"Good luck with that," murmured Moriarty, putting the barrel in his mouth.
The gunshot dwarfed Sherlock's cry of shock in its volume. But nothing could rival the heartrending sound that poured out of him when he saw the bleeding corpse on the floor before him. Not the hatefully dreamy face of his enemy, but the painfully innocent face of his only friend.
John's glassy eyes stared out into space.
Sherlock choked out a sob, crouching beside Watson as if he could will him back to life. He took John's hand in his, the cold fingers filling him with dread. But the hand pulled away from him, and Watson was somehow on his feet again, though his eyes were still dead as anything else he'd seen. The gun in John's hands cocked of its own accord with a volume rivaling that of a churchbell's toll.
"John, no," stammered Sherlock, fear panging in his bosom like it never had before. What used to be his best friend came at him with the surety in step that identified him as a former soldier. Or, rather, it. But why did he live still, after shooting himself as Moriarty? He wasn't picking up anything. The dead man kept coming, and Sherlock kept backing away, fraught with horror. But the despair within him scared him more than anything, and when it blossomed into fear it was the most terror he had ever felt. His feelings would be the death of him, and he knew it. Did he? Dread sank its cold fangs into his soul.
He didn't know. How to act, how to save, how to die.
The floor ended below him, and he pitched backwards.
Accusing faces blew past him with the viciousness of the aerial drag that tore at his face. Surreal images of his brother, his enemy, his clients, his accomplices, his friend. He wished they would go away, so with a strange turn of fortune, they did. But then he looked up in a still moment that lasted as long as a supernova, inches from the pavement, into Molly's face.
He hit the ground.
His eyes stayed wide open as the pain rang through his body, staring into the deep dark of Dewar's Hollow. He felt the leaf litter below him with its damp, soaking its lifeless cold through him as if he wore nothing. He scrambled to his feet in a panic, shaken to his core by what he had seen and petrified to the bone by what he knew was coming for him. He could sense the intensity of its live fury, its dark purpose, its cruel grin. Growls and maniacal laughter, mingling until they were one noise, grating on his ears. His soul.
"Burn...the heart."
The hound lunged at him, eyes aglow with the hatred of a thousand foiled crimes, real as ever. It happened so fast that all Sherlock could do was gasp for air that wasn't there, air that turned his mind to madness. Its claws raked him with an unnatural searing agony, its hot breath making him squint. But it smiled cattily, suddenly gentle to the touch. Its eyes dared him to make a move, make a mistake.
It was Irene. Lips a breath away.
But the toothful muzzle returned, and it ripped his neck out with a burning passion.
"ENOUGH!"
Existence froze.
Sherlock's eyes were open, yet they stared numbly through the dark treetops to the sky above, not bothering to sense anything about his surroundings. Now that nothing was happening, anything could happen. He was terrified.
From his left, silver light washed over him. With it came a calm that seemed almost deceptive to him, a suspicion that prevented him from releasing the fear of his initial night terror. He stood again, just as quick and graceless as the first time, eyes wild with primal fear. His heart pounded in his chest and his flesh throbbed as if aflame where the beast had attacked him, but he found himself to be whole-physically, at least. He beheld the moon before him, lowered completely to the horizon, huge enough to be within a short walking distance. The dark trees bent out of the way of its beam of light, suddenly less foreboding now that it was known that they could submit to something. But what something? A something that would save him from this nightmare, or a something that would prolong it?
Out of the glory of the moon's light came a silhouette.
Winged, four legged, rearing up, eyes aglow.
It brought its forelegs back down to earth, the intense light in its eyes subsiding. It began to walk towards him at an easy pace, folding its wings away. Sherlock squinted and stepped closer, not quite believing his senses. This being a dream, anything could be, but he was still the same steel trap as ever. Because he knew he had to be.
Because if this were another, he promised himself he would thwart it this time.
She appeared to be a unicorn of sorts-but more beautiful than he thought a dumb beast could fathom, let alone become. Her mane and tail were massive, billowing beside her in an unfelt wind, stars scattered in its surreal blue color. Her mainpelt was deep cerulean, a black crown nestling in her forelock behind her towering horn. She wore a black breastplate of sorts that hung around her neck, a crescent moon emblazoned on it in pristine white. Her eyes betrayed a certain sentience, an understanding unheard of in quadrupedal beings, a gentle teal that reassured him somehow. Though all his logic and instinct told him he was dreaming and there was no possible way this was real in any way, shape or form, he had the feeling that she was here for a reason.
And if he wasn't a reason, than he wasn't Sherlock.
"We could not permit such a nightmare to continue as it was," she spoke, only half startling Sherlock with her gift of speech. Typical dreamstate. Permit?
"Control over dreams," muttered Sherlock, half to himself. At least he could deduct now, which meant that this must be a lucid dream of sorts, unlike his earlier horrors. "Only makes sense, given your obvious connection to the night. Specifically, the moon-there, on your flank. But that black blanket surrounding it? A dark side to you, perhaps?"
Her pupils shrank in surprise, though she did her best to hide it.
"Ha," he crowed, pointing at her with a mildly accusatory finger. "you're surprised, which means I'm right. But none of that matters, seeing that I'm dreaming, because that means you're also not real. But why would my subconscious conjure a unicorn? Some false sense of purity within me? Tedious. Also, why a winged one? Seems a bit random, even for me. Also, you refer to yourself in the third person, which suggests some sort of medieval take on grammar. That, plus the crown and the armor, equals royalty. I am quite regal, I will admit, but I never had any delusions of political power. Or do I? Caught it from Mycroft, perhaps?"
"We are not from thy own mind, fair Sherlock," she interrupted in an unplaceable accent. It sounded American, but not quite. "Or from thy own world, as thou could have guessed."
"'Guessed' is a bit of a light term for what I do, Princess," he replied. She didn't notice-right again. However, her subconscious must have, because she connected his use of her title to her own introductions. Of course, he was far ahead of her.
"I am-"
"Princess Luna, steward of the night," he blurted. She narrowed her eyes, cocking her head and stretching it towards him as if to examine him closer.
"How did you-?" she pressed.
"Royalty. Night," he explained, as if it were obvious. "Though, to be fair, the name was a lucky guesses. You could have been a queen, but typically in most cultures the moon-or whoever it is represented by-is not the highest in the celestial monarchy. Also, 'queens' typically don't wear armor and don't pop into dreams to say hi. Your name could have been Diane, or Artemis, or whatever else."
"Regardless of our origin, we have domain over the night and the dreams they instill in others," Luna continued, her eyebrows lowering as if she had guessed his most recent deduction. "as you undoubtedly realized by observing me. Thy dreams, however infrequent, are of quite an unusual potence and subject...they have not gone unnoticed."
"Nightmares, more like," he murmured with a fresh thrill of fear in his heart. She nodded, in the manner of a veteran. He knew that look from John-she had had her share of nightmares. But the way she reacted to that word suggested that her definition of 'nightmare' was more dire than his.
"Oh," he blurted, furrowing his brows at his own idiocy. "Night Mare. Duh."
"Well done," she approved with a smile. A tired one. She had gotten over the Night Mare, whoever that was, but it still brought her bitter memories. Whoever? Yes, if she was a horse, then it only made sense that there were other horses. Herd animals, after all. This Night Mare was a close enemy, judging by the look on her face. More kudos to John. Yet the mere thought of his friend, after what he'd done to Watson in the land of the living, after what he'd seen in his dream…
He shuddered and inhaled sharply.
"We know what it is like to be plagued by what one has done," she lamented kindly, walking over to him with her footsteps clopping on the earth. "to be unable to escape from oneself. We know all too well."
"How would you know?" he demanded in a low voice, narrowing his eyes. He knew that he should have a better hold on his emotions, but his fear had melted into anger and seeped into his voice with a chilling effect. "How could a stranger possibly know anything about what it's like to be me? To be bored? To be clever? To be Sherlock?"
Then he didn't know what that aggravating feeling in his chest was. Because her eyes told her that she did know.
"Perhaps we must show you." she answered. Her horn blossomed in a white pinpoint of light, and they were gone.
