Molly Hooper knows she is dreaming. It is a dream she dearly wants to remember and she hopes she doesn't wake up too soon.
Molly and Sherlock are in a treehouse. It is a perfectly round room; like a fairy tale house, belonging to an elf. Perhaps, like the Disney version of Snow White`s cottage – but in a very high tree. Molly knows the tree is high, because when she looks out of the window, there are layers of wispy, white cloud floating beneath them. They lie on a large, circular proggy mat; made from hundreds of separate pieces of cloth; recycled from many, many other garments, and woven together. In the vividness of the dream, she feels velvet next to her cheek and satin under her arm. All around the circular room, at intervals, there are stuffed animals, mounted on shelves – a badger; an otter; a wildcat; a hedgehog; a swan. The animals, although dead, look terrifically happy to be there and their eyes shine, benignly at the two living tree house inhabitants.
She and Sherlock lie, with their heads touching and their feet pointed outwards. She is at three o`clock and he at nine. She is wearing his purple Prada shirt, whilst he is wearing her baggy Bee T shirt – the one he had worn on the night after he jumped. She feels happier than she has ever felt. She is complete and utterly content.
"Where is the rat?" Sherlock`s voice is exactly the same as in real life; deep, smooth; slightly impatient.
"Missing." She seems to know about the missing stuffed animal. Of course she would – it is her dream.
"Why, Molly? I need there to be a full set. I need my creatures around me."
"His vomeronasal organs were missing."
"Oh, I see."
"Of course, he was unable to detect the pheromones without them."
"Naturally. I should have realised."
"He could only find his mate if he detected pheromones different to his own."
"I know," replies Sherlock. "They need mates with entirely different immune systems to their own. A pairing of two similar types could never work."
Suddenly, Sherlock is above her, looking down into her deep brown eyes with his pale, green-blue ones. She even hears her heart beating loudly in her ears in the dream. Don`t wake up. Don`t wake up. Don`t…
"Do you want to walk through the Laburnum tunnel in the Bodnant Gardens with me, Molly?"
"Yes."
And suddenly, they are walking, holding each other`s hands, through a glowing, almost fluorescent yellow tunnel of drooping laburnum trees. Their scent is rich, cloying and buttery – leaving a taste in the mouth to accompany the smell. The light is dappled, shimmering, golden and unbelievably beautiful. And then Sherlock says:
"I shot him in the head. He had to go, like Redbeard. But I did it, and I can`t stay."
And she finds she cannot keep up with him. Her legs are marshmallow (as is often the way in dreams) and although she makes giant efforts to step forward, she gets nowhere, and he is getting further and further away along the golden tunnel.
And the feeling of fear, terror and overwhelming loss is still with her, when she wakes up, sweating and shaking with salty tears rolling down the sides of her face and sinking into her pillow.
xoxoxoxoxox