Nightmares

Created on 3/29/13, 10:45PM

Created because someone posted a picture of Sherlock aboard (I'm assimung) The Enterprise, looking through the glass at the villain who's name I don't know who is also played by Benedict Cumberbatch, and commanded someone to write a fanfic about it.

This is my response.

Enjoy.

Silently, Sherlock stared at the man behind the glass. His own faintly see-though reflection staring back at him, and only heightening the sense of unreality. Confronted with two images of himself—yes, himself, because the other man was exactly him in every way but his bearing—Sherlock was stilled to silence, his mind, for once, unable to comprehend what was happening. For an instant that seemed to last an eternity, they both stared at each other in silence.

Then, the other man broke the stillness, and spoke, his voice soft and low and filled deadly maliciousness, and to hear that tone coming from his own voice was enough to shock Sherlock into almost taking a step backwards. "Hello, my angel." The other man said, showing his teeth in a small smile that chilled him to the bone, because he'd seen it before, on the face of his enemy. Of the man that had threatened to one day burn the heart out of him.

Steeling his nerves, Sherlock lifted his eyes to lock with the cold ones that stared back at him. The darkness within them seemed to almost reach out toward him, and he had to resist a shudder at a chill passed over him. The other man's smile widened, and he laughed. "Oh, my poor, poor angel." He said, his eyes flashing dark humor and steel, "You try so hard to deny it."

Against his will, Sherlock found himself speaking. "Deny what?" His voice was calm, betraying none of the turbulent emotions that ran beneath the surface of his soul. Somehow, though, the other man seemed to sense it, for he stepped forward, and pressed his palm to the bare inch of glass that separated them.

A Sudden thrill of horror washed through him at the movement, and Sherlock staggered back until his back hit the wall behind him, his breath catching in his throat and his eyes widening. He'd never been so scared in his life, but for once, when he'd seen John step forward in a coat he hadn't been wearing before, speaking with another's voice even as the red crosshairs of a sniper rifle held steady on his forehead. An unnecessary act that served only as a warning to the danger they'd been in.

This fear was unnatural. He had to be dreaming. There was no way this was r—

"You're an angel." The man said, cutting off his racing thoughts, "But the one thing angels always forget…" he lifted the hand he held against the glass over his head, and let it fall, making a slow, whistling sound as he did so.

"Is that the sky isn't infinite." Sherlock pressed himself farther back into the wall, some half-known horror rising up in him and urging him to escape, get away before the man could speak, get away before he could hear what the man that looked so like him and yet was completely different had to say.

His efforts were futile, and he could only hold his breath in horror as the man continued. "Someday, they're going to hit the ground."

A pause that lasted forever, then, "Someday, they're going to /fall/."

And though it was spoken softly and calmly, the last word was enough to completely stop his heart, and the next thing he knew, the wall and floor disappeared from beneath him, and, unable to cry out because his voice had been silenced, Sherlock was falling.

With a sharp intake of breath, Sherlock opened his eyes, his heart pounding in his ears and a wordless scream still caught in his throat, begging voice. Blowing out a shaky breath, he sucked in a lungful of air, and after a few more repetitions, he no longer felt the urge to cry out. Slowly, the adrenaline faded from his blood, and he was able to make out the familiar dark-lit setting of the living room in 221B. By the still darkness, he'd guess that it was maybe two-AM.

Momentarily confused, he wondered why he wasn't in his bedroom. Then he remembered. Ah. Right. Yes. He'd fallen asleep on the sofa. Again.

Rolling over onto his back and propping his feat up on the armrest, Sherlock stared up at the ceiling, threw one arm across his chest to track the racing of his heart, and tried to remember whatever nightmare had just awoken him.

It'd been so long since he'd had a nightmare. It was unsettling. The fact that he couldn't remember it only worsened the feeling.

With a sigh, he threw his legs over the edge of the sofa, and moved to stand. But a wave of vertigo slammed into him, and the floor rushed up to meet him as darkness encroached on the edges of his vision.

The next thing he knew, John was standing over him, looking half amused and half concerned, there was sunlight filtering in through the windows, and it was morning. "What time is it?" He asked, suddenly realizing that he was lying on his back on the floor, and picking himself up.

"Eight." John replied, "Lestrade called. Said he has a case you'll be very interested in."

A smile automatically lit itself upon his lips, and, moving quickly so that he wouldn't have to question what had happened seemingly only minutes ago, he rushed back into his bedroom and not a minute later burst back out in a fresh set of clothes, toothbrush already in hand as he turned his steps toward the bathroom. Normally, he wouldn't bother with such inanities as changing his clothes—a case! What could be more important?—but John insisted.

And so it was, not even five minutes after he'd woken up to find himself on the floor, that Sherlock was at the top of the stairs, about to lead John down them at his normal break-neck speed.

He'd gotten as far as lifting his foot to the first step before the wave of dizziness hit him again. For one heart-stopping moment, he was sure he'd fall.

Then John's hand shot out, and grabbed his arm, steadying him. Heart still pounding in his chest, Sherlock stood still for a moment, afraid to move. Then he realized that he'd closed his eyes, and when he opened them, he saw John gazing back at him with concern. His eyes flickered down to his hand, and Sherlock realized with chagrin that he was still gripping the other man's arm tightly. Looking away in embarrassment and apology, Sherlock said softly, "Thanks."

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw John nod. "No problem." The ex-soldier said, his voice full of thinly-veiled concern, "Just…take it easy, okay? The case isn't going anywhere. I don't want you to fall just because you feel you have to be in two places at once."

Ignoring the uneasiness that seemed to have settled in the pit of his stomach, Sherlock nodded and, gesturing John to go before him, followed his friend down the stairs, his hand never relinquishing it's death-grip on the railing until he'd reached the final step.

Finished at 11:40PM