Jim was just a normal boy. He laughed at funny things, cried when he was scared- though he was rarely scared, it still happened- and he wanted to be friendly. He was as normal as any boy could be. Perhaps the only difference was that he wasn't exactly human.

For one, Jim's pupils were very big and black, as black as the darkest night, with only a hint of the moon's light in them. He didn't know how long, or even how it started, only sure that he'd always lived in the shadows, in the night, always only able to come out when the sun was no longer in the sky.

He liked to call it 'the incident'. The incident was when he first found out what he could do. It was one of those times another little boy was able to see him. It wasn't rare, but not as common as Jim would have liked. Many of the children didn't seem to see him, and many others were afraid of him, of his shadows and what they might mean. Only a few were actually fascinated by him, so few. And one had been oh so scared of him.

His name was Carl Powers. He was a lithe young boy, very athletic; he liked to swim a lot. The first night Jim happened upon his room, Carl seemed scared, just like a lot of the other children, and Jim wasn't really expecting much. But then Carl laughed, he laughed and though Jim had come to know by then that laughter was a happy sound he didn't like Carl's laugh one bit, no he hated it, so so much. It was a horrible mocking laughter, and he wanted it to stop, just stop! Why was he mocked? What had he done?

He wanted to ask, he wanted to know, but then Carl realized it wasn't a dream, and the thing that was not a boy was dark and real and scary, and he didn't understand what Jim was. He didn't understand and he got scared and frustrated and angry and he began shouting, telling Jim to go away.

But Jim didn't understand either, he didn't know Carl was confused, because he was confused, and he just wanted him to stop, to stop the noises and the anger and the mocking laughter still echoing in his mind. And poor Jim didn't know what to do, he just wanted it all to stop, minutes later he realized it did stop.

It had stopped and the room was quiet except- except for the small whimpers coming from Carl Powers' bed. The boy, the athletic, noisy boy who liked swimming was hiding under the covers, crying, wanting his mommy, wanting someone because he had suddenly felt as if he was underwater and he couldn't move and he was drowning and sinking down into the bottom with the surface so so far away.

Carl Powers never swam again, and Jim found out he can make nightmares. Jim liked making nightmares, he made them big, he made them small, long and drawn out, short and chilling, creepy ones and crawly ones, specific detailed ones and blurry horribly shadowy ones. Sometimes he makes them extra big and scary, for adults because they can see him sometimes, too, and he likes to reward them. Jim enjoyed himself very much whenever he was making nightmares, whenever he gives them out and sees them scaring people.

But after a long long time of doing this, he got bored. Oh his nightmares were still so beautiful, and he knew who would be most scared of each of them, but they always acted the same, acted the way he knew they would, and not a lot fought them, and nobody really won. They were all the same, they were all so scared, they were all so very normal, Jim was very very much bored. His nightmares became worse and worse and yet his joy was only short, it never lasts, and he was never interested.

Until that night he met Sherlock Holmes. Oh, just the thought of him afterwards brought a dark, languid smile unto Jim's face. Sherlock Holmes was a most interesting boy. It was late in the night, but little Sherlock was still up, reading a book under his blanket. The bedroom lights were closed, but he held a torch towards his book to see. When Jim slipped into his bedroom, sliding neatly out of the darker shadows, the blanket shifted, and fell down, the torch moving to shine its measly light unto his pale, ghostly form.

Sherlock's intelligent blue eyes were locked with his, wide with a bit of surprise and so so much curiosity. It got so uneasy for Jim, and so so interesting, that he tentatively sent a nightmare in Sherlock's way. It wasn't a big, enveloping nightmare, which worked best with sleeping children and adults, and not very much with people who can see him. No, this was a misty nightmare that floated about, until it clouded Sherlock's eyes and let him see whatever Jim chose for him to see. But Sherlock, curious, interesting little Sherlock, he just sighed and shook his head, decidedly not wanting to give his attention to the misty nightmare, and he went back to his book, just like that.

Jim was so surprised he let the misty nightmare disappear, and Sherlock looked up sharply, narrowing his eyes as if asking if Jim would play a trick on him again. And then Jim was no longer shocked, he was happy, so happy and surprised and interested and he simply smiled and climbed on the bed beside Sherlock, who obligingly made room for him.

It's not that they were friends, it wasn't exactly like that. Friends played, and talked, and smiled and laughed with each other. Sherlock rarely smiled or laughed, but he liked to talk, he wanted to know what Jim was, why he was like he was, if there were others like him, and other such curious things. Jim quite liked to laugh and smile, but oh he wanted to play alright, he wanted to play with his nightmares and Sherlock, and he wanted to know why Sherlock always won against them, always didn't seem to be affected by them.

Soon Sherlock found out that Jim was simply the boy who made nightmares. And eventually Jim found out that Sherlock was simply the boy who lived everyday in a nightmare of his own .