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I Want to Know, Too
Friends Draw Blood
The walls are staring at me.
It was an uncomfortable thought but the room was fairly daunting. Sherlock was in a bright yellow room with strange walls. The patterns of the wallpaper seemed to move around him as he lay on a shaggy blue rug. It felt as though the individual rug fibers were wriggling beneath him.
Wallpaper pattern streaming. Looks like eyes. Strange dream.
In the back of his mind, Sherlock was fairly good about knowing when he was dreaming. It was usually in the details, or lack thereof. The space around him was shaped like a room, but he could not estimate the actual size of it. As he turned his head left to right and surveyed the room, one would be a large eight meter room and the other a smaller four meter room. At the next glance they would switch.
The sudden appearance of tall trees shooting up around him was disorienting as well. The bright yellow room was soon replaced with a dark wood.
Visibility: ten meters. No moon.
Dreams would annoy Sherlock in the way that they did not follow the logic to which he was accustomed. They did not flow along with his deductions as the real world did. Voices came from around him. A figure passed through the trees in and out of the range of visibility. Only a silhouette was visible and difficult to distinguish from the shadows. Sherlock tried to gather as much information from these brief appearances.
Same basic shape. Only one person. About 1.8 meters tall. Male build. Feminine walk.
The figure melted behind one tree and appeared meters away. The shape did not pause and did not close the distance between them. Sherlock attempted to do so himself, but the shadow still only stayed at the edge of visibility. The trees around him changed, so he knew he was moving within the forest. He broke into a run with even less success as the figure disappeared. Two slow pivots around his left foot revealed empty shadows. Just as he stopped to listen, something hit the whole of his back and knocked the breath out of him.
Should be on the ground. Hard to breath. Or move.
White arms held his own in place. The body they were connected to was pressed to his back. A body which had breasts. He moved his head, but could not see the face of the woman holding him captive.
Grip isn't human. More like machinery. Holding me for her mate? Can't see face.
A laugh came from behind Sherlock's head. The breath of it lacked warmth against his scalp. His captor touched his right ear and his body stiffened. Sherlock liked his personal space, especially his head. Things that close were difficult to observe.
"I guess I should not play with my food so much."
Grip released. Arms gone. No visible movement between.
Sherlock listened for movement. No leaves or branches rustled. No twigs snapped. No one was breathing within his observable radius. He began a slow turn trying to see where the woman could have gone. After a full turn, Sherlock faced the woman he had visualized for the insecure heroine of Sherry's vampire novels.
Brown hair. Pale complexion. Molly Hooper. Red eyes. Determined. Not timid. Smirking. Pain. Can't breath. Blood. Heart slowing.
The stars were a brilliant white and the moon a bright red. Sherlock lie among the leaves which he was soaking with his blood. Adrenaline kicked in and the pain subsided. The shallow sound of his breath and his heart beat were his only company under the unfamiliar sky.
He should have expected the one word to seep through the forest to him. A woman's scream, "Moriarty."
Movement stopped and everything became black. His nose was hit with the smell of hospital: iodine, bleached sheets, and disinfectants. Sound was babbling in the distance. He was awake now, but his eyes felt too heavy to open. He started slowly shifting his limbs, phalanges first, as he tried to distinguish the sounds.
Two voices. Arguing. Frustrated voice. Arrogant. Very sure of self. Mycroft.
"Well he doesn't exactly have anything interesting to look forward to: white walls and scrubs all day. Of course he's hitting that button continuously...and morphine? He's susceptible... has a history...What's the point of medical files..."
A woman's voice. Associated with scones. Too soft. Can't distinguish words. Arrogant voice back. Sweeter. Trying to get his way.
"Look, it'll be restricted. No data. Text only. He's not a talker."
Female sighing. Sherry? Sounds resigned. Mycroft always gets his way.
The voices became quieter. Mycroft and Sherry must have walked away to secure him a phone. Or a computer.
Thoughts of the dream he had awoken from returned in the voices' absence. His dreams had been strange before the morphine but they had consistently had an ominous tone. Believing that his brain was trying to work out one of his problems even in sleep, Sherlock decided to stop deleting any remnants of dreams when he awoke.
For a few quiet minutes he examined a pink rose that had been added to Mycroft's lilies. Patiently, Sherlock waited for the bit of information he had worked out to find its way to his fore brain. The rose was not the over engineered freak that could be found by the dozen around Valentine's Day. It was a true rose with only five delicate pink petals. Around its stem was tied a small note. Sherlock reached for it and received a slight prick from a thorn of the rose. He blotted the blood under the words: To Ease Your Rabid Temper ~JW
Dog rose then. Terrible joke.
Sherlock and John had trampled on a patch of them while waiting outside the window of a young woman they were investigating. It was a long night and John had told Sherlock more than he could delete about the dog rose. The pink flower had been used by doctors at one point to attempt to cure the ailments from rabies in humans.
Molly's Jim. Gay Jim. Jim Moriarty.
The fact was obvious once his brain opened the thought to him. Molly had been important because it was she who Moriarty used to get close to Sherlock. The pretty, but timid young victim. It had not occurred to him to worry about her health, but pieces of memory were coming back to had escaped the explosion at the pool. Moriarty was her boyfriend. She would be in danger now. He groaned at this oversight. If she was harmed and due to Lestrade not allowing John to jog his memory, Sherlock was going to raise hell. How would he get into the morgue without Molly? He put down the morphine button and traded it for the one to call the nurses. Sherlock was very good at raising hell.