With a smile of his own, because he's thoroughly enjoying the verbal sparring that he and John seem to be able to fall into so easily, Sherlock replies simply, "Piss off."
For a moment there is silence as John stares at his friend, then he can't help but start laughing a little, and soon both of them are giggling and snickering. Only when the food arrives does John sober up and shake his head a little, "Well, I can certainly understand that reaction." He says in an amused tone as he picks up his utensils and starts to prepare his breakfast the way he likes everything, then to eat slowly.
"It's not my fault people are insufferably stupid." Sherlock says with a small sniff, adding some pepper to his eggs before he starts to eat slowly once he notices a pair of deep blue eyes watching him expectantly.
Silence settles over the table as both men retreat to their thoughts. It's not uncomfortable however, but companionable, as it might between two old friends. At least until Sherlock's mind catches onto how tired John looks and brings him back to the night before.
"Do you often have nightmares?" Sherlock asks bluntly as he puts down his utensils, having already finished his small breakfast. He pushes the plate to the edge of the table dismissively before he focuses on the smaller man in front of him.
Sighing a little at what was sure to be an inevitable question, John meets the intense gaze of the madman in front of him, shrugging before he speaks. "No more or less than any others I suppose. Usually too tired to remember any of my dreams." For a moment longer he thinks about it, seeming to be getting ready to say something else before he merely shrugs again and picks up his mug to sip his coffee.
This is not exactly a satisfying answer for Sherlock however, causing the younger man to frown a little as he examines the doctor. "No. This one was different. Why was it different? You looked scared when I entered the room, but not bewildered. You knew where you were. So most likely your dream took place at my flat. Interesting, since it was the first time you were there, and most soldiers have nightmares about war, not home. What was it about?" He prods, leaning forward a little more, eyes narrowing slightly as he tries to deduce it without being told.
Knowing that, like a dog with a bone, Sherlock is not going to let this go until he's satisfied, John just sighs and puts his mug down carefully. "Alright, look. I don't remember it all. What I do remember was that I was shot, in your flat. I was in the hospital, and you were there. And I... died. That's about when I woke up." After that confession, John drops his gaze to where his hands are resting around his coffee mug, frowning a bit as his left starts to tremble a bit, but it goes away after he flexes it.
"Interesting. Well, that clearly disproves the theory that if you die in a dream, you die in real life. Here you are." Sherlock notes as gestures toward John by spreading his hands out, palm up. After clasping them together in front of him again, the detective looks down at the doctor's normally steady hands briefly, noticing the brief tremor and filing it away for later examination. "Interesting what the mind comes up with in sleep. I rarely dream." He admits in an uncaring tone, not seeming to think about that fact often.
"Not sure if 'interesting' is the word I'd use, Sherlock. I've never been shot, and I have no desire to repeat the experience from that dream. Though I must have been fairly well drugged up, since it didn't hurt that much. Still, not something I particularly ever want to go through." He says with a little sigh as he finishes his coffee.
"More likely your mind cannot conjure the type of pain you likely would go through since it is outside of your experience. Therefore, it relied on something it did know. You're a medical man, you're aware of the types of procedures for when a man gets shot, you know that they would be under heavy pain medication. So your mind merely added that to a part of your dream to protect itself from a pain it has never experienced." Sherlock says dismissively with a small fluttering wave of his hand, not seeming interested in that part of it. "You said I was there in the hospital with you, do you remember anything we said?" He asks curiously as he watches the doctor, his mind working over this new bit of information and everything that goes along with it.
Not really wanting to answer that question, John just sighs a little and shakes his head. "No, I don't really remember specifics, Sherlock, and I am aware of how dreams work." He points out with a small shake of his head, glancing at the table. "Well, looks like we're done here." He says to cut off any further conversation. "I'll get the bill." He reassures before he gets up and heads toward the counter to pay the bill and escape the all-knowing eyes of Sherlock Holmes.
With a little smirk at the small army doctor, Sherlock puts on his scarf, jacket and gloves again before he gets up, hesitating before he leaves a tip tucked under the saucer to his mug, then he heads toward the door, assuming that John will see him walk by, he steps out onto the sidewalk and flips his collar up against the wind before he tucks his hands in his pockets.
When John rejoins him, he looks up at the sky and shivers slightly. "Forgot how bloody cold it was here." He admits as he zips his jacket up all the way, looking up at Sherlock for a moment before he glances around. "Alright. So where are we off to?"
"A murder scene, John. Do keep up." Sherlock can't resist saying as he steps up to the curb and holds his hand up, summoning a taxi out of the ether it seems like, not waiting before getting in when it arrives.
Shaking his head for a few moments, John gets in to the cab after him, settling himself before rubbing his hands together for a moment. "I know that, I was hoping you could give me a few more details about what I might be walking into." He points out as he glances over at his companion, listening to the address and then glancing at the cabbie curiously. Though he's rather sure that Sherlock would make it plain if the cabbie weren't trustworthy. If for no other reason than to show off.
For a few moments, the consulting detective tries to figure out how much to share with John and how much to keep to himself until they arrive at the crime scene. "A smaller marine museum which specializes in the topic of piracy has found that one of their mannequins has been replaced by a body, apparently. Not only posed, but dressed, and there's a note, but Lestrade didn't give me a copy of that yet. I just hope Anderson hasn't ruined it already." Sherlock grumbles a little as he stares out the window of the car at the buildings that passing them by, though with the morning traffic they are not going as fast as he would like.
"What, seriously?" John asks in surprise as he watches Sherlock's profile curiously. "People actually do things like that?" he asks, glancing around for a few moments and then returning his gaze to the alien man next to him. Sure, he's seen and heard of some rather bizarre things, but something like this just seems too surreal.
"No, John, I'm merely making this up for your amusement." Sherlock says in a dry, sarcastically annoyed tone, never tearing his eyes away from the window. "I assure you this is the truth. Someone trying to be clever. I enjoy the clever ones, though they always try and outdo themselves and make mistakes. It's the mistakes we need, the mistakes will tell us about them and lead us to them." He says as he looks over at john with a slight smile.
For a few moments John merely watches the other man and then he shakes his head slowly, lifting his hand and scratching above his eyebrow for a moment. "You really oughtn't to be enjoying this as much as you obviously are, Sherlock. Someone is dead, killed by someone with a disturbed mind, and their body posed for the killer's sick enjoyment." He points out, tone obviously showing how much he disapproves and how disgusted he is with the idea.
For the briefest of moments Sherlock almost seems confused as he turns his head a little to regard the doctor. "Not good?" he asks as he looks into those blue eyes.
"Bit not good, yeah." John confirms with a little bit of amusement, shaking his head for a few moments as he watches the detective.
Yay! Back to a regular posting schedule. Thanks to everyone who bore with me through my little bump in the road. I know I am straying from the Letters format, and that will be coming back, but this is likely going to be a very long story, they still have 3 years until John gets shot! Bit of irony here with the dream, that I didn't realize I could play on until this chapter. Much more to come! And I hate to put the pirates in there. :D Hope you all enjoy!
Reviews/Comments welcome!