John opened his eyes to a lush park, full of flowered trees, the deep green grass felt like moss between his toes. He was in a dream, had to be...it was amazing, this place. Everything seemed just this side of oversaturated where colour was concerned. Whites almost too brilliant, blues, pinks, purples almost glimmered jewel-like as the blossoms danced in the breeze that caressed their petals.

If he had died, he would be severely put out.

It would be the perfect icing on the whole hellish subject, to die while dozing of a heart attack from a broken heart. Yea, the irony would be just marvelous. He'd be leaving Sherlock and Hamish behind... nope wasn't happening. It took him time to take in the full scope of his surroundings, but he did finally put together that he was in some sort of grotto. Maybe his mind had conjured this garden to soothe him after all the spectacularly real feeling terrors from the past few nights.

There was a golden pass in the wind, long hair just peeking through the branches, the shape hidden but he still caught glances as she came closer. It was Mary.

But not Mary.

Damn his mind.

Not Mary wound her way to him, even chose to sit beside him then fiddle with his collar tangling her fingers in the scruff of his hair. He turned at this, smiled as tears fell without abatement. She echoed the turn with her own face, chastely moved her mouth against his speaking in lulling tones of love and always and guardians that would be jubilant one day. His whole body felt as if it were filled with light, with wide-eyed hope. Her hands ran down his arms until they both caught one anothers elbows in a sweet half embrace full of thankfulness and warm goodbyes.

All he had done was blink, in the dream, whatever it was. He could still feel the warmth of her, like his gran's afghan on a chilled night cloaking him, but she was nowhere to be seen as her laughter was carried within the wind that moved languorous across the small meadow. He took in the sweet air, filled them once again before closing his eyes once again to will himself awake.

"John...John." He heard his name, knew it was Sherlock. "John, please..." He wondered if he had been thrashing about, what would cause that tone of voice. "I know you can hear me, wake up now." Oh, God, if Sherlock could sound any more nursemaid.

"'M wake... still wasnit dreme... srry." John slurred out as his body tried to catch up with the situation. Being pulled out of REM was always spectacularly difficult on him. "Oh! Sherlock! She was here... well not, here. In a grotto... it was amazing!"

"Mary?" Sherlock looked confused. "Well, she is down in the solarium, which is sort of an indoor- irrelevant. I'm glad you slept peacefully. I'm sorry to wake you, it's just that dinner has been laid and Hamish has to be missing you."

"Yes, I suppose," Groggy still from the abrupt wake up, John ruefully smirked. "About dinner, not about Hamish... how is he this evening?"

"Same as he was earlier, fed, dry, and content it seems."

"Good, good. Well let's go get the boy shall we?" As he curled his body to stretch as he sat upright, a thought occurred to him. "Sherlock do you believe lucid dreaming is possible?"

They discussed the merits of studies and kept it all as academic as possible, but at the end of the day, John could not shake the feeling of the existence of where he had been in his dream. He knew they'd have to perform experiments, but if it kept him from the night terrors he'd been having, he'd try just about anything. He slowly finished his meal, pleasantly surprised that Sherlock, had indeed, joined him to eat. Sherlock blamed it on the conspiracy of the cook and Mrs. Hudson to 'plump them up' while they stayed at the manor.

Hamish was his quiet, soft self as he rested on John's arm while they took tea before everyone else headed for bed. Mycroft stayed the longest, finally given into the urge to pepper Sherlock with questions for the finer particulate issues in the final documents regarding the estate and his other holdings which then pulled John into the discussion of the more salient points. John had never heard any of this, the Holmes family discussed plainly. It was fascinating.

Mycroft, weary, finally looked to his watch and told them it was swiftly rounding to one in the morning, offered to take Hamish to Molly, then left them to their task. John's really, Sherlock didn't need to stay with them, he'd do alright. His heart had been just a tad lightened since he woke from the dream of Mary, he was settled somewhere where he hadn't been. It may not last forever, but he'd take it over the weary ache that had permeated to his very soul. In time, it would take time, he knew... somethings you never fully accepted or got over... like losing someone the first time on the field, being invalidated home, but good had come of it.

And then bad, very bad, then better with Mary in his life. Brilliant when he was told he was going to be a father. His light might be diminished, but he had a little being that relied on him, and Sherlock, for single thing. Sherlock, he was another twinkling of hope, he was here and alive. Practically worshipped his son, loved John, more than John was rightful to have. Dearest Mary, she had known him so very well, she had known the darkness of a different sort though, even as she dispelled every filament of darkness with her warmth. To him, it was not unlike how he imagined the Light of Earendil. Glorious hope abiding.

His best friend, sat with him now, to watch over this luminous being. The feel of death, the non-existence that occurs was no different in her case, he had felt it eight, no, nine days, possibly, ago that night he felt her still, the part that was her soul before it departed. He may not be a deeply religious man, but he knew there was indeed something. If a person could intuitively feel another person's electromagnetic-id centered-noncorporeal-ness in a multitude of ways, then know when that spark no longer resides in the flesh? There was more, just there out of reach quite possibly. He'd allow this idea to solace him in the long of it, that maybe she wasn't lost, completely obliterated, maybe she's scattered to the stardust, the infinite from which we derived from.

Oh, he was waxing poetic, and it was so very late.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?" The man didn't look up from the large tome he had in his lap, instead cocked his eyebrow, allowed his reading glasses to slip a nip. "What is it, John?"

"I'm ready. She's fine here... I can, it's ok. Let's go up, shall we?"