When Sherlock is a liar who's supposed to be dead but isn't, when Sherlock is a hunter who tracks down and collects the threads of a spider web that's too big for everyone, when Sherlock is just Sherlock and he's lost without his blogger, he has a dream.

He has a dream when he doesn't want to. He has a dream when he lives in shabby hotel rooms and pretends to be a man he actually isn't, when the time of sulking on the sofa wearing dressing gowns has become the time of wearing bulletproof vests under his coat, when the time of shooting the walls in a vain attempt to end his boredom has become the time of smashing brains in a single shot (still, where is Moran? Where is he?).
He has a dream when his gears are so hungry and so tired to actually function badly, when his hair is too long and messy like when he was a junkie, when he eats so rarely that he's actually on the verge of anorexia and his cheekbones of are as sharp as ever, while his eyes are so big and sorrowful to appear dead (John would have known what to do in this case).
He has a dream when his whole being is screaming for becoming a mosaic again (no, no, he must focus) and he feels like he's missing the most important part of his body.
He has a dream after killing a man and listening to Mycroft ("You should take better care of yourself, brother. Can't you see your current appearance? You look awful.").
He has a dream, and not a very pleasant one.

His mind palace looks strange. Nothing has really changed—there's red marble on the floor, bottles of sand on the bookshelves, gears crying on the skyscraper—except for the sky. The canvas that once was black is now scarlet like arterial blood (the dots and the lines look so small, they hurt, they're like open wounds, someone has to suture them). His vision has changed, though: everything's grey, except for the ceiling. The noise is unbearable and the smell of honey is suffocating. He's lying supine on the golden floor. Even if the thought doesn't make sense in English (nothing actually does), he feels like his limbs are casually rolling around the room. If he could just smash his own brain, he would. He closes his eyes; his whole body feels like an open wound, but he doesn't scream (not yet).

"I usually dream of tigers, lately," he says in a whining voice to the figure that is approaching him—probably Mycroft. "Moran used to hunt tigers, before he came to London and started working for Moriarty. He's a sniper. He's kind of a tiger, too. But I cannot catch him, I don't know where he is, I'm always in his sights, though, so I always have to be careful. But when I sleep the tigers haunt me, they like to come here, and I have to run, and they break everything without touching anything. I think I'm dying. I think they're killing me. The tigers."
"I—I haven't seen them, though," comes the reply in an uncertain tone.
It's a familiar voice, but definitely not Mycroft's.
With a huge effort, Sherlock sits up and opens his eyes again.
"John," he murmurs, surprised.

John Watson is standing beside him, a half-smile on his face. He looks both perplexed and fascinated by the whole situation. There is something very odd about him.
His hair is cut short, he's slightly tanned and he's wearing his military uniform—there's even a stethoscope around his neck; he's skinnier and younger. He's not limping and his eyes look very different. Usually, Sherlock can see in John's eyes the stars of the desert and the guns of salvation; usually, Sherlock can see in John's pupils exploding mines and noisy gunshots; usually, Sherlock can tell exactly what John is thinking and how to react to it; usually, Sherlock can see John in colours but today he cannot: the doctor's as grey as everything else. There are lower-case letters floating near his head: they usually say "john", but this time they say "john watson - army doctor in afghanistan". The consulting detective feels his heart sinking as he realizes that this John is not his John. This is John when he is a doctor in Afghanistan and hasn't been shot yet. This is John with no wounds on his shoulder and no blood on his fingers. This is John before Sherlock and before being the John that needs Sherlock. This is the John that's never going to love Sherlock and the John that Sherlock's never going to love.
This is John but, at the same time, this is a stranger.

"Yes, that's me," the army doctor replies. "But how do you know my name?"
"You have no idea who I am, have you?" Sherlock asks, a bit sad.
"None at all," John confirms. "Should I?"
Sherlock sighs. "No, not yet. You don't know who you are, either."
"Sorry?" The soldier frowns. He's so average that Sherlock wants to punch him.
"You've been in the desert for less than three months and none of your patients has died. You don't know yourself. I do, though," the consulting detective replies.
"I won't hide the fact that I'm pretty confused," John admits.
"Of course you're confused, you're not mine yet," Sherlock replies. He ignores the other man's expression. "One of your patients is going to die, and you're going to think that you're awful, and you are, you're absolutely awful, but also amazing, and you don't know it yet. You're as innocent as a lamb, now, you think you're a good man and a good doctor, but you're only a good doctor. You're going to get shot and they'll send you back to London, but you'll hate it. You're going to feel and be very damaged. Not now, though. Not when you're like this. I'm really glad that we're not going to meet when you're like this, you're so dull and grey and ordinary that it hurts. My John is normal, but I love it, and I need it. But I'm never going to like this you and this you is never going to like me. You need the war to become mine."
"I need the war to become yours? Sorry, but I'm not following." John's eyes are wide-open, one of his eyebrows is raised.
"I'm going to save you. I'm going to save you and you're going to save me and our meeting is going to be an accident, really, but the most fateful accident ever." Sherlock stands up even if the pain in his whole body is atrocious. He feels like throwing up. This is not just sentiment; sentiment is not supposed to hurt like this. "You're going to love me very much, someday."
"Am I?"
Sherlock's voice is shaking. "Yes. And I'm going to do the same. But I'm also going to hurt you. I'm going to hurt you a lot, and I'm so sorry. I've never been sorry but now I am. Sorry if I'm going to break you. Just know that I'm going to break myself, too."

"Okay, you're not feeling well," the doctor says, coming closer. He's worried (probably more worried about his mental state than about his health). "You need to sit down. Why did you even get up in the first place? Look at you, you're about to puke."
"Oh, for God's sake, you're so dull, even the letters are wrong," Sherlock whispers. "And don't even try to touch me, the grey has contaminated you." He simply lets himself fall on the floor. John emits a surprised sound. "You should leave this place. You should leave it and go back to the desert and get shot and become my John."
"Okay, would you kindly explain to me what the hell are you saying? Starting from your name, possibly?" John sits down beside him. Sherlock has to fight a serious impulse to kick him (or to punch himself in the face).
"Oh, fine, whatever," the consulting detective sighs. "I'm Sherlock Holmes. Consulting detective."
"Is that a real job?" John frowns.
"I'm the only one in the world. I invented it."
"And what do you do?"
"I'm a genius. I solve crimes so that my brain doesn't rot. But you don't believe anything I'm saying because you think I'm a psychopath. For your information, I'm a sociopath. A high-functioning sociopath. My current state, which is terrible, is due to the fact that I miss something. I miss the real you." Sherlock's now covering his eyes with his hands. "And the real you is missing me, too. And it's all my fault. Well, not properly, but it's almost the truth."
"You told me I was going to be yours. I think it's odd, you now, since I'm not gay," says John.
Sherlock rolls his eyes under his eyelids. "You're being stubbornly average. You are not gay, you're right, and I'm not gay either, I'm asexual, and we're not going to be in a romantic relationship." He's annoyed, now.
"But then why—"
"Why did I say that we're going to love each other very much? Because it's true. But you're so dull, no, this version of you is so dull and you can't possibly comprehend it, when you usually do. You're going to be so perfect when you get shot. This is utterly frustrating and I'm going to be straightforward about it. We're going to be the most important people of our lives, we're going to complete each other. And if your question is something similar to 'are you telling me that I'm going to find out I'm actually gay and shag you?', the answer is no. It's always going to be no, and thankfully you're going to understand it. For your information, we're going to live in the same flat—"
"Really?" John asks.
"Yes, we are, and if you dare interrupting me again I swear I'll throw something at you—and don't tempt me, I will. I'm enough instable for that. Anyway, we're going to live in the same flat and you're still going to date women; you're heterosexual, congratulations. I'm not going to give you kudos for that, except for sarcastic ones. You're still going to adore me and worship me and I'm going to do the same thing, because you're a heart and I'm a brain and we need each other. But this you is so obsessed with the absolutely stupid concept of 'a soul mate equals a romantic partner', like most people. Your minds are too small to understand that people shouldn't be divided into acquaintances, enemies, friends or lovers, and when you actually face relationships that are a bit more complicated you simply refuse them and try to make them into what most pleases your atrophied synapses," Sherlock snaps. "Doesn't it bother you?"
"What?"
"The fact that you're missing everything that doesn't comply with your agonizing neurons."

Sherlock opens his eyes again. The doctor's looking at him with a strange expression into his eyes and it makes Sherlock want to die, somehow.
It's a painfully strange expression. What crosses Sherlock's mind when he sees it doesn't make sense in English or in any other language, but it doesn't matter.
He wonders what Michelangelo thought when he saw blocks of marble. Because Michelangelo said that he just carved those beautiful sculpted figures in the marble: they were already there, silently sleeping and waiting to be unveiled. He feels exactly like he's looking at a block of marble. There's a sparkle into John's eyes and that sparkle is screaming "Look! I'm here, Sherlock, I'm here! I'm inside this man, just waiting for the bullet to crack the clay of my skin and for you to fix the engines of my heart. It's all here, you see. Even if you despise me now, I'm going to be perfect someday. You're going to make me perfect! So, endure this for a bit more. I'll be worth of your forgiveness, someday. While you're not actually worth of mine."
Sherlock is thinking that he'd really like to pull out John's orbs to see if he's right, to see if his John's really hiding behind them, with the stars and the gunshots and the colours and everything. But he can't. He knows it's wrong.
Sherlock has been insulting this defective prototype of his soul mate for the last minutes, but he's staying. The detective can see in his behaviour the draft of a future temperamental trait he's going to like very much.

"You're quite arrogant, aren't you," John says. "Anyway, since we're going to be so important to each other, would you explain to me why you're going to hurt me? Just so I know, I mean. If it's not too much to ask."
Sherlock takes a deep breath. "There is going to be a period of bliss. We're going to meet and it's going to be a miracle, even if I don't believe in miracles. We're both going to function properly for a while. You're going to make the world into English for me and I'm going to make it into gunshots for you. We're going to be marvels and monsters, together. We're going to be silence and noise. And then I'm going to fall."
John raises an eyebrow. "How?"
"I'm literally going to fall, John. I'm going to jump off a building."
"You're going to kill yourself?"
Sherlock laughs. "Oh, no. It would have been much easier and obnoxiously dull. I'm going to fake my suicide. I'm going to make you watch as I fall and hit the ground. I'm going to listen to your speech at my funeral."
"Well, mate, that's bloody sick," the doctor bursts out. "Why in the world are you going to do that?"
"Because I'm a narcissistic, egotistic and selfish man who needs an audience for his insanity and will do anything in order to keep what he wants, even if that means breaking it, because he's sure he can fix it. Because I'm a madman with hungry gears and a gigantic ego who needs to defeat anyone who's as clever as him. Because I solved the riddle, and I had to die—but I didn't want to. Because there's a burden on my shoulders, and I put it there, because I feel like I'm the worst and I always have to act like I'm the best, like I'm a martyr."
"Could you speak like a normal human being for one second?" John sounds exasperated.
"Oh, for God's sake," Sherlock moans. "I'm going to fake my suicide to track down the web of criminal mastermind while the whole world believes I'm dead. Happy now?"
"At least it makes sense," John comments.
They don't speak for a while; then the army doctor talks again. "Can I ask you a question?"
"Go on," Sherlock sighs.
"Where the hell am I?"
"What do you think?"
"I'd say it's a palace, but the furniture is too odd for that," John says.
Sherlock doesn't comment.
"Is it a palace?"
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "No, it's not a palace."
"Then what is it?"
Again, Sherlock doesn't comment.
"Is there an exit?"
"Somewhere. I've never found it."
"I think I'll try to."
"Go. Leave me with the tigers."
John stands up and looks around. It's Sherlock's turn to speak. "Can I ask you a question?"
"Yeah, sure," the army doctor answers.
"What do you think of this place?"
"It's… weird. Very fascinating. I enjoyed visiting it, but—"
"But you'd never spend your life here, would you?"
"…Yeah."
Sherlock smirks. "I cannot wait for the desert to break you," he says as John walks away.

On today's newspaper there's something interesting about a man named Ronald Adair.