Disclaimer- Sherlock Holmes belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle; Holmes and Watson's personalities and traits in this particular story are based on Guy Richie's 2009 version in partnership with Warner Bros.

A/N: Thank you for reading my story!

Taphephobia

Chapter 4- Between dreams and reality

Taphephobia: Fear of being buried alive.

…..

Voices…

All different voices.

Voices he didn't recognize.

A woman's frightened gasp,

A child's shouts for attention,

They were all blending together in a mix of dizzy waves.

There wasn't much pain at first, but when he felt his shirt being pulled away from the messy wound in his side, white flashes of agony shot through to his barely comprehending brain, shutting down his senses immediately.

He knew nothing from there until a rush of wet warmth came over his body like a blanket. All at once there was pain, annoyance, confusion, and a slightly odd soothing feeling that he refused to acknowledge.

Slowly, he cracked open his eyes.

White, grey, brown, wood, metal, water… Water?

He lightly shook his head, trying to shake the extreme grogginess that was weighing down his eyes.

Hands…yes, human hands; small, but strong, holding him up against the side of a… Why couldn't he think clearly!

Irritation and annoyance pounded on his upper chest. Hands where everywhere, touching him… A hot cloth was pressed to his face... Why wouldn't they leave him alone?

"Stop…"

He must have mumbled, pushing the arms of the hands away. They stopped for a moment to say something in a quiet voice, but he didn't catch it; it was so muffled… so inaudible.

Was he falling asleep again?

Water dripped down his face. A sweet smelling scent forced him to inhale deeply.

Stay awake.

He no longer felt the hands holding him up… or anything for that matter.

Stay awake.

His eyes were closed again, succumbing to the heaviness.

Stay…

Even with his eyes closed, it seemed to get darker with every passing second.

…

...It had been a bad situation from the start.

The basement of the restaurant was very well lit with little room and hardly any place to hide. If not careful, one could easily make a particularly deadly mistake in such circumstances.

Sherlock Holmes, however, was confident enough not to be irked by inconveniences, and continued on without hesitation..

That was his second mistake.

"Well well well. Looky what we got here, boys!" All three men pulled out their guns, aiming them at the detective who had, unfortanatly, forgot his. "I think we got ourselves a little snoop!"

...

His head swimmed as the three men punched him repeatedly and threw him into the stone wall.

"Hold him, Sam!" Stinking of alcohol and tobacco, one of the men leaned down into the detective's face and smirked. "I'm afraid you've eavesdropped on the wrong person, my friend..."

"Mamma!"

….Momma ..

"Momma!" He jumped at the high-pitched yell and squeezed his eyes shut at the brightness of a sudden light that was making him see red behind his eyelids.

Sunlight.

A full ray of sunlight.

Usually he wouldn't even open the curtains to face the retched thing, but at the moment, it was almost...comforting.

Was he in his room?

"Mamma? Momma where is he now?"

Why was he so dizzy?

His eyes opened with a little bit of difficulty. He didn't feel ill, but, the dry sting in his throat was enough to make him wish he could puke if only to moisten the damn thing.

The detective swallowed hard, trying desperately to sooth his thirsty throat while he looked around the room. White walls, wooden bedside tables, a bed, a door, decorative candles, white curtains with a lace fringe…

Lace fringe?

Decorative candles?

This wasn't his room…

Unable to recall the events that ended him in such a place, Holmes lifted his hand to run nervous fingers through his damp messy hair when he noticed the largeness of the sleeves covering his arm. They had to be twice the size he would normally wear.

Strange room, head spinning, damp hair, and he wasn't even wearing his own clothes? What was going on?

"Momma!" The boisterous voice of a child screeched, almost making the poor man topple off his bed.

The little thud of feet echoed around him as he turned his head slowly to the left where a little brunette girl was leaning in close and grinning like mad.

"Momma, he's awake! Hello!" She waved her hand in his face, spinning his head into a dizzy fit. "My name's Madeline!" She announced proudly and got down on her knees to lean her elbows on the bed Holmes's body was lying on.

"Do you have a name?" She asked, her grin still plastered on her young innocent face. "My cousin said you were a vampire and vampires don't have names… Do you know what a vampire is? When I asked Mamma, she told me I was foolish."

"Madeline!" An older voice of a woman entered the room. Holmes didn't look, but he heard her footsteps approach the bed. Madeline rose to her feet. "Leave him alone! Go, now, shoo!" Madeline hurried away, the women taking her place, but instead of kneeling by the bedside, she pulled over a wooden chair and sat down.

"Good morning." She nodded. She was young, but not too young, and had brunette hair like her daughter. "Beautiful morning isn't it? I thought you would be asleep half the day." Holmes just blinked. Why was he here? "That was quite a scare you gave my husband and brother in-law yesterday. They nearly died of fright." She smiled a calm sweet smile, as if to reassure the fact that she had no intention on hurting him.

Holmes tried to speak, but closed his eyes tightly and choked, only relaxing when a glass of water was pressed to his mouth and he was able to drink.

Finally.

He was still thirsty when he pushed her away, but he had to breathe sooner or later.

Breathe…

"Ah!" He yelped, his hand grasping his side tightly. When had that started hurting him?

"Careful!" She scolded and pulled his hand away while pushing him back into the pillows. He didn't even remember sitting up!

Gently pulling his hand back from hers, and placing it on his side he felt the thickness of a bandage. Pressing a little harder, he could feel what the bandage was for…

What happened? What did he do?

The woman's words came back to him… "That was a good scare you gave my husband and brother in law."

What scare? Who? He quickly unbuttoned his shirt and stared at the bandage. A dot of red had soaked through the cotton, getting seemingly larger as he stared at it.

"Hope you won't miss those old clothes of yours." The woman, glass in hand, stood up and walked to the door. "Had to burn them along with the coffin; there was no saving them."

Holmes watched her leave, her skirts flowing behind her.

Coffin?

Coffin...COFFIN!

His hands began to shake.

His lungs refused to take in air.

His brain fogged up with the fear that he almost forgot existed.

…A fear of being buried alive.

Fear that he might be dreaming every bit of this. Was this real? How could he be sure? It was so real last time. He felt everything. Watson, the letters, the coffin, his violin...

Watson.

What if this time was the same? What if he actually was underneath the ground waiting to die?

…

He couldn't breathe.

"Do you have a family, dear?" The woman poked her head in the room once more. The detective shivered and tried his best to look like nothing was wrong.

A family?

Yes…" Holmes's voice sounded dead, even to him; raspy and lifeless. "Yes. W-... J-John Watson."

A/N: "There are moments when, even to the sober eye of Reason, the world of our sad Humanity may assume the semblance of a Hell" -Edgar Allan Poe