?!" you interrupt Sherlock with a shout as you raise your deformed hand.
He drops his shoulders and gives an irritated sigh. "I thought you'd be smart enough to know what that means."
You tilt your head to the side and he answers your unspoken request for information.
"The easiest way to tell you're dreaming is by looking at your hands. When you're dreaming, one of your hands is always deformed in some way. Whether it be an extra finger, complete distortion of the image, or both combined." He lifts his left hand, no longer carrying his violin or bow. "You see? To you my hand is perfectly fine but I see a sixth finger emerging from here." he says as he pinches the air beside a clearly empty space on his hand.
He could be lying to you. Just trying to amaze you so you'll go along with whatever he's planning. But no matter how much you hate to admit it, it is working. Everything this man, Sherlock Holmes, does and says is astounding. From the way he plays the violin to how he deduced almost everything about you. Nothing he does ever bores you.
But back to the situation at hand [*snicker*], he was right. Nothing is out of the ordinary below his wrist. Does that mean that your hand also looks normal to everyone but yourself? But you can grab the extra digit. You can feel it.
"So you can't see this?" you ask as you squeeze the sixth finger.
He steps over and swipes his hand directly through your finger. You just stare in disbelief as he retracts his hand.
But you're holding it!
"Now that you know you are dreaming," Sherlock continues. "it is easier to wake yourself up. Most people do this by jumping from a tall height or killing themselves. Both actions increase their heart rate, resulting in an abrupt end to the dream. When you're dreaming you must stay calm if you want it to continue. Too much excitement-"
Suddenly you lose your footing and slip over the edge of the waterfall. You are powerless to save yourself until your wrist is grasped into a firm grip by a sudden outstretched hand.
"-and you'll wake up." he finishes.
You hang there, motionless, just staring at each other until finally he pulls you up and lifts you onto the rocky ledge. That definitely spiked your pulse, but not enough to cause you to awake, evidently.
"So if I'm dreaming, you're just a figment of my imagination. Telling me things that I already know deep in my subconscious." you ponder to him after straightening your jacket.
A small grin tugs at the corner of his lips. "No, I am just as much my own person as you are yours. And before you ask, 'Then how are you in my dream?' I am here because you made eye contact with me earlier today, thus allowing me entrance into your dream."
He takes your confused look as a gesture to proceed explaining. "Each day you are met with a countless number of people and each person you see appears in your dream the following night without you being aware of it. People you make eye contact with often play a more important role in your dream than just as an extra figure in the background. So one day I wondered if a person could gain access to another's dream if they had locked eyes with each other that day. This stimulated my curiosity of dreams and I began practicing lucid dreaming and researched anything I thought was of use to me. All of which led to this where I perfected my theory and turned it into fact. But don't think yourself so special, you just happened to be the one person I remembered making eye contact with today."
You can't keep your jaw from dropping. It all seems unbelievable and yet the look in his eyes and the way he said it convinces you he is telling the truth.
"What do you do, then?" you question now truly wanting to know. "Are you a professor? Scientist? Doctor? Philosopher?"
"I'm a detective. A consulting detective to be more specific." Sherlock answers with his head held slightly higher than before.
"I've never heard of a 'consulting detective'."
"That's because I'm the only one in the world, I invented the job. When the police arrive at their depth, which is always, they consult me."
He helps the police!? This could turn out to be a good dream after all. Just a week ago the FBI stopped all investigation on a case. They had had the perfect suspect but she also had the perfect alibi. Maybe he could do what your team couldn't and solve it.