February, 12
I had another dream last night.
This one was somewhat different. In this one, I made it half-way down the street. In all the others, I can see the street, I can feel the rain being blown into my face, I can see all the shadows the street lights create in the dark alley-way. Yet I never move. I look around, I know I need to get to the end of the street, yet I don't. The streetlight flickers, and I wake up. Always the same.
Except last night.
Last night I did move. Last night I stood, I observed, then I moved. Seven steps. I took seven whole steps down the dark alley. Then-and only then-did the streetlights flicker, and I woke up. All the observations I made during the dream were lost, for I had but one thing on my mind: John Watson.
I wasn't thinking anything particular about my roommate. I was simply thinking of him in general. And he was the only thing I thought of.
I would see the yellowing light on the side of the street and wonder if John ever picked up the groceries. I would feel the rain cooling my skin and think of the time John had come home sopping wet and the first words out of his mouth were "Don't tell Mrs. Hudson." I would feel a chill run down my spine and worry for John's safety.
With every step I would think of John. When the lights flickered, an odd sensation would nessle itself into the pit of my stomache, and when I woke up, my first gasp of fresh air would consist of his name.
It's a wonder how I haven't been caught in the midst of waking up, soaked with sweat, obviously shaken, and panting Watson's name. We do live in the same flat, after all.
I suppose I shouldn't complain, however, for I have no clue what I would say as an explanation. I cannot even explain it to myself.
Perhaps I'll try and forget about this reoccuring dream, and play some violin instead. I just memorized John's favourite Mendelsohn solo, and I would love to wake him up with it. Yes, I do believe that is what I'll do.
Author's Note: This is the start of a chapter story. I do apologize for any spelling/grammar mistakes in this, I don't have a spell-check or beta, so I can only pray my mind won't forsaken me (that much).
Disclaimer: Just face it. Neither Arthur Connan Doyle, nor BBC would ever bother to waste their precious time (incredibly precious for Doyle, seeing as he's been dead for over one hundred years) on Fanfiction.
Italics are Sherlock writing in a journal.
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